Sometimes it's really difficult to make sense of where I came from and where I am. I find myself overthinking every little thing I do for fear that I will wake up one day and discover that whatever mania prompted my maternal grandmother to put my mother in group homes, or the psychosis that compelled my mother to do such unthinkable things will overtake me. How exactly do I square the belief that my mom's erratic behaviors are the result of her strained relationship with her mother and simultaneously believe that my childhood hasn't and won't come back to haunt me? That's a real question. One I have yet to answer to my satisfaction.
Meanwhile, back at the camp, I secretly (well, I guess it's not a secret anymore) contend with the possibility that some culminating event will usher me into the arms of my prescribed fate. Two generations of brilliant, powerful, and beautiful women precede me, and neither of them reached their true potential as intellectual beings or as parents.
The temptation is to point to the fact that I got out of the projects, and into a three bedroom, two bathroom house. But my geographical distance from that life collapses in the face of memory and experience. Am I to believe that I have broken the cycle merely because I took my God-given facility with academics and turned it into a B.A. and an M.A. unlike my foremothers? That just seems too easy, though it reads nicely on paper.
Everyday I question whether or not I have the strength to complete this final degree. This is not a new preoccupation of mine. When my mother emptied my bank account, which held my tuition money for undergrad, I wasn't sure I'd cross that threshold. When she called me incessantly, threatening to take her own life if I didn't come back to New York, I became so down-trodden that I literally couldn't leave my dorm room. I developed a fear of being seen -- really seen -- by others. I was afraid that people would notice that my apparent normalcy was a brave but tenuous act. Sophomore year my GPA slipped from a 3.8 to .667. It was a perfect representation of where I was emotionally. There are no words to describe the energy it required to pull myself out of that depression in order that I pull myself out of that academic canyon. But I did it. To be perfectly honest, I don't know that I have that amount of stamina left in me.
Then I begin to ponder if my son will be proud of his mother, not because I came from a valley and climbed a mountain, but because outside of the myriad of excuses I could make for resting on my laurels, I kept going and did something anyone could be proud of. Though I don't feel energetic about dusting my ass off and stumbling forward, the thought of his pride gives off enough fumes to keep me running -- on autopilot. What I don't want is for Caleb to tell some sob story about his mother's potential and the manner in which her past held her back. I don't want to hear about how noble my attempt was. And I definitely don't want to hear how amazing it is that I even survived the hand that God dealt me. If I buy into any of that what would I be teaching my child? Would he pat himself on the back for being a black man who takes care of his children, who doesn't end up in jail, or for getting an education in spite of his Autism diagnosis? Until I can shrug off the temptation to embrace the excuses that I am handed daily, I will never break this cycle. It's time to come out of that room, and be seen.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Ramifications of Childhood on Parenthood, Part II
As I stated previously, we had a full house when I was growing up. Seven people occupied my mother's one bedroom apartment. I had never known what it was like to have my own room, but now I had no room. I slept on the floor by the entrance to the apartment with my cousin, Annette. With that many people in the house, it was difficult to keep up with the goings on of one timid little toddler. So, I was abused physically, mentally, and sexually.
Out of necessity my mother had taken a job at McDonald's as a manager. I spent my days with Cedric and his close friend and cousin, Diddy Boo (you can't make this stuff up). The last thing they wanted to do was put up with me, no matter the debt that was owed to my mother for providing them shelter. They found a handy little solution to the problem. They would shove me in the living room closet for the better part of the day, letting me out only long enough to strangle me with my mother's pink gift-wrapping ribbons. Of course, I was lead to believe that if I mentioned any of this mistreatment to my mother, my punishment would be much more severe next time.
I probably would have told my mother anyway, but I knew she had a volatile disposition. I'd seen her punch a woman in the mouth and knock teeth out. I'd also seen her thrash men who had overstayed their welcome, and throw them down the stairs. Each altercation left the fear of God in me. I was convinced that my mother would be killed in one of the scuffles. So, I kept my mouth shut. Besides, she had no one else to leave me with while she was at work.
My father was not in any position to do anything to change my situation. He had been badly damaged by his service in the Vietnam war. He turned to heroine for release from the PTSD. Besides that, I had no idea that he was my father. I'd been told that he was my uncle. It wasn't until I turned 6 that he would insist that I stop calling him Uncle Junior and start calling him daddy.
In any case, there was nowhere to go. Once Isamae, Cedric, and crew moved out of our apartment, I suffered at the hands of my other sitters. When the mood struck her, Regina would force me to stand in the corner on one foot with my arms extended like the wings of a plane. If I lost my balance (which inevitably happened since I was made to stand there for hours at a time), she would beat me with her belt. When my grandparents finally agreed to look after me, I would be sent to the number hole at a local bar and drug hub to play numbers for my grandmother and her daughters. One of my aunts went as far as to send me on runs to purchase her drugs.
This is not to say that things were dramatically different with my mother. One thing I found refreshing about being in my mother's care was the fact that she did not much believe in corporal punishment. Still, she had her peculiar ways. Occasionally, she would march into the bedroom where I sat reading or watching television, and insist that I was a "bad girl." She'd tell me to get undressed to prepare for my spanking. I'd sit in the room for a half hour or so before she would remember her order. She'd come back to the bedroom to find me, sitting naked and petrified, laugh heartily, and leave me in the apartment with her drunken guests. On other occasions she would block her guests( ill from too much alcohol consumption) from entering the bathroom. Covered in vomit, she would awaken me from my sleep and insist that I hug her.
As long as there is breath in my body, my son will never know that life.
Out of necessity my mother had taken a job at McDonald's as a manager. I spent my days with Cedric and his close friend and cousin, Diddy Boo (you can't make this stuff up). The last thing they wanted to do was put up with me, no matter the debt that was owed to my mother for providing them shelter. They found a handy little solution to the problem. They would shove me in the living room closet for the better part of the day, letting me out only long enough to strangle me with my mother's pink gift-wrapping ribbons. Of course, I was lead to believe that if I mentioned any of this mistreatment to my mother, my punishment would be much more severe next time.
I probably would have told my mother anyway, but I knew she had a volatile disposition. I'd seen her punch a woman in the mouth and knock teeth out. I'd also seen her thrash men who had overstayed their welcome, and throw them down the stairs. Each altercation left the fear of God in me. I was convinced that my mother would be killed in one of the scuffles. So, I kept my mouth shut. Besides, she had no one else to leave me with while she was at work.
My father was not in any position to do anything to change my situation. He had been badly damaged by his service in the Vietnam war. He turned to heroine for release from the PTSD. Besides that, I had no idea that he was my father. I'd been told that he was my uncle. It wasn't until I turned 6 that he would insist that I stop calling him Uncle Junior and start calling him daddy.
In any case, there was nowhere to go. Once Isamae, Cedric, and crew moved out of our apartment, I suffered at the hands of my other sitters. When the mood struck her, Regina would force me to stand in the corner on one foot with my arms extended like the wings of a plane. If I lost my balance (which inevitably happened since I was made to stand there for hours at a time), she would beat me with her belt. When my grandparents finally agreed to look after me, I would be sent to the number hole at a local bar and drug hub to play numbers for my grandmother and her daughters. One of my aunts went as far as to send me on runs to purchase her drugs.
