All out WARdrobe.

I'd secretly been planning it for months. Heck, maybe it's even been a year. Scheming. I'd been dropping some hints. Sending some emails. I'm pretty sure the hubs knew it was coming, eventually...but never really when. I had started collecting a small pile. An assortment of colors. But, what began in one season, finally came to fruition in a completely opposite time of year.

Spring. No, Summer. Ok, definitely Fall. Nothing was going to stop me now. Then, it started raining. Raining for days. Not that silly saying, like after Halloween when we say: we have candy for days. Literal DAYS it was raining for...weeks really! Every single weekend was ruined by rain and sports games and even the occasional adult social event.

Then, suddenly, the rain stopped. The kids had a 4 day break. The temperatures approached the 70's at times. The sun shone. The trees!! Those breath-taking, Kansas City fall trees almost seemed to glow in the sunlight. We had mountains of laundry to do, Halloween costumes to assemble, groceries to buy for the impending school and work week. The list of To-Do's just seems to accumulate and never diminish, doesn't it? But, I couldn't handle it anymore. The kids needed showers real bad anyway. (I'm not admitting how long it had been since their last bathing.) That's it! We are getting outside to perhaps the most the beautiful park in the city, just blocks away from us. The children are going to wear those clothes I had been assembling FOR. EVER. And we are simply getting an updated photo of each individual child, as well as the five of them together.

One. One photo of each child. One. One photo of the group. ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!

So. I took a deep breath. I briefly, and with no choices presented, prepared the husband for what I was about to do...and then...I did it!

I interrupted the video games. The movies. The fort building. I called all the little ones to attention. And I said, "Guys, we are all taking a shower real quick, then getting dressed to go to Loose Park to take one picture."

KABOOM!!!!! Went the bomb.

They scattered. The oldest in tears, all but actually ran away. The 2 youngest boys rolled on the floor as if they had actually been hit with shrapnel. The second child just shriveled up to die a lonely, sad, pathetic death; it must have been some sort of chemical nuclear warhead for him. And, the girl? Well, bombs apparently don't work on her, because she hopped up and raised her hand saying, "Me!!! Me! Can I shower first!?" (Perhaps, the military should have been full of women?)

After much, non-negotiations. Threats of no Trunk or Treat. No Halloween. No birthdays. No candy ever again. Then the option to stay home, alone. Oh and by the way, no more screens EVER again. Then begging. Explanation over and over about how simple this could be. That if they would just comply we could have this whole process done in under and hour and have time to actually PLAY in the park on this most beautiful day of Fall. Each of them slowly gave in. Showers were had and clothing...well...the clothing nearly killed a few of them.

Three kids would be easier to wrangle and photograph anyway.

I was already writing two of the boys' combined obituary in my head:
      October 28th, 2018 just weeks before his tenth birthday, the oldest son, succumbed to death by wool sweater and leather shoes with no socks. The texture and itchy sensation, as well as the flexibility of the material, making it momentarily difficult to free his hand from the sleeve, were just too much for his feeble mind and body to tolerate. Though attempts were made to allow for socks briefly, or an alternative pair of shoes until the actual photograph was to take place, it was too late.
      In a similar fate, his five year old brother overheated and collapsed due to an additional sweater vest atop his already much too restrictive, collared, button down dress shirt. Shortly, before his untimely death, insult to injury was added when his mother attempted to put on some ill-fitting TOMS...

Addendum to previous release:
...then, in a surprising turn of events, the two boys were begrudgingly resuscitated as the thought of no more screens for eternity acted as a defibrillator and they returned to the awful, torturous life of a child about to be photographed. In nice clothing. On a nice day. In a beautiful park. 

So, on we went. With more crying. More threats. More bribes. Car seat arrangement arguments. And finally, arrival to the park. Where, suddenly, the open air. The freshness. The release from captivity. Whatever the reason, it elated everyone's mood. The children began to venture out and scout for their special "photo spot". They forgot about the clothing on their backs and shoes upon their feet. The worries and cares about holding still for a measly, life-altering, FORTY FIVE SECONDS vanished.

