From the Mountaintop Archives

From rocks to swings

In the weeks after Elias's birth, two of my childhood friends and one of Nick's flew to Anchorage to support us after our parents' flights left the icy runways.

These friends had never been to Alaska and arrived in February, a month of little daylight and below zero temperatures. Our sightseeing involved explaining Iv's, monitors, alarms, vents, breast pumps and terms such as PDA Ligation, Intra-ventricular Hemorrhage,  Hydrocephalus, and reservoir placement.

No dog-sled tours, ski trips, or the viewing of the Northern Lights. Just the windowless fluorescent glare of the NICU.

I knew David was a great man when he helped me bag and store my breastmilk.

Jess helped me organize the old office room, the would-be baby room that prior to her visit I couldn't go into without crying, overwhelmed by boxes and the fear that we would never bring our baby home.

And Caitlin held my hand as the NICU doctors and nurses withdrew spinal fluid from my son's brain.

These friends are what you call rocks and we have been blessed by many more. There is Ginna who not only came to see me regularly while on bed-rest, cooking meals and cleaning house, but came religiously to the NICU as well. She was so solid during Elias's 94 days in the hospital that we asked her to be his "Fairy Godmother", complete with a handmade wand.

These, and more, are the friends I can speak honestly to about Elias and they won't run away. Just like all of you who return to this blog regularly, even when I'm drowning in self-pity or fear. Or writing about completely unrelated material because I can't always face being the Mama of a special needs boy and because for thirty years I knew nothing of this reality that I have been sorting through for almost three so there is more to me than therapy appointments, nap time, and lost milestones.

All of you are my granite heroes.

There is Susan, the Chaplin at Elias's children's hospital, who just sent me the link to a short essay that prompted this post. It is written by a woman named Vicki Forman as part of a column series called "Special Needs Mama" developed for what she calls, "The Mother at the Swings" : The curious compassionate bystander who wants to ask questions but does not know how. 

I know her because sometimes I am her. And yet more often now I am the one wondering how much to reveal to the woman with questioning eyes.

I have written about this struggle before but Ms. Forman articulated something I have never been able to put into words. Like my readers who teach me through their comments, she is a few years ahead of me in this process. And a beautiful writer who connects with all mothers who push their kids on swings.

In fact you don't even have to be a Mama, just a person who wants to understand another.

Please take a moment to read her article by clicking on the blue underlined title above... Special directions for my Dad and other non-computer folks:)

Premature Post

Last night I accidentally published what was meant to be a draft, the start of a post that Elias interrupted when he cried, "Out Crib." I think I even stopped writing mid-sentence. My apologies to anyone who came by for a visit while my incomplete thoughts were posted.

I'll write a real post later on today.

Nuggle Nana

"Guess who Elias called for last night?" My mom asks on the phone.

"Who?"

"Nana!" My mom says, reassuring me that not only is Elias OK but he seems to have adjusted to my absence beautifully. No crying. No tantrums. No whining. Rarely calling for me except before bed, when mama is as much a word of protest as it is my name.

After two nights in Maine visiting three sets of friends, I drive to Watertown Connecticut, the town I grew up in, for a reunion weekend with my former Taft faculty-brats. My parents drive up with Elias on Saturday morning to meet me at the Taft rink where I chase the big boys in the alumni hockey game. As the only woman on the ice I get a lot of kudos from the men, even if I only touch the puck a few times and spend the rest of the time trying to catch up to skaters twice my speed. I get tripped by the over-competitive goalie who yells to his defense-men, "Knock the little girl on her ass!"

I flash him a smile. And crash the net again.

At the end of the game he plants a kiss on my cheek.

It is Saturday and I have not seen Elias since Wednesday morning. When I see my parents enter the rink I leave the bench-- figuring my team will be just fine without me--and go to give my little monkey a hug. He sits in my Mom's arms wearing his ski sweater (dressed cute just as I requested) and looks wide-eyed at this giant new place to explore. 

My Mom says--"There's your Mama!" --as I  take off my helmet so he can recognize me under all the equipment.