This is not to say that things were dramatically different with my mother. One thing I found refreshing about being in my mother's care was the fact that she did not much believe in corporal punishment. Still, she had her peculiar ways. Occasionally, she would march into the bedroom where I sat reading or watching television, and insist that I was a "bad girl." She'd tell me to get undressed to prepare for my spanking. I'd sit in the room for a half hour or so before she would remember her order. She'd come back to the bedroom to find me, sitting naked and petrified, laugh heartily, and leave me in the apartment with her drunken guests. On other occasions she would block her guests( ill from too much alcohol consumption) from entering the bathroom. Covered in vomit, she would awaken me from my sleep and insist that I hug her.
As long as there is breath in my body, my son will never know that life.
The Ramifications of Childhood on Parenthood, Part I
It was a regular Saturday night at my house. Mom had a handful of visitors drinking, smoking, singing and dancing to Golden Oldies. I had been privy to this scene enough times to know that the joyous laughter would soon be drowned out by bickering (if it was a good day) or brawling (if it was not). This particular evening my Great Aunt, Isamae, was responsible for the shift. She went into the kitchen, grabbed a butter knife and returned, wielding the laughable weapon amidst a room full of much younger, much more violent people.
"I'ma kill every last one of y'all mother%$@!ers, and I'm fittin' to start with him." She pointed to my cousin Cedric's near lifeless body sprawled ignobly in the middle of the floor. Cedric was the worst of all the drunks at my house. For one thing, he lived with us, as did Isamae, her daughter Linda, Linda's son (Cedric) and her daughter, Annette. More importantly, he never had that moment of euphoria that the others experienced in the early part of the evening. He was mean when he was sober and he was mean and annoying when he was drunk. Despite his small stature, he was also as fearless as they come.
Had he been conscious to hear the threat his Aunt issued, Cedric would have remained right there on the floor, unmoved. But he hadn't. Instead, Regina, the neighborhood crackhead and "lady of the evening" had heard it. Unlike Cedric, Regina was afraid of her own shadow. She screamed and beat herself about the head as she climbed out of the living room window onto the fire escape. No one was going to kill her. She would kill herself, she said.
Perhaps it was the liquor that drowned out the noise Regina made, or perhaps it was because my mother's apartment was only one story up - hardly enough to kill anyone, but the other "guests" (excepting my father) ignored both Regina and the woman who set her on this ridiculous course. My dad, who had recently returned from North Carolina with the help of his parents, tried to talk Regina off the fire escape (or the "outskirts" as he called it). I can't remember how the night ended. I assume at some point I calmed down enough to close my eyes, hopeful that only the empty liquor bottles and the foul odor of drunkenness had remained.
The story has been told time and again with gleeful reminiscence, but, at the ripe old age of four, I was devastated.
"I'ma kill every last one of y'all mother%$@!ers, and I'm fittin' to start with him." She pointed to my cousin Cedric's near lifeless body sprawled ignobly in the middle of the floor. Cedric was the worst of all the drunks at my house. For one thing, he lived with us, as did Isamae, her daughter Linda, Linda's son (Cedric) and her daughter, Annette. More importantly, he never had that moment of euphoria that the others experienced in the early part of the evening. He was mean when he was sober and he was mean and annoying when he was drunk. Despite his small stature, he was also as fearless as they come.
Had he been conscious to hear the threat his Aunt issued, Cedric would have remained right there on the floor, unmoved. But he hadn't. Instead, Regina, the neighborhood crackhead and "lady of the evening" had heard it. Unlike Cedric, Regina was afraid of her own shadow. She screamed and beat herself about the head as she climbed out of the living room window onto the fire escape. No one was going to kill her. She would kill herself, she said.
Perhaps it was the liquor that drowned out the noise Regina made, or perhaps it was because my mother's apartment was only one story up - hardly enough to kill anyone, but the other "guests" (excepting my father) ignored both Regina and the woman who set her on this ridiculous course. My dad, who had recently returned from North Carolina with the help of his parents, tried to talk Regina off the fire escape (or the "outskirts" as he called it). I can't remember how the night ended. I assume at some point I calmed down enough to close my eyes, hopeful that only the empty liquor bottles and the foul odor of drunkenness had remained.
The story has been told time and again with gleeful reminiscence, but, at the ripe old age of four, I was devastated.
It's a peculiar thing to have to think so many steps ahead when one is being haunted by the past. My dream has always been to be a celebrated and studied novelist. Since I have had my son, however, my priorities have changed. I want more than anything to see my son achieve his goals, which means there are some very important things I need to do to support him.
We are after all, products of our environments. What I've come to realize is that much of what I learned about parenting stems from the manner in which I was parented. It isn't that I am just now considering this rather obvious factoid, rather I have gone out of my way to leave my past behind me specifically for the purpose of moving forward with purpose. For decades that coping mechanism not only worked for me, but allowed me to excel. But last year I found myself in the middle of a proverbial $h!t storm, and suddenly my old reliable tactics didn't work.
What I am going to write is not for the faint of heart. But it is the truth as I know and lived it. When my mother returned to New York, leaving my father to fend for himself in Wilmington, NC, I had the rather strange experience of growing up in the same apartment my mother was raised in. Yet, our upbringings and our personalities could not have been more disparate.
To be continued....
We are after all, products of our environments. What I've come to realize is that much of what I learned about parenting stems from the manner in which I was parented. It isn't that I am just now considering this rather obvious factoid, rather I have gone out of my way to leave my past behind me specifically for the purpose of moving forward with purpose. For decades that coping mechanism not only worked for me, but allowed me to excel. But last year I found myself in the middle of a proverbial $h!t storm, and suddenly my old reliable tactics didn't work.
What I am going to write is not for the faint of heart. But it is the truth as I know and lived it. When my mother returned to New York, leaving my father to fend for himself in Wilmington, NC, I had the rather strange experience of growing up in the same apartment my mother was raised in. Yet, our upbringings and our personalities could not have been more disparate.
To be continued....
Friday, May 6, 2011
Auto-pilot
I happen to be a big fan of the Oxygen networks hit series, Snapped. Bear with me, I'm going somewhere with this. I've had an epiphany during my tenure as Snapped's biggest fan. These women are not so different from the rest of us. The fundamental difference is that most of us are never confronted with that one thing that would send us over the edge. Their wick is shorter than most, perhaps, but the core issue is the same.
I say this not because I am on the verge of becoming a homicidal maniac (I have trouble killing anything larger than a fly), but because I sense that I am at the end of my rapidly fraying rope. The truly frightening element of this intuitive sensibility is that I am not able to sense the distance between where I am presently and where my rope ends. I do, however, know that beyond the rope is a bottomless pit.
To be specific, I am supposed to be writing the second chapter of my dissertation, though I have yet to complete the first. I am supposed to be sitting at a feeding clinic with my son 5 days per week, 7 hours per day, but I have to work. I am supposed to be doing research on Langston Hughes for a book that my colleagues are composing. I am supposed to call my terminally ill mother five times per day because that's what she needs to feel loved. The reality is that I can barely get out of bed each morning. I am operating on fumes.
Speaking of feeling loved, I want to confess that I felt a modicum of jealousy when my ex-husband's friends got together during Christmas for a random act of kindness. Several of John's friends got cards and filled them with both money and messages of encouragement. He had gone through a lot in that year what with Caleb being Autistic and our marriage ending. It was very moving. Still, I couldn't help wondering what exactly they knew about the circumstances surrounding the divorce. I wondered if John had presented it in such a way that he was an innocent. Did they perceive the end of our relationship as something that just happened to him or something that he actively (whether knowingly or obliviously) brought about?