We found a reasonable spot. A nice stone wall, the shade, and maybe a bit of tree and leaves. I arranged the children in what seemed a cute set up. The oldest insisting on choking his two brothers. The girl constantly moving. The oldest then doing some bizarre and incredibly awkward squat-type pose. The 5 year old trying to simply wander off. I frantically jumped up and down, pointed at the lense saying "Look here. Look RIGHT here. Guys, right here. At the camera. Please, look at the camera. Ewwwww! Daddy tooted, P.U. Hey!! The Camera. Right here. Ok, giving daddy bunny ears. Ignore the leaves. Ignore your brother. This could be over if you all would look here RIGHT NOW."

Pedestrians in the park watched the spectacle and smiled. I mean, I'm always willing to entertain, but if I'm so funny, WHY AREN'T THE KIDS {expletive} LOOKING AND SMILING!??

Voila. {At the very least} an hour later, we have our lovely {much left to be desired} photo. Peace has been restored. And we sprint home...

...for another all out WARdrobe change...into costumes.

ADHD

I've been thinking about ADHD a lot lately (can we say hyper-focus).

It's funny, I've always viewed mine as a distinct advantage over those that are "neurotypical" aka "boring" *winky face*. And, when I say mine, I mean, my suspected ADHD. Or alleged. Never formally diagnosed nor treated, because, why?

Long ago, I developed systems that work for me. I struggle(d) to sit still, so I took restroom breaks. In high school, I remember being asked, more than once, if I ever actually went to class (then in college, I simply didn't.) I read my books upside down in an attempt to make them more challenging and keep my attention. I "hid" doing word searches during class inside my desk (the teachers HAD to know I was doing this, but I'm sure they were like, "shhhh, don't poke the bear, she is still and silent, FINALLY.")

I live(d) off of To-Do lists and planners. I love to organize. I've developed some OCD out of need for functionality. I studied in loud places, because that was the only way I could tell if I was actually retaining information...I didn't hear a sound.

I always thought I was a skeptic. And that this skepticism is why I never took words at face value, nor completed tasks in the same way as my peers. Then I realized, it's because my brain does not see things in the same way. Simple questions on normal paperwork stump me. (i.e. Relationship: ummm, my relationship to them or their relationship to me!? Agh, umm, I don't know. They are my son and I'm their mother. So...do I write Mother? Or Son? Or Mother-Son?) Yet, complicated, strange, intense and difficult logic puzzles seem like common sense. For better for worse, I am ALWAYS "reading between the lines".

Clothes have never fit me correctly. In my logical brain, it doesn't make sense that I have THE MOST UNIQUE body-type to have ever existed that not one single piece of clothing fits properly. But that's what I believed, forever. Until it dawned on me. It's not the clothes...

In fact, this constant wondering and seemingly obvious reinforcement that I was in fact, THE MOST UNIQUE person around, did nothing but bolster my confidence. I misread all of my bizarre little ADHD tics and strange neuro-connections as traits!!  Like super top quality traits that could be interpreted as creative, original, innovative, imaginative, ingenious, resourceful. These words are sought after, things you want people to say about you.

I live my life in ADD wonderland. People ask me how I manage to have more hours in the day? When your mind bounces from 30 different topics, and you're able to harness any of them, it appears you're being super productive. I can come up with a reasonable (and often super efficient, because ADHDers hate to waste time as it seems to just slip away) solution, for any problem. In fact, I can come up with endless solutions. I'm the "idea man" (but don't count on me to follow through.) As a result, I can find the positive in nearly all situations.

And the energy. Oh, the energy ADHD gifts you is invaluable. Envious even. How do you think I could swim 6 hours a day and still "go" to school and excel? None. Stop. Energy.

In my experience, I would wish ADHD as a gift for everyone. It's fairly well-known that most of history's greatest inventors and scientists were blessed with this affliction. The first to come to mind is Albert Einstein...

