This picture represents one of Samantha's milestones--taken three summers ago, this was the first time that Sam was able, willing, and ready to participate in the Pelican, Alaska 4th of July parade with her sister Miranda. She made it through the whole thing. Not pictured is the girls' half-sister Lacie Blue, whom Sam also adores and who sat on the back of the four-wheeler, pulled by Lacie's grandpa, Carl Anselm, always a good friend to my kids.
We celebrate the milestones where we can. This was the thought I was thinking this morning when I woke up to the sweet, melodious sound of pee hitting the water in the toilet bowl. Yeah, I know, it sounds weird. Anyone toilet training a toddler knows how hard and exhausting the process can be. A lucky few breeze through it. For some of us with autistic children, the process can take much longer, and in some cases, we will have autistic adults who still wear diapers. I will devote a future post to this issue and our journey. But this morning, I once again gave thanks, feeling deep, sincere gratitude for the progress Sam has made. I do not take it for granted.
There were signs of another milestone this morning. Sam is growing up and becoming very independent. This is good. Whenever our kids show signs of age-appropriate behavior, we should celebrate and be thankful. So why was I so damned stupid? The early hour? Forgetting what is actually important and what is trivial?
Today is picture day at the middle school. I've been warning Sam for two days that I wanted to pick her outfit for this picture. She didn't warn me that I would not be doing this. I chose an outfit that looks great on her--great color and great fit, emphasis on the fit. This is an outfit that she occasionally chooses on her own. Not today. Today she chose an outfit that was the same color, but a little stained, worn, and too small.
I told her that they were going to take her picture first and that she could change afterward. Not good enough. This is when I should have given in. I didn't. Not until we had screaming, crying, some actual huge tears, a little snot, hand-flapping and other signs of extreme agitation and distress. This is very rare in our household. Sam is usually very sunny-natured, a happy kid. In my defense, and in defense of all parents who sometimes push a little too far (hey, sometimes we have to take our kids out of their comfort zones to help them grow and show them that they can do certain things), agitation can evolve into a total melt-down faster than a ferrari can excellerate from zero to sixty.
Regaining my faculties and common sense, I gave in. We applied makeup through tears to help cover those wonderful blemishes that 12 year-old adolescents have to put up with. We combed and re-combed the hair. Still being agitated, Sam kept running her hands through her hair and achieving that Albert Einstein 'do. I apologized over and over because I do believe in admitting my mistakes and letting my kids know that I can be sorry, I can admit to screwing up, and I want them to follow that example. I have a hard time with those people who can never admit to being wrong and will never apologize, no matter how obviously wrong they've been.
Then, as Sam was getting on the bus, still in tears, I was emailing her teacher, to apologize for sending him a time bomb--hopefully they can defuse her. Perhaps she'd jolly up once she got away from me. Oh, dear. We're not perfect.
There is a picture that hangs on one of the walls of my mother's house. It is a studio portrait of me and my little sister at ages nine and three. I remember when it was taken because it was a big deal to my mom. She actually had the photographer come out to our house to take it. This was after my parents' divorce and before my mom married my step-dad, so she definitely didn't have much money for this.
The picture is really funny. My mom made me wear an outfit that I hated. She thought it was cute. I still think it is ugly, but that is beside the point. I was mad and my face is stony. It wasn't just the outfit, though that was definitely part of my problem. The other problem was my little sister Pam. She looked adorable and is laughing in this picture, in stark contrast to my silent, seething fury. Pam is touching me. As everyone knows, studio portraits only turn out if the subjects sit close together. Torture for me at that time. And Pam knew it. Beautiful demon child not only had her hand on my shoulder, but she leaned her body into me. And when she realized that she was really getting to me, that is when she gave the photographer that smile that could make angels weep. You think I'm making this up or exaggerating. Not so. This is one of Pam's earliest memories.
Milestones...I don't have a melt-down when touched anymore. Sam pees in the toilet and stays dry at night probably 90-95% of the time now. And she picks out her own clothes. And no one had better forget it.
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