I realize this sounds ugly, the green-eyed monster is rearing its head, but I'm only human. I ponder these things to this day, not because I am Narcissus returned, but because I considered some of John's friends to be my friends also. I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to tell my side of the story. I am fully aware that their acts of kindness were not based solely on our divorce, but also on what is going on with Caleb. In the grand scheme of things, however, I had been as close to hell last year as I ever want to be. Many of the things that John had suffered were either the result of his actions or something that happened to me (people assume that when a friend's loved one is suffering that friend is also suffering - not always true). But to get to the crux of the issue, I believe that the perception my ex-husband has given to the world is that I "stepped out" on him while we were married and he, in the general sense, was a bad husband.
The truth of the matter is that I am involved with someone else. I did not foster that relationship until after John and I agreed to divorce. There are things that happened between us during that period that have barely seen the light of day. Suffice it to say that I was twice attacked, and the second assailant was John. Consider the fact that J began throwing furniture at the close of our relationship. I fled to a hotel room at midnight with my son, and called the police. I was told that unless the chair had hit me, they had nothing to write up. The officer advised me that I should have called the cops when he attacked me the first time. I should call back, I was told, when he struck me again.
Now, I was raised in an environment where my mother was beaten by all but one of her boyfriends. When I was old enough, it became my job to step in. The pattern continued when I began dating men who struck me. I do not want my son to believe that violence is an acceptable form of expression. That is not the man I want Caleb to become, and I certainly don't want him to believe that I am the type of woman who would accept that treatment. This life, for me, is about breaking cycles.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this post. While I would never contemplate harming another human being, I have considered giving up. This week, I almost didn't go to work. I stopped writing my dissertation. I didn't respond to business-related emails. I didn't call my mother. I didn't care. My partner and my BFF both heard it in my voice. I was afraid that I would snap.Then I thought about Caleb.
When I was a child, my mother would frequently threaten to kill herself (and on one occasion she threatened to kill me in my sleep). So, when she took to the bed due to her crushing depression, I became anxiety-filled. I had to mourn my mother daily, for fear that each day would be the day I found her lifeless body. I won't allow my son to see his mother in such a state. I want him to grow up with the belief that nothing can defeat him - not autism, not living in a single-parent household, and certainly not life.
So, I get up everyday, drag my tail to work, love on my son, and try to sleep at night. As long as God permits me to be on autopilot, I will keep plodding along. And maybe, someday soon, I will be back in the driver's seat.
But not today...
I say this not because I am on the verge of becoming a homicidal maniac (I have trouble killing anything larger than a fly), but because I sense that I am at the end of my rapidly fraying rope. The truly frightening element of this intuitive sensibility is that I am not able to sense the distance between where I am presently and where my rope ends. I do, however, know that beyond the rope is a bottomless pit.
To be specific, I am supposed to be writing the second chapter of my dissertation, though I have yet to complete the first. I am supposed to be sitting at a feeding clinic with my son 5 days per week, 7 hours per day, but I have to work. I am supposed to be doing research on Langston Hughes for a book that my colleagues are composing. I am supposed to call my terminally ill mother five times per day because that's what she needs to feel loved. The reality is that I can barely get out of bed each morning. I am operating on fumes.
Speaking of feeling loved, I want to confess that I felt a modicum of jealousy when my ex-husband's friends got together during Christmas for a random act of kindness. Several of John's friends got cards and filled them with both money and messages of encouragement. He had gone through a lot in that year what with Caleb being Autistic and our marriage ending. It was very moving. Still, I couldn't help wondering what exactly they knew about the circumstances surrounding the divorce. I wondered if John had presented it in such a way that he was an innocent. Did they perceive the end of our relationship as something that just happened to him or something that he actively (whether knowingly or obliviously) brought about?
I realize this sounds ugly, the green-eyed monster is rearing its head, but I'm only human. I ponder these things to this day, not because I am Narcissus returned, but because I considered some of John's friends to be my friends also. I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to tell my side of the story. I am fully aware that their acts of kindness were not based solely on our divorce, but also on what is going on with Caleb. In the grand scheme of things, however, I had been as close to hell last year as I ever want to be. Many of the things that John had suffered were either the result of his actions or something that happened to me (people assume that when a friend's loved one is suffering that friend is also suffering - not always true). But to get to the crux of the issue, I believe that the perception my ex-husband has given to the world is that I "stepped out" on him while we were married and he, in the general sense, was a bad husband.
The truth of the matter is that I am involved with someone else. I did not foster that relationship until after John and I agreed to divorce. There are things that happened between us during that period that have barely seen the light of day. Suffice it to say that I was twice attacked, and the second assailant was John. Consider the fact that J began throwing furniture at the close of our relationship. I fled to a hotel room at midnight with my son, and called the police. I was told that unless the chair had hit me, they had nothing to write up. The officer advised me that I should have called the cops when he attacked me the first time. I should call back, I was told, when he struck me again.
Now, I was raised in an environment where my mother was beaten by all but one of her boyfriends. When I was old enough, it became my job to step in. The pattern continued when I began dating men who struck me. I do not want my son to believe that violence is an acceptable form of expression. That is not the man I want Caleb to become, and I certainly don't want him to believe that I am the type of woman who would accept that treatment. This life, for me, is about breaking cycles.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this post. While I would never contemplate harming another human being, I have considered giving up. This week, I almost didn't go to work. I stopped writing my dissertation. I didn't respond to business-related emails. I didn't call my mother. I didn't care. My partner and my BFF both heard it in my voice. I was afraid that I would snap.Then I thought about Caleb.
When I was a child, my mother would frequently threaten to kill herself (and on one occasion she threatened to kill me in my sleep). So, when she took to the bed due to her crushing depression, I became anxiety-filled. I had to mourn my mother daily, for fear that each day would be the day I found her lifeless body. I won't allow my son to see his mother in such a state. I want him to grow up with the belief that nothing can defeat him - not autism, not living in a single-parent household, and certainly not life.
So, I get up everyday, drag my tail to work, love on my son, and try to sleep at night. As long as God permits me to be on autopilot, I will keep plodding along. And maybe, someday soon, I will be back in the driver's seat.
But not today...
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Frustration
Can I just tell you how frustrating it is to have a non-verbal child who is nearly three years-old? Not only am I supremely overprotective of him when he is around "typical" children his age, I am also agitated that, as an educator, I can't reach him.
Caleb tries hard to communicate. He will grab my hand and take me to items or activities he wants to have or engage in. I've tried withholding those desired things from him with the hopes of getting him to "use his words," but to no avail.
Today he became frustrated in a way that I have never witnessed before. He wanted something. Not a dvd. Not a Pediasure. Not a toy. Something else. When I failed to provide that something he began stringing multiple consonants together and screaming. Whatever he is saying is an actual language to him. I have yet to learn it.
People tell me all the time that I should revel in this period. Once he starts talking, they say he'll never shut up. The fact is, I would love to know the sound of my child's voice when he speaks. Those people have no idea that I have dreams wherein I converse with Caleb. For that one moment between wake and sleep, I believe it actually happened. When I wipe the sleep from my eyes, I realize that I've awakened to a bad dream. One where I have no idea whether my child will be independent of me.