...wait a minute. Here it is. The flaw in my theories above. Einstein. Perhaps the most famous part of Einstein's story, is how much he struggled. How he forgot and lost things. Was distracted in class. Did not actually do all that well academically. His crazy hair, and unique personality. He simply, did not fit in, anywhere.

I think about this, and I think about my own children. I see my Brock, and mostly, my George. Oh how fascinating, funny and unique they are. I embrace all of their tics. Again, all those positive words come to mind. But then I see the struggle. How simple homework takes 2 hours, when it should take 2 minutes. How overwhelmed they get because all of those 30 topics swirling up there in their brain are too hard to harness. They can't seem to pull them down and line them up and see how much they can accomplish. Instead, they see hurdle after hurdle. They hear "be quiet, sit still, stop stretching your shirt, where are your shoes, where is your backpack, why can you not listen!?" I realize, not everyone with ADHD enjoys it. Not everyone gets mostly perks without a lot of consequences.

I smile, when I go to pick up my children from aftercare and see that every single back pack is lined along the wall, except for 2. Hanging from the hand rail, on the curve. George is right, it looks like the perfect hook for a backpack. I'm sure the instructions were to place your bag along the wall, but that curiosity, that eye, that impulsivity, it sets you apart. But it can set you back.

I've been thinking about ADHD a lot lately. When do you get the diagnosis. Do you really want a formal diagnosis. When do you treat? Do you treat? Will the creativity disappear? Will your generous, sweet, wonderful child get negatively labeled? Is it worth it to keep that untouchable uniqueness yet struggle, day in and day out to stay afloat? For some with the condition, like me, the answer is easy. The hurdles just were lower, fewer and further between. For others, those hurdles are there before you even get to the bottom of the stairs in the morning.

For some reason, my personality matched with ADHD was a great fit. Though, in hindsight, I remember my swim coaches saying "you could see it, the instant you walked on the deck, which Erin showed up. The one that could not and would not lose, or the one that would give up." In med school,  once material got so intense and massive, I struggled at times. I was at the will of my hyper-focus times and if those didn't fall in good timing with exams...well, my performance yo-yo'd all over the place. Unlike Michael Phelps, I was never really able to figure out what made me tick. I still struggle, to this day. My mom was probably right, I should have done yoga or meditated - but to my over-active mind, that sounds like torture.

I am not sure it's within my capabilities to be on time. Whether it's due to distraction, always searching for my phone, purse, keys, avoidance of being early and bored or straight up procrastination...I am always late. Despite all this, I feel I've nothing but flourished.

Such a fascinating, and necessary condition, ADHD. Our world would never advance without these out of the box thinkers. Without the rule benders. The boundary testers. The intense, hyper-focus that allows you to create a light bulb after thousands of failures. How boring would entertainment be without the new dance moves you create, the news sounds you connect, the jokes you make...the child's emporium of imagination! Disney!! Yes, he had ADHD too.

I guess, like pretty much everything for me, I'll continue to think about ADHD. A lot.

Natural Beauty

I don't know the exact age one suddenly becomes aware of their external appearance, but I feel like for me it landed somewhere in that super awkward 5th grade, age 11-12. I remember really wanting a pair of Gap overalls. Not just any overalls. Gap.

I think my best friend at the time kept pushing me to shave my legs and get a "training bra". Something I would have never wanted to do on my own. When I came to my mother about these things, she all but scoffed.

"Why would you want to shave your legs!? Then you have to just keep shaving them. It's such a pain. Put it off as long as you can."

"A bra!? Sweetie, you don't need that yet."

Don't even get me started on her opinion of make up before the age of 30!!