"Mama," he says and reaches his arms towards me. I scoop him up for a hug. But I don't even get a hint of a snuggle. "Down, down, " he squirms,  "craaawwwl!"

I put him down on the rubber floor and he crawls off towards the stairs.

So much for an intimate reunion.

Later during lunch, he sits on Nana's lap as I make us a sandwich at the buffet table. When I return to my chair he squirms from her arms and asks to sit, "With Mama."

I'm relieved he still needs me.

Just as I'm relieved he didn't need me while I was away.

The irreplaceable factor of old friends

I'm sitting in my friend Emily's living-room in North Yarmouth, Maine. It's been five years since I was last here to visit and over eight years since I rented her garage apartment and spent many an evening in this same living-room playing games and laughing about old times.

I've known Emily since I dated her brother in high school. We roomed together freshman year of college before I transferred schools. We lost touch for years and then reconnected in our early twenties when we both moved to the Portland area. It was as if no time had passed.

And now here we are again talking as if a mere blink occurred between visits--even though its been at least a year, if not two, since we chatted on the phone.

This is the irreplaceable factor of old friends. The comfort of being known regardless of the years in-between hugs. The shared histories and common languages of stories past.

I can almost forget I'm a mother as we sit sharing Big Sky granola at her kitchen table. Even though we talk to each other about our kids sleep patterns, eating habits, and non-attachments to teddy bears. We talk about our children but I am sixteen again sharing secrets with my brown eyed friend with a dimpled smile.

And Elias is completely content to be with Nana and Papa. (I know this because I have called three times already.) He is keeping my Dad from reading the paper and keeping my Mom on her toes planning trips to the library, beach, and grocery store. He is busy.

And he is loved.

YIKES

I'm off to drop Nick at the airport and then to visit friends in Maine for a couple nights.

Elias is staying here with Nana and Papa.

This is a first.

Moving into the New Year

Have you heard 9:30 is the new midnight? That’s what we declared last night, counting down, kissing our spouses and clinking our glasses of champagne to celebrate the arrival of a new year.

Can you tell we are all parents? I still thought I’d make it to midnight but ended up falling asleep on the couch during the football game long before the crystal ball dropped.

And now here I am curled up on the couch with my laptop propped against my knees on the first day of 2007 enjoying the warmth of a fire on a blustery New England day. The combination of a queasy stomach and the sideways rain is keeping me inside even though one of my resolutions is to exercise more regularly—not just during organized sports, but to actually run, bike, ski, and walk on my own.

After years of team practices with coaches who organized my workout routine I’ve never quite figured out how to do it on my own. So this resolution of more regular exercise is not a new one. It’s probably been on my list ever since I graduated from college in ’94.

It is written on handmade paper and tacked to my bedroom wall along with my other resolutions for 2006. I wrote: “Move my body regularly because I can and because I love to: walk, run, bike, skate, ski, dig dirt, shovel snow, rollerblade, dance etc.”

I failed to put this resolution into practice all year long, only managing to run and skate my ass of during games, pushing myself so hard my whole body ached in the following days, but not making myself move regularly without the motivation of a team. Sure I walked, ran, biked, skated, skied, dug dirt, shoveled snow, rollerbladed, and danced in 2006, but not enough to call any of it a routine.

The other resolution I wrote on that blue flowered paper that hangs by our bedroom door is “write regularly”. Another practice I’ve wanted to cultivate for years and for the same reasons—“because I can and because I love to”—but have never before followed through with, always putting my own desire to write behind other priorities from paying bills to socializing with friends.

I’ll write tomorrow. I’ll go for a run tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Next year.

In January I’ll…

I’ve never before kept a resolution.

And yet here I am writing by the fire, and not just writing in my journal but writing for ClubMom, for an audience, with a contract to continue to do so for 2007.

It’s the communal process of this type of writing, like sports, that keeps me coming back. With ClubMom as my coach, expecting me to regularly show up at the page, and all of you as my team supporting my process, I actually wrote.

Regularly.

So maybe tomorrow I will go for a run.  Who knows? If I can write, then anything is possible.

Maybe Elias will even run with me someday.

(And if not, maybe it will be OK.)