These are thoughts I am not supposed to have, but I do. I don't want to be raising an adult child twenty years from now. Although there are some very selfish reasons for that, I must say that there are legitimate reasons also. It is NOT the natural order of things. I want to give Caleb the best of me and see what he makes of it when he strikes out on his own. As a rule, parents outlive their children. How could one rest in peace knowing that her child is incapable of doing for himself?
I know I'm supposed to smile and say, "He'll be fine. I prayed about it," but I've prayed about a lot of things that God did not see fit to grant me for reasons only He knows. I don't know that my son will be fine...and the not knowing is killing me.
Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.
Caleb tries hard to communicate. He will grab my hand and take me to items or activities he wants to have or engage in. I've tried withholding those desired things from him with the hopes of getting him to "use his words," but to no avail.
Today he became frustrated in a way that I have never witnessed before. He wanted something. Not a dvd. Not a Pediasure. Not a toy. Something else. When I failed to provide that something he began stringing multiple consonants together and screaming. Whatever he is saying is an actual language to him. I have yet to learn it.
People tell me all the time that I should revel in this period. Once he starts talking, they say he'll never shut up. The fact is, I would love to know the sound of my child's voice when he speaks. Those people have no idea that I have dreams wherein I converse with Caleb. For that one moment between wake and sleep, I believe it actually happened. When I wipe the sleep from my eyes, I realize that I've awakened to a bad dream. One where I have no idea whether my child will be independent of me.
These are thoughts I am not supposed to have, but I do. I don't want to be raising an adult child twenty years from now. Although there are some very selfish reasons for that, I must say that there are legitimate reasons also. It is NOT the natural order of things. I want to give Caleb the best of me and see what he makes of it when he strikes out on his own. As a rule, parents outlive their children. How could one rest in peace knowing that her child is incapable of doing for himself?
I know I'm supposed to smile and say, "He'll be fine. I prayed about it," but I've prayed about a lot of things that God did not see fit to grant me for reasons only He knows. I don't know that my son will be fine...and the not knowing is killing me.
Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.
Work and Autism
I arrived at the library, fully prepared to don the stoic facial expression by which I had come to be known. "Tara," I said to my boss, "my son is severely underweight, and he has to become an 'inpatient' at a feeding clinic." Her eyes filled with tears. That was all it took to crack the facade. I began sobbing, and apologizing for the emotional display. Despite my apologies, I could neither stop crying nor talking.
I didn't know how I would make it through two months watching my son scream while having his teeth pried open with a spoon. My voice quivering, I told Tara about the center's primary psychotherapist showing me graphs and charts to qualify the necessity of his admission. They didn't view Caleb as human, let alone a child. I had only two choices: Intensive feeding or feeding tube.The last outpatient feeding session that I had been to was so violent that I was seriously considering the surgical option. My life sufficiently saddened my boss. (Her exact words were "Your life makes me sad.)She would allow me to work nights.
I managed to keep it together for my other supervisor. It was much easier to do given the fact that she was totally unsympathetic. I once called her to advise that I'd been in a car accident, and suffered a concussion. She didn't want to hear anything more about my "drama" for fear that it would become her own. So, I kept it short. I had an obligation that involved my son; I couldn't work the hours that we suggested. She could be flexible until June. By June I had to convert T.S. Eliot's entire dissertation to xml.
I could create my own schedule with my third job.
With my jobs secured, I could now focus on being present at Caleb's 5 day per week, 7 hour per day feeding sessions. His schedule is as follows:
845-9:30 Breakfast
9:30-10:15 Break
10:15-10:45 Snack
10:45-11:30Break
11:30-12:15 Lunch
12:15-2:30 Nap
2:30-3:15 Dinner
To be fair, the Marcus Institute does what it can to make this experience less dismal, but there is something fundamentally dismal about asking some third party for help feeding your child. Caleb's nap room had a picture of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with his name on it. Obviously their research stopped at feeding. The Ninja Turtles had not been on television for more than 10 years. Inside there was a small cot and nothing else.
Caleb's therapy room is even more depressing. One high chair, a table, a bucket with the toys we had brought for him, four small plastic cups filled with pureed meats, vegetables, and fruits, and a fluorescent light to make it all look dirty.
I didn't know how I would make it through two months watching my son scream while having his teeth pried open with a spoon. My voice quivering, I told Tara about the center's primary psychotherapist showing me graphs and charts to qualify the necessity of his admission. They didn't view Caleb as human, let alone a child. I had only two choices: Intensive feeding or feeding tube.The last outpatient feeding session that I had been to was so violent that I was seriously considering the surgical option. My life sufficiently saddened my boss. (Her exact words were "Your life makes me sad.)She would allow me to work nights.
I managed to keep it together for my other supervisor. It was much easier to do given the fact that she was totally unsympathetic. I once called her to advise that I'd been in a car accident, and suffered a concussion. She didn't want to hear anything more about my "drama" for fear that it would become her own. So, I kept it short. I had an obligation that involved my son; I couldn't work the hours that we suggested. She could be flexible until June. By June I had to convert T.S. Eliot's entire dissertation to xml.
I could create my own schedule with my third job.
With my jobs secured, I could now focus on being present at Caleb's 5 day per week, 7 hour per day feeding sessions. His schedule is as follows:
845-9:30 Breakfast
9:30-10:15 Break
10:15-10:45 Snack
10:45-11:30Break
11:30-12:15 Lunch
12:15-2:30 Nap
2:30-3:15 Dinner
To be fair, the Marcus Institute does what it can to make this experience less dismal, but there is something fundamentally dismal about asking some third party for help feeding your child. Caleb's nap room had a picture of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with his name on it. Obviously their research stopped at feeding. The Ninja Turtles had not been on television for more than 10 years. Inside there was a small cot and nothing else.
Caleb's therapy room is even more depressing. One high chair, a table, a bucket with the toys we had brought for him, four small plastic cups filled with pureed meats, vegetables, and fruits, and a fluorescent light to make it all look dirty.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Two wrongs don't make a right, and all that jazz. Needless to say, my "fall back" approach did nothing to improve the relationship. Up to that point I had exercised radio silence to keep the peace; I tried politely explaining that he was ripping my guts out with some of his behaviors; I tried counseling, and I tried pulling back. There were only two things left to try.
I told him the unabashed truth about my feelings on everything. My graduation, his unemployment, the strippers, the midnight text messages to "business associates," the $300 monthly parties he was throwing ... the works. Things went from bad to worse. We replaced discussions with screaming sessions, and then we stopped speaking all together. At the same time, Caleb stopped eating.
I had tried everything but divorce, and I was fully prepared to take the leap. We formally separated and each began speaking with lawyers. In order to maintain some stability for Caleb, J moved out of our home. We began focusing on Caleb's eating disorder. It was the only place in our relationship where civility still thrived.
To this day, Caleb's progress and challenges are all we can talk about without sparks flying.
John and I were formally divorced last month. It was a very difficult decision to make for a number of reasons. For one, I recently lost my father to a heart attack. He had been dead for more than a month before his body was found. (Note that I was fired from one of my 3 jobs for going to NY to bury my father.) My mother has two progressive diseases: congenital heart failure and Lupus. Now I was also losing my husband.