Even through my high school and college years, with my "athletic build" (aka lucky to even call them A cups, AKA pecs) my mother continued to be surprised that I would opt to wear a bra. As if it were an option!!?? We call this a societal norm, mother. *eye roll*

In hindsight, I realize that hair growing, Birkenstock wearing, bra-avoiding woman is and always was a hippie. Nevertheless, her "natural beauty" tendencies rubbed off on me. I couldn't help but agree, shaving is a pain (maybe that's why I swam, so I had an excuse not to), bras uncomfortable and make-up cumbersome. Add to this my impatience, inability to sit still and the tooth sensitivity of a 97 year old, we have the perfect storm of NO DESIRE to maintain hair nor face. Especially, in the spa type setting.

Part of my wants to believe my mother. That natural beauty is best. That I got her wonderful Lebanese skin, not my father's Irish genes. That I don't need to have a morning and night routine for my face. That it's ok to go 6-10 months between hairs cuts and 4-8 months between coloring. That maybe it's ok to just go grey. That even though I simply shower and put lotion on my face every 1-4 days, I will avoid that bastart named time. Sucking the life away from my once beautiful, youthful, strong, tight skin and body.

Yet, the logical side of my knows this isn't possible. I am not special. Then there's the perfectionist side of me (which I attempt to suppress on an hourly basis) can't just "let myself go".

I am finally getting to that point in life, where I look at pictures of myself and think, "Oh god. Delete that!!! I can't possibly, actually, in real life, look like that...f%#*" Delete. Delete. Delete. Please god, that was bad lighting or a f%#*ed up lens. Right!?

Based on the increasing frequency of this occurrence as well as the ever-evolving improvement of the phone camera...I think I might actually look like that.

I am 35, and, with this recent Achilles tendon rupture during a fun game of pickleball, feeling every bit of that age.

My hair is greying. My wrinkles becoming more evident. (Do I continue to lose weight and allow the wrinkles to multiply, or just keep the pounds which support my baby face?! Descisions, decisions.) My rosie red cheeks (also known as the skin condition Rosacea) is no longer "cute". Nor are the freckles (AKA sun spots, AKA pre-cancer) that fill my face, shoulders, arms and quite possibly back (I mean, I can't see back there.)

Basically, what I am trying to say, is that I have moments where I've decided, I'm too far gone. Time has done it again. Never will my skin, hair, body, ever look youthful again without some MAJOR help. The effort of which I don't think I'll ever be ready to give.

Then, I have a busy Saturday of running around, taking my children to sporting events, prepping for a birthday party scheduled for the next day. I'm Gimping about in my boot, feeling old and decrepit and questioning why I committed to going to a wedding tonight as well. Before I know it, the sitter will be arriving in 25 minutes, and I haven't even showered! Nor has Matt.

I sprint {hobble} to the shower, I dry my hair, I lather on some tinted face moisturizer and a bit of bronzer, eye shadow/liner/mascara and blush (because the Rosacea isn't red enough) as the straightener warms up...run it through my hair a few times, and we're off to the show.

I insist on a few selfies, because, well, we are somewhat put together for the first time in a few months...and low and behold!!!!!???

I can see a glimpse of the once youthful, Erin. She's there. All is not lost, nor too far gone. Well, I'll be damned. Maybe my lens really IS broken this time?? Though, my roots are SUPER evident, so, no denying that whole thing...

...but without a single filter, I choose to see the natural beauty. (And Matt looks nice too.)

One measely step.

On March 18th, I was playing pickleball with some other moms from the kids' school. One of my favorite activities. I had also signed up for an adult soccer league to start in a couple weeks. I had been slowly and lightly been reintroducing regular exercise into my life, as I wanted to avoid a soccer injury. Funny. For the first time in my life, I was being cognizant of the fact that I'm now 35, overweight, out of shape and too competitive for my own good (well, I've always known that part) as opposed to feeling invincible and 20. In the last year, I'd cut out drinking other than for social events, and I'd minimally reduced my caffeine and caloric intake. I had been, albeit at a snails pace, feeling healthier and healthier. I wouldn't say my efforts were overly impressive nor commendable by any stretch of the imagination, but the trend was in the right direction.