I anticipated that I would soon be totally alone...and for the rest of my life. Parents are irreplaceable, and how could I trust that any other person would love my son like his own? If I had to choose, I would pick Caleb's happiness over my own everyday and twice on Sunday. He is my family. I had to be strong enough to make the right decision for him.
I contacted a paralegal who would file the divorce paperwork at a reduced cost and found another place to live. I asked for nothing in the settlement (child support, however, is not up for negotiation. The state requires that a child support agreement is reached in order to dissolve a marriage). In fact, I left John with my furniture, with the washer and dryer, and a multitude of other items that I would have to replace. I took only my clothing and Caleb's bedroom furniture.
The divorce was finalized last month. I cried. John got sick. Caleb was notably solemn that day.
I told him the unabashed truth about my feelings on everything. My graduation, his unemployment, the strippers, the midnight text messages to "business associates," the $300 monthly parties he was throwing ... the works. Things went from bad to worse. We replaced discussions with screaming sessions, and then we stopped speaking all together. At the same time, Caleb stopped eating.
I had tried everything but divorce, and I was fully prepared to take the leap. We formally separated and each began speaking with lawyers. In order to maintain some stability for Caleb, J moved out of our home. We began focusing on Caleb's eating disorder. It was the only place in our relationship where civility still thrived.
To this day, Caleb's progress and challenges are all we can talk about without sparks flying.
John and I were formally divorced last month. It was a very difficult decision to make for a number of reasons. For one, I recently lost my father to a heart attack. He had been dead for more than a month before his body was found. (Note that I was fired from one of my 3 jobs for going to NY to bury my father.) My mother has two progressive diseases: congenital heart failure and Lupus. Now I was also losing my husband.
I anticipated that I would soon be totally alone...and for the rest of my life. Parents are irreplaceable, and how could I trust that any other person would love my son like his own? If I had to choose, I would pick Caleb's happiness over my own everyday and twice on Sunday. He is my family. I had to be strong enough to make the right decision for him.
I contacted a paralegal who would file the divorce paperwork at a reduced cost and found another place to live. I asked for nothing in the settlement (child support, however, is not up for negotiation. The state requires that a child support agreement is reached in order to dissolve a marriage). In fact, I left John with my furniture, with the washer and dryer, and a multitude of other items that I would have to replace. I took only my clothing and Caleb's bedroom furniture.
The divorce was finalized last month. I cried. John got sick. Caleb was notably solemn that day.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Side Note
I have to admit that continuing along this path is difficult. I have a certain amount of reservation about putting my business "in the streets." I know that some of my and John's mutual friends are following this blog. I suppose this post is for you more than anyone else.
It is not my desire or intention to malign anyone mentioned in this blog. Everyone who makes an appearance in my postings, with the exception of Caleb, has been made aware of the fact that I am writing this blog, and that they are in it. This is my truth. And this is my outlet. It has been such a long time since I've looked forward to anything; it's been even longer since that thing was writing. I am inspired again.
Perhaps when I am in an environment where I have the support of family and friends, I will not need this anymore. But for now, I have this and my son's laugh. So, I won't apologize for anything I'm going to say, and I will only hold back for me.
It is not my desire or intention to malign anyone mentioned in this blog. Everyone who makes an appearance in my postings, with the exception of Caleb, has been made aware of the fact that I am writing this blog, and that they are in it. This is my truth. And this is my outlet. It has been such a long time since I've looked forward to anything; it's been even longer since that thing was writing. I am inspired again.
Perhaps when I am in an environment where I have the support of family and friends, I will not need this anymore. But for now, I have this and my son's laugh. So, I won't apologize for anything I'm going to say, and I will only hold back for me.
Time Flies ... Period
The early part of 2010 is hazy. We had been back in Atlanta for a year. By this point I had three jobs. John had trouble finding work, but finally got the inside track on a middle-management job at a local hospital. His good friend's cousin was hiring for the position. It was not the kind of job that John wanted, but the frequency and severity of our arguments over money was becoming untenable. He took it.
I was studying for my PhD exams. I was supposed to read, digest, and regurgitate a hundred + books, articles, and films. I would be given three days to write three ten-page papers. A week or so later I would stand before my committee for two hours, and answer questions about any and all of the texts, my essays, and my future as a scholar.
The day before my written exam, John told me he had effectively quit his job because it was too stressful. The next morning, I literally wrote him a 'Dear John' letter, and moved into a friend's house for the weekend to complete my exams. By the grace of God, I was able to concentrate enough to write one complete essay, 3/4 of the second, and the introduction for the third on the first day. John called somewhere in the middle of the madness to thank me. He said he didn't know what to do about the job situation, and my letter had given him clarity. He apologized, and essentially asked for his job back.
It was also around this time that Caleb got the first of two Autism diagnoses. I completely checked out. I finally got the gumption to see a therapist (please see my previous statement on counseling). It turns out I had a major depressive and anxiety disorder. To say that I was exhausted would be an understatement. I knowingly pulled back on everything. If my husband refused to bathe my child, so would I. If he refused to get up with him in the morning, so would I. (Disclaimer: My child never went without baths or attention. I hedged my bets.) So, John had to step up. It was John who made the contacts to get my son into Babies Can't Wait. He contacted the Frazer Center for Autism, and got the ball rolling for Caleb's admission there. John contacted the Marcus Center for Autism when Caleb stopped eating. And I didn't feel the slightest compunction about letting him do it. I felt that he had taken what I did for granted far too long, and I wanted him to see how difficult it truly was...Still, he could never truly know what I had gone through. His job let him go; all he had to concentrate on was Caleb...
I was studying for my PhD exams. I was supposed to read, digest, and regurgitate a hundred + books, articles, and films. I would be given three days to write three ten-page papers. A week or so later I would stand before my committee for two hours, and answer questions about any and all of the texts, my essays, and my future as a scholar.
The day before my written exam, John told me he had effectively quit his job because it was too stressful. The next morning, I literally wrote him a 'Dear John' letter, and moved into a friend's house for the weekend to complete my exams. By the grace of God, I was able to concentrate enough to write one complete essay, 3/4 of the second, and the introduction for the third on the first day. John called somewhere in the middle of the madness to thank me. He said he didn't know what to do about the job situation, and my letter had given him clarity. He apologized, and essentially asked for his job back.
It was also around this time that Caleb got the first of two Autism diagnoses. I completely checked out. I finally got the gumption to see a therapist (please see my previous statement on counseling). It turns out I had a major depressive and anxiety disorder. To say that I was exhausted would be an understatement. I knowingly pulled back on everything. If my husband refused to bathe my child, so would I. If he refused to get up with him in the morning, so would I. (Disclaimer: My child never went without baths or attention. I hedged my bets.) So, John had to step up. It was John who made the contacts to get my son into Babies Can't Wait. He contacted the Frazer Center for Autism, and got the ball rolling for Caleb's admission there. John contacted the Marcus Center for Autism when Caleb stopped eating. And I didn't feel the slightest compunction about letting him do it. I felt that he had taken what I did for granted far too long, and I wanted him to see how difficult it truly was...Still, he could never truly know what I had gone through. His job let him go; all he had to concentrate on was Caleb...
Counseling
The problem with marriage counseling changed with each therapist. Our first counselor became so interested in my background as the daughter of an alcoholic mother and drug-addicted father, that he forgot all about the purpose of our sessions. John would sit there in silence as the hippie therapist (still clad in his 1970s give love a chance uniform, no less) attempted to make sense of my upbringing and my present achievements. Both John and I got tired of that very quickly.
We tried again. By the time I reached out to the second counselor, I knew our relationship was in trouble. I decided to find a black male therapist who I hoped would referee our arguments. I figured John couldn't pull the race or gender cards if another black male told him he was falling short of the marks of husband and father. Boy did I make a mistake. It turns out that I had found the world's most chauvinistic therapist this side of the equator. He advised me that it was my JOB to care for the child and the house. (Again. Confused. If those were my jobs then shouldn't John be required to work, pay the bills? Shouldn't I, then, have the option of staying home to be a home-maker? I mean if we are going to go chauvinist, let's go the whole 9 yards.) He also suggested that John be permitted to spend more money in clubs, and that I should tighten my belt by starting my day earlier to prepare a bag lunch before I left for campus. In the end, I wrote old DR. GRANBERRY a letter stating that his lack of professionalism was affecting our therapeutic results. If he wanted to continue with us, there would have to be some changes. Once John read over my letter, he was too embarrassed to return to DR. GRANBERRY'S office. So, we were on to another counselor.
It was becoming more and more difficult to attend therapy because no counselor wanted to hold sessions with the child present. Unfortunately John and I had no support system down here, and very little money for sitters. Still, we made it happen. The next counselor was fairly non-descript. She had us engage in mirror exercises wherein one of us would speak for 5-7 minutes while the other listened. At the end of the "sending" period, the "receiver" would then repeat what s/he had heard her partner say. We got that down, but there was never a single moment when we addressed what the other party had said. It was a waste of money and time. So, we quit again, and would not revisit the issue until after I had asked for a divorce.
Perhaps you are thinking... isn't this supposed to be a blog about motherhood and autism? Yes, it is. What I am getting at here is that life didn't pause because Caleb was unable to walk or talk. We had to deal with these very weighty issues while trying to deal with our son. What I have noticed in writing these stories is that I am either writing all about Caleb or all about John. Truthfully, I can barely remember what was going on with the one when I was totally caught up with doing for the other. That remains a challenge for me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
....Back to the divorce....
We tried again. By the time I reached out to the second counselor, I knew our relationship was in trouble. I decided to find a black male therapist who I hoped would referee our arguments. I figured John couldn't pull the race or gender cards if another black male told him he was falling short of the marks of husband and father. Boy did I make a mistake. It turns out that I had found the world's most chauvinistic therapist this side of the equator. He advised me that it was my JOB to care for the child and the house. (Again. Confused. If those were my jobs then shouldn't John be required to work, pay the bills? Shouldn't I, then, have the option of staying home to be a home-maker? I mean if we are going to go chauvinist, let's go the whole 9 yards.) He also suggested that John be permitted to spend more money in clubs, and that I should tighten my belt by starting my day earlier to prepare a bag lunch before I left for campus. In the end, I wrote old DR. GRANBERRY a letter stating that his lack of professionalism was affecting our therapeutic results. If he wanted to continue with us, there would have to be some changes. Once John read over my letter, he was too embarrassed to return to DR. GRANBERRY'S office. So, we were on to another counselor.
It was becoming more and more difficult to attend therapy because no counselor wanted to hold sessions with the child present. Unfortunately John and I had no support system down here, and very little money for sitters. Still, we made it happen. The next counselor was fairly non-descript. She had us engage in mirror exercises wherein one of us would speak for 5-7 minutes while the other listened. At the end of the "sending" period, the "receiver" would then repeat what s/he had heard her partner say. We got that down, but there was never a single moment when we addressed what the other party had said. It was a waste of money and time. So, we quit again, and would not revisit the issue until after I had asked for a divorce.
Perhaps you are thinking... isn't this supposed to be a blog about motherhood and autism? Yes, it is. What I am getting at here is that life didn't pause because Caleb was unable to walk or talk. We had to deal with these very weighty issues while trying to deal with our son. What I have noticed in writing these stories is that I am either writing all about Caleb or all about John. Truthfully, I can barely remember what was going on with the one when I was totally caught up with doing for the other. That remains a challenge for me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
....Back to the divorce....
Help-less Part II
I was back in school taking a full course load, so I didn't have the mountain of available time that I did in Pennsylvania. John wasn't working, so the understanding was that he would care for the baby while I was teaching or taking classes. The problem was, there was no quid pro quo in this relationship. He felt no obligation to care for me in the manner that I did for him when we were in PA. Though we were living solely on my income and my student loans, John would go out 4 nights per week, have drinks (here comes the Crown again), and buy drinks for others. This, he told me, was called networking. I was confused. From where I sat it looked much more like notworking.
Because his networking activities tended to keep him out until the wee hours of the morning, John would frequently be too tired to take care of Caleb. So, I would get up early on the days that I had class, feed and change Caleb, and then wake John up to take the reigns. More than once I came home to find that my son was sitting in the very same booster seat I had placed him in when I left. Caleb was watching Barney (the only dvd we owned that would restart itself) and John was knocked out on the couch. It infuriated me.
If that wasn't bad enough, John advised me that we needed to put Caleb in daycare part-time so he could "politic" during the day. I couldn't believe my ears. I had held our son down when it was most difficult - when he wasn't sleeping through the night, when he was frightfully underweight, when he suffered from severe GI problems. And now we were talking daycare... and we had no money.
I got some part-time work grading foreign language exams online to supplement our income, and found a daycare that I thought was suitable for Caleb. Yes, I acquiesced. I did it because I preferred to have my son cared for by people who were actually required to do the job. He'd be safer in daycare. Besides, I could watch him on the webcam throughout the day.
John and I continued this power struggle. There were things he refused to do, and there were things I expected him to do. He would NOT bathe Caleb (he just didn't like to, he said). He would NOT get up with Caleb in the morning (he would consider it if I were willing to wake him up when I heard Caleb screaming, but wasn't the point of him getting up with the baby that I would get to sleep in some mornings?). To me, he was useless, and I was helpless. It was time to go to counseling.
Because his networking activities tended to keep him out until the wee hours of the morning, John would frequently be too tired to take care of Caleb. So, I would get up early on the days that I had class, feed and change Caleb, and then wake John up to take the reigns. More than once I came home to find that my son was sitting in the very same booster seat I had placed him in when I left. Caleb was watching Barney (the only dvd we owned that would restart itself) and John was knocked out on the couch. It infuriated me.
If that wasn't bad enough, John advised me that we needed to put Caleb in daycare part-time so he could "politic" during the day. I couldn't believe my ears. I had held our son down when it was most difficult - when he wasn't sleeping through the night, when he was frightfully underweight, when he suffered from severe GI problems. And now we were talking daycare... and we had no money.
I got some part-time work grading foreign language exams online to supplement our income, and found a daycare that I thought was suitable for Caleb. Yes, I acquiesced. I did it because I preferred to have my son cared for by people who were actually required to do the job. He'd be safer in daycare. Besides, I could watch him on the webcam throughout the day.
John and I continued this power struggle. There were things he refused to do, and there were things I expected him to do. He would NOT bathe Caleb (he just didn't like to, he said). He would NOT get up with Caleb in the morning (he would consider it if I were willing to wake him up when I heard Caleb screaming, but wasn't the point of him getting up with the baby that I would get to sleep in some mornings?). To me, he was useless, and I was helpless. It was time to go to counseling.