Yes, the, day before was not my best day (health conscious-wise...fun-wise = different story), because it was March 17th. St. Patrick's day. A Saturday as well. I spent the whole day standing in wedges and drinking beverages. I have no doubt I aggravated my feet and ankles in those shoes and left my body dehydrated and tight. In hindsight, I do remember waking up and having difficulty walking due to foot pain, but I easily ignored the discomfort. When I got dressed for pickleball, I selected a super-old pair of tennis shoes, because I felt they were still my most supportive for a court sport. As I continued to get ready for my ride to arrive, I helped Matt scurry the kids out the door for dinner at his parents. The whole time, I felt tempted to call the ride off. To tell them that instead I am spending the evening with my family. As Matt started the car, I went so far as to run up to the door and have him roll down the window. I asked, "Should I just come with you guys and skip pickleball? I kind of want to be with you all." He shrugged and said, "No, just go have fun." For the first time, ever, I just wasn't so sure it would be fun. I couldn't explain the feeling then, but I wonder now if it was dread?

Did I know my body wasn't ready for this kind of beating? Did I ignore signs of exhaustion and inflammation all day? Then again, I've been in waaaayyy worse condition before. I say I drank all day, but it really was not in excess. As I walked on the courts, I said something about being cold, and one of my closest friends says, "What? You are never cold". It's true. I did heed some of these feelings, and decided I wasn't going to go gang-busters. I wasn't going to drink. I was simply going to play and enjoy myself as well as the company and relax while it wasn't my turn on the court.

Then, when I was on the court, waiting to return a serve, during my 3rd game of the night. The ball came at me, slightly to my right and I had taken what I would describe as a longish lunge/leap type step in that direction. Except, the most bizarre and traumatizing event then took place. All in less than a split second. It seemed as though my left heel was not following my step, and that a large, heavy metal weight had fallen from the ceiling and landed directly onto the back of my ankle creating a very audible crashing sound and the pain you'd expect from getting a crowbar into your achilles, or a gunshot. As I swung my head around to look behind me, trying to find the source of this sensation, I scanned the room. Why was everyone going on as if nothing happened? Did no one else hear the thunderous crash? Such brief confusion; the ceiling intact, players all playing, nothing awry. But, also as my head was turning back, I was completing my step off and my left foot was about to land in front of me...and that was when the entire situation came to a flooding realization...

"FUUUCCCCKKKK!" I screamed, as my left foot stepped down, and I quickly lifted it back up, hopping on my right. Now, the other players stopped play looked my direction. Guess, they heard that. "I just snapped my achilles tendon. Oh my god, I just snapped my achilles tendon. It's gone. Fuck. It's gone." I am muttering aloud as I'm hopping to a pole. What I'm not saying aloud, but is flashing through my head is, "I don't have time for this. This is a real injury. This requires surgery and no weight bearing and time off work and physical therapy and a long time away from sports and being active and not playing in the TOPS (parent) tournament at school and pain and so much work for my husband. Oh my gosh, so much work for Matt. I have 5 kids."

As I get out of my head, I look up to see I'm surrounded by the friends I came with, and their somewhat stunned expressions. I instantly become nauseous, and my ears are ringing and I'm getting tunnel vision. All signs of pre-syncope (almost fainting) for me. I tell them, "I have to lay down, I'm going to throw up." I try to figure out the best way down and opt to go to my knees first and roll over. Everyone wants to help, but no one really knows what to do...and it dawns on me. I'm the doctor. Normally, I'd take charge and tell everyone what to do in this situation. So, I start barking orders. "I need ice and a wrap, do they have an ace bandage? And bring me that Advil I saw on the table. Oh man, I'm going to throw up. Also, my phone is on the table. I want to text Matt." I'm still on the edge of consciousness as all this is happening. In my memory, it felt like I was watching through a looking glass and someone else was asking for these things. I lay there and just let Whitney, an RN and Katie, a PT, ice and wrap my foot.