Help-less
. John and I had been separated for the first seven months of my pregnancy. I was finishing up my course work at Emory University (in Atlanta), and John, navy lieutenant turned civilian, had just gotten a job at Amazon in Pennsylvania. I had been seeing doctors in Atlanta, of course, to monitor my pregnancy. By the fifth month, the doctors "discovered" that I have hypothyroidism (a disease I'd been diagnosed with 13 years earlier, so it was in my chart). I discovered that thyroid disease places one in a high risk category for pregnancy. For the safety of the child, I was required to go to the hospital three times per week so the nurses could examine Caleb's heart rate and movement. Though I had come to know and like the nursing staff and the OBGYN's at this hospital, I realized that my having some family in the room with me when I delivered was as important as liking the people who would deliver my child.
I decided to move to PA after I turned in my final paper. What you must understand is that this was a true act of faith on my part. I was beyond ready to end my relationship with John before I took the pregnancy test(s). By that time we had been together for 1.5 years, and I had suffered a myriad of indignities in the relationship. When I graduated from the University of Georgia with my Master's degree, he was unable to attend the ceremony because he was in New York at a hip-hop conference. Though he returned on the day that I graduated, he opted to get a hotel room and spend my graduation night with an old female friend who was celebrating her 29th birthday. In his camera I saw pictures of this woman's cleavage. When I asked him about it, he simply replied, "Sorry. I couldn't help myself." Despite what had happened the month before, I was fully prepared to do it up big for his 30th birthday. But instead of spending time with me, he went to a strip club with a friend of his, and ended up spending the night at some woman's house -- no phone call.
So, I was ready to leave him. However, I had been hard wired to avoid becoming a statistic. I was one of two people in my old neighborhood on the lower east side of NY to graduate from college. I was the only person in the hood to receive a graduate degree. I had moved out of the projects and into the ivory tower. Why should I now choose to become a "baby mama?"
I had heard of women who attempt to get pregnant when they know they are about to lose their significant other, in the hopes of rekindling some romance. I always thought they were stupid. But here I was, hoping that a child would change things between John and I. When I broke the news, J went out, bought a bottle of Crown Royal, and got sloppy drunk. He would not call me or visit me. For two days our conversations were limited to texts. It was rather an inauspicious start to our "new" relationship.
I felt beyond slighted. I recalled him telling me about his college girlfriend (who was his last girlfriend before I entered the scene) getting pregnant. He got all choked up when he got to the part where she had an abortion against HIS will. I wondered if it was the fact that this ex of his was the daughter of a millionaire (her father was the VP of CBS) that made him think he could handle the challenges of parenthood in his early twenties. Clearly he was not prepared for the responsibility in his early thirties.
All of this was operating in the background when I decided to go to PA. Immediately I was placed on bed rest because Caleb was not gaining weight. I was only allowed to get out of bed for my 3 weekly appointments. It was at one of these appointments, which had become the bane of my existence, that I was told that Caleb's heart rate was off. "How do you feel about having a baby today?" Uh...It was six weeks early, so I didn't feel too good about it at all. But there's nothing like no choice to make you do something. I was induced. Five hours later I had a baby.
Caleb spent a month in the NICU; I was released four days after delivery. I cried, well, like a baby when I had to leave him. I visited the hospital two to three times per day to feed and play with my baby. Unfortunately, Caleb wasn't able to maintain a normal body temperature, so I was only permitted to have him out of the incubator for 15 minutes at a time. When he was released, my son weighed a little over 3lbs. I had to sit in the back seat with him for even the shortest trips to ensure that he didn't stop breathing (doctor's orders).
When he gained enough weight (that it is to say when he was roughly 5lbs) for my fear to abate, I set myself on this ridiculous course to be the real life June Cleaver. My priorities were pumping milk for Caleb, fattening him up, keeping the house clean, cooking multiple course meals, and looking cute when my husband came home. What did I get for my efforts? One week after I had Caleb, John began asking how long it would take me to lose the weight. After I lost 20lbs (in 14 days!), he would tell me that if I wanted to be intimate with him I would have to "dress sexier." When I bought sexy pj's, he would tell me that he was too tired to "go there."
Still, I kept trying to be the best mother/wife I could be. Of course, I was totally sleep deprived; I only got a break from being awakened every two hours for feeding when I was extremely ill (twice in 7 months). Caleb's mouth was too small to latch on to my mountain-sized breasts, so I had to pump every two hours (and it took an hour to fill up a bottle) and feed Caleb every two hours (and it took an hour for him to finish a bottle). Still, I managed to achieve my goals everyday without fail. Except for one. I was taking a Directed Reading Course so that I would not be behind on my course work when I returned to Emory from my maternity leave. That fell by the wayside. How did Claire Huxtable manage to juggle 5 kids, a marriage, and a career?
There was a light at the end of the tunnel. John had decided not to renew his contract with Amazon. He wanted to keep the family together and get back into music production, so he quit his job in December and prepared to move back to Atlanta with Caleb and I in January. He had no job prospects, but we were confident that he would be able to find something in Atlanta. We were wrong...
I decided to move to PA after I turned in my final paper. What you must understand is that this was a true act of faith on my part. I was beyond ready to end my relationship with John before I took the pregnancy test(s). By that time we had been together for 1.5 years, and I had suffered a myriad of indignities in the relationship. When I graduated from the University of Georgia with my Master's degree, he was unable to attend the ceremony because he was in New York at a hip-hop conference. Though he returned on the day that I graduated, he opted to get a hotel room and spend my graduation night with an old female friend who was celebrating her 29th birthday. In his camera I saw pictures of this woman's cleavage. When I asked him about it, he simply replied, "Sorry. I couldn't help myself." Despite what had happened the month before, I was fully prepared to do it up big for his 30th birthday. But instead of spending time with me, he went to a strip club with a friend of his, and ended up spending the night at some woman's house -- no phone call.
So, I was ready to leave him. However, I had been hard wired to avoid becoming a statistic. I was one of two people in my old neighborhood on the lower east side of NY to graduate from college. I was the only person in the hood to receive a graduate degree. I had moved out of the projects and into the ivory tower. Why should I now choose to become a "baby mama?"
I had heard of women who attempt to get pregnant when they know they are about to lose their significant other, in the hopes of rekindling some romance. I always thought they were stupid. But here I was, hoping that a child would change things between John and I. When I broke the news, J went out, bought a bottle of Crown Royal, and got sloppy drunk. He would not call me or visit me. For two days our conversations were limited to texts. It was rather an inauspicious start to our "new" relationship.
I felt beyond slighted. I recalled him telling me about his college girlfriend (who was his last girlfriend before I entered the scene) getting pregnant. He got all choked up when he got to the part where she had an abortion against HIS will. I wondered if it was the fact that this ex of his was the daughter of a millionaire (her father was the VP of CBS) that made him think he could handle the challenges of parenthood in his early twenties. Clearly he was not prepared for the responsibility in his early thirties.
All of this was operating in the background when I decided to go to PA. Immediately I was placed on bed rest because Caleb was not gaining weight. I was only allowed to get out of bed for my 3 weekly appointments. It was at one of these appointments, which had become the bane of my existence, that I was told that Caleb's heart rate was off. "How do you feel about having a baby today?" Uh...It was six weeks early, so I didn't feel too good about it at all. But there's nothing like no choice to make you do something. I was induced. Five hours later I had a baby.