Next, I hobble to the car leaning heavily on 2 people. After lots of back and forth as to the best course of action, I opt for my mother's. She has a boot and crutches and no small children running around and bothering me. On the drive I text my ER and Ortho friends. We decide I can make it through the night and just get in to see the Ankle guy in the morning. I hang with my mom for a bit, she eventually gets me home, well after the kid's bedtime. I arrange for the nanny to arrive early and my mom to get the boys to school so we can get to the 7:45 appointment. I am horrible at crutches. Getting up to bed was simply miserable. Getting anywhere was miserable. Matt helps me get into pajamas, helps me ice and elevate my foot in bed. I can tell, he knows as well as I do that this is our future for the next few weeks. That is when I finally cry. Not from pain or discomfort. But from anger and pity and perhaps, even, a little guilt.

I know it might shock everyone to hear this, but I enjoy being busy. I don't typically sit down, except during the very specific hours of after 8:30pm and periodic short moments through the day. When trying to describe my energy, one of the diagnostic criteria for ADHD comes to mind, "Often on the move, as it propelled by a motor." I've guessed my "motor" to actually be a mixture of OCD, competitiveness and anxiety...but maybe I simply have ADHD. Who knows. Whatever the stem, it's who I am and how I've always been. Our house, our relationship, our (my) way of life depends on this motor. This puts undo stress on our families, our friends, our nanny and, of course, Matt most of all.

Matt and I have determined my current level of functioning to be that of a 3 to 4 year old. I'm able to eat my own food if a plate is made for me, dress myself if clothing is brought to me, and wipe my own a$$. That's pretty much the extent of it. I know this is ever so temporary. Just a few weeks of absolutely no weight-bearing. A few more weeks after that continuing to use crutches and a scooter. And then months of a boot and physical therapy. Our previous life will slowly come back, week after week, month after month, and in a year, I'll be playing pickleball again like a champ. Regaining my post as Number 1. But for now, it still hits me pretty hard, every so often, at how truly worthless I am at the moment...and how exhausting Matt's life currently is. One measly step.

You're not alone, George.

George turned 6 this weekend. He had a joint pool party with his BFF, Nate. To be clear, this is officially his 2nd BFF, his original BFF was Hen(d)ry Bush. The only reason this pool party happened is because the 2 of them planned it. No, really. Nate and George come home with convincing stories about one another and their lives, every night. Us parents frequently exchange notes. Rarely, are their stories fully true or accurate, but guaranteed, they are hilarious. Every time. The pool party was no exception. They seemed so sure this "pool party" had been planned, who were we to disagree? The teachers, and even classmates, admit that the two of them tend to just excitedly speak and giggle about things of which, nobody actually knows what they're talking about. It seems the two of them live in their own little world.

When I first learned of this friendship, it absolutely over-flowed my heart with joy.  Not just because I enjoy Nate's parents, but because, I'd worried no one would "get" George. You see, of all my children, I have always found George to be the hardest for me to understand, connect with, jive. He and his father bonded so easily. I, on the other hand, just frequently feel frustration when trying to parent him. He tends to have these stubborn moments, where he simply shuts down. Being born with an extremely low supply of patience, this dynamic doesn't work well. George has some of the highest highs, he makes us laugh more than any of the other kids (though Diana has quite the master to learn from and is advancing quickly), but he also brings out that anger {I typically try to deny even exists with in me} and I just have to walk away. I say all this with complete love for my child, each one has their own, very individual list of peaks and lows. Today, in church, I truly couldn't decide what I was observing in George. A peak? Or a low?

 

 


There was a pew plus about five seats spaces between George and I this morning at the weekly Wednesday all-school mass so I had a great view of him. On this particular day, the kids were coming off a 4.5 day break turned 5.5 days due to weather, which also means Cabin Fever. I could see Curtis a bit further from me, then Brock one more row from there. Curtis yawned, stretched, picked his nose bit, but otherwise seemed content to just sit. Brock gazed all throughout the church, bobbing back ever so slightly the ENTIRE mass, and at one point I was sincerely concerned that he might have literal ants in his pants. No one seemed to notice or mind. Then we get to George. You could see that George wanted to be still. He loves to please people. His favorite thing in the world is to help others and see their appreciation and satisfaction. His second favorite thing is probably hugs. He doesn't want to be a disturbance or disobedient, yet, he could. Not. Sit. Still.

He could not sit upright. The kid next to him was coughing, so he needed to cover his ears. The music was too loud. His shoe felt funny. He needed to blow his nose. I'm sure the hard wooden pew was too firm on his bottom. His shirt probably had shifted and he could feel the tag of his pants. For all I know, the light was too bright, the piano too loud, the temp too hot. He was being assaulted by so many uncomfortable, bothersome things, and when he tried to fix them, he was being asked to hold still. To be quiet. I could feel his exasperation. I could sense how conflicted he feels in his little heart. Wanting so much to please his teachers, parents, loved ones, friends...yet his body is sending him totally different signals. I could see him bring his hands up to his face and rub it in frustration - something identical to my coping with irritating/frustrating situations.

In this moment, I suddenly knew. There I am. There is my genetic contribution to my little Matt-clone, daddy's boy. I used to dread mass. The hard pew, the kneeling, the sitting still, the quiet, the holding hands - some dry, some sweaty, some dirty. The hot. The cold. The sounds. I dreaded assemblies. I watched me classmates sit stone still, cross legged, on the gym floor, and would give myself pep talks: "Look, they seem comfortable. Courtney Jianas hasn't moved in 45 minutes. Everyone else can do this, so can I." I'd repeat this over and over as my legs burned on fire from holding still, and finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I'd extend my legs. Stretch out my back. Whisper something to a friend. Go to the bathroom. ANYTHING to not be trapped like this for one moment longer.

There were times I was accused of being a teacher's pet, and now, seeing George, and how much he loves to help. How it could mutually help him get out of the restrictive classroom rules, while not being a disturbance and actually being productive, I see why I did it. Why teachers allowed it. Instead of being punished for moving and talking, I was being useful. Busy is such an over-used word these days, but that's what we are. Me, Brock, George. We are busy.

I could see George frustrating those around him, but, in my heart, I smiled. He's in Kindergarten, he will hopefully continue to learn coping skills, as I did. As Brock has. I could see Brock staring at the ceiling, probably in a completely different world, distracting himself from the mass discomforts. Though, now I find the church to be a place of peace, and quiet, I still struggle to hold still. Constantly switching which leg is crossed, giving myself pep talks not to lean my butt against the pew while kneeling, convincing myself I don't need to go to the restroom. In high school, teachers frequently found me in the hall "on my way to or from the restroom"; it became a running joke from a lot of them where they'd ask if I actually attended any classes. In college, I simply didn't attend lecture. In med school, I had to have the outside, back row seat due to my frequent position switches, moving, getting up and down. I would subconsciously hike my scrub pants up past my knees because somehow that is more comfortable.

So, this part of me is so frustrated for kids like George. And Brock. They are good kids. They just sort of beat to their own drum. The structure and rules of school will always be a struggle because it simply isn't their "style". So far, we have been incredibly lucky to have amazing teachers that seem to "get it". There is no snuffing of their personalities or creativity while also trying to help guide them to behave a bit more conventionally while in school. We, as parents, don't accept any sort of disrespect or defiance and expect them to do as they're asked. We are flexible and willing to work with these boys in whatever way they need to grow up to be intelligent, functioning, happy, loving and respectful individuals. The school seems to be totally in line with these principles as well.

George will not have an easy road. I wonder if he will make it through 8th grade in this more rigid-type educational structure, perhaps he will eventually require an alternative school. Perhaps not. All I know, is that I love this kid. For all his struggles, he has the biggest heart a little boy could ever possess. He uses hilarious facial expressions, bizarre hand movements, funny stories and comedy all around to protect that sensitive infrastructure. It's irresistibly endearing. If nothing else, he will always have people that love him, and coming from experience...that is more than enough. You're not alone, George. {You have Nate.}