Caleb spent a month in the NICU; I was released four days after delivery. I cried, well, like a baby when I had to leave him. I visited the hospital two to three times per day to feed and play with my baby. Unfortunately, Caleb wasn't able to maintain a normal body temperature, so I was only permitted to have him out of the incubator for 15 minutes at a time. When he was released, my son weighed a little over 3lbs. I had to sit in the back seat with him for even the shortest trips to ensure that he didn't stop breathing (doctor's orders).
When he gained enough weight (that it is to say when he was roughly 5lbs) for my fear to abate, I set myself on this ridiculous course to be the real life June Cleaver. My priorities were pumping milk for Caleb, fattening him up, keeping the house clean, cooking multiple course meals, and looking cute when my husband came home. What did I get for my efforts? One week after I had Caleb, John began asking how long it would take me to lose the weight. After I lost 20lbs (in 14 days!), he would tell me that if I wanted to be intimate with him I would have to "dress sexier." When I bought sexy pj's, he would tell me that he was too tired to "go there."
Still, I kept trying to be the best mother/wife I could be. Of course, I was totally sleep deprived; I only got a break from being awakened every two hours for feeding when I was extremely ill (twice in 7 months). Caleb's mouth was too small to latch on to my mountain-sized breasts, so I had to pump every two hours (and it took an hour to fill up a bottle) and feed Caleb every two hours (and it took an hour for him to finish a bottle). Still, I managed to achieve my goals everyday without fail. Except for one. I was taking a Directed Reading Course so that I would not be behind on my course work when I returned to Emory from my maternity leave. That fell by the wayside. How did Claire Huxtable manage to juggle 5 kids, a marriage, and a career?
There was a light at the end of the tunnel. John had decided not to renew his contract with Amazon. He wanted to keep the family together and get back into music production, so he quit his job in December and prepared to move back to Atlanta with Caleb and I in January. He had no job prospects, but we were confident that he would be able to find something in Atlanta. We were wrong...
Sunday, April 24, 2011
No one with a scientific mind will ever believe me, but I knew by the time he was three months old, that something was going on with Caleb. His eyes would roll back in his head inexplicably. When I mentioned this to the team of pediatricians he was seeing on a weekly basis, they ignored me. The focus was always on his weight and other measurements.
Guilt.
I used to blame myself for not pushing the issue. Because I was a new parent, I was extremely conscientious about not appearing too anxious about motherhood. Then again, I'm anxious about everything in which I'm invested. In hindsight, I realize we caught Caleb's "disability" much earlier than the average parent. It was my anxiety that would not permit me to accept the wisdom of more experienced parents who told me to calm down:
"Boys are just lazy. Ain't nothin' wrong with him."
"He'll walk/talk/eat when he's ready. That boy is just willful."
"My child didn't talk 'til s/he was 20 years old and now s/he's at MIT."
Okay, maybe I exaggerated on the last one, but the message is the same.
Anyway, guilt was not something I expected to contend with on the same level after I had Caleb. When he was growing inside my body, I worried about the quality of the food I ate, the amount of sleep I got, the temperature of my bath water. Who knew that I would long for those days again. At least then I felt like I had some control.
Now, besides sadness, I am overcome with anger. I know I'm not supposed to admit that (just like I am not supposed to admit that I thought my son looked like the love child of Alf and a Wishnik when he was born), but if I can't be honest with myself, who can I be honest with? I'm angry because I see countless parents who consider cursing to be a reasonable form of communication with their kids. I see women who smoke and/or drink during their pregnancy. I read news stories about parents who do horrendous things to their children, and I, who read every book, article, and journal to educate myself on the proper ways to care for a fetus, an infant, and at toddler, I, who deprived myself of everything from deli meat and warm showers for fear of injuring my baby, I, end up with a beautiful, sweet child who suffers. And I suffer with him.
Guilt.
I used to blame myself for not pushing the issue. Because I was a new parent, I was extremely conscientious about not appearing too anxious about motherhood. Then again, I'm anxious about everything in which I'm invested. In hindsight, I realize we caught Caleb's "disability" much earlier than the average parent. It was my anxiety that would not permit me to accept the wisdom of more experienced parents who told me to calm down:
"Boys are just lazy. Ain't nothin' wrong with him."
"He'll walk/talk/eat when he's ready. That boy is just willful."
"My child didn't talk 'til s/he was 20 years old and now s/he's at MIT."
Okay, maybe I exaggerated on the last one, but the message is the same.
Anyway, guilt was not something I expected to contend with on the same level after I had Caleb. When he was growing inside my body, I worried about the quality of the food I ate, the amount of sleep I got, the temperature of my bath water. Who knew that I would long for those days again. At least then I felt like I had some control.
Now, besides sadness, I am overcome with anger. I know I'm not supposed to admit that (just like I am not supposed to admit that I thought my son looked like the love child of Alf and a Wishnik when he was born), but if I can't be honest with myself, who can I be honest with? I'm angry because I see countless parents who consider cursing to be a reasonable form of communication with their kids. I see women who smoke and/or drink during their pregnancy. I read news stories about parents who do horrendous things to their children, and I, who read every book, article, and journal to educate myself on the proper ways to care for a fetus, an infant, and at toddler, I, who deprived myself of everything from deli meat and warm showers for fear of injuring my baby, I, end up with a beautiful, sweet child who suffers. And I suffer with him.
Autism and Marriage
2010 was a horrendous year for me. My mother was extremely ill, my marriage was dissolving, I was overwhelmed by the pressures associated with passing my PhD exams, and I had become depression's victim. All of these balls were in the air when I received the news that my son is Autistic.
I happened to be on campus when my husband called me with the results from Caleb's psychological exam. Despite the fact that things outside of my control rarely operate in my favor, I was certain that my son's test would come back negative for Autism. "Yeah, Caleb is Autistic." For a moment I was stunned. Perhaps it was the calm with which J delivered the message. Maybe it was due to the fact that I knew so little about the disorder. For a moment, just a moment, I felt nothing. But when I hit the red button on my cell phone, I felt the most crushing pain I had ever experienced in my life.
He had already been through so much. An underweight preemie, Caleb spent four weeks in the intensive care unit with a feeding tube in his nose, an IV in his arm, wires monitoring his oxygen levels and heart rate, and a blindfold to protect his eyes from the bright, jaundice-curing light that dominated his incubator. He was 2lbs, 7oz.
I'm a bit overwhelmed. I have to continue tomorrow....
I happened to be on campus when my husband called me with the results from Caleb's psychological exam. Despite the fact that things outside of my control rarely operate in my favor, I was certain that my son's test would come back negative for Autism. "Yeah, Caleb is Autistic." For a moment I was stunned. Perhaps it was the calm with which J delivered the message. Maybe it was due to the fact that I knew so little about the disorder. For a moment, just a moment, I felt nothing. But when I hit the red button on my cell phone, I felt the most crushing pain I had ever experienced in my life.
He had already been through so much. An underweight preemie, Caleb spent four weeks in the intensive care unit with a feeding tube in his nose, an IV in his arm, wires monitoring his oxygen levels and heart rate, and a blindfold to protect his eyes from the bright, jaundice-curing light that dominated his incubator. He was 2lbs, 7oz.
I'm a bit overwhelmed. I have to continue tomorrow....
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