Answers and Questions

It’s not as if Gavin is suddenly different. The little boy who left my house on Tuesday morning with a designation of “Emotional Behavioral Disorder” and who has been in a behavioral freefall at school since before Christmas was the same little boy who came home Tuesday afternoon with a diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome, ADHD of the combined type and severe Anxiety.

It’s not as if we didn’t know it was coming. Ever since a preschool teacher rather melodramatically insisted we should have him evaluated or he’d “never make it in Kindergarten,” we’ve been on a treadmill of test after test after test. Four years of neuro-psych batteries, IQ and aptitude testing, behavioral rating scales and any other tool you could think of. He never quite “fit” on the Autism Spectrum, but he never quite “fit” anywhere else, either.

It’s not as if we’ve been entirely blaming ourselves for his difficulties. Despite feedback from various well-meaning people that we weren’t disciplining him properly, we knew that wasn’t the case. From the first school district evaluations we have been affirmed and supported by professionals and told we’re doing an outstanding job with him, under the circumstances, even flying blind as we’d been for so long.

It’s not as if it’s a death sentence or an insurmountable obstacle. There are almost as many variations within the Autism Spectrum as there are people who are on it, and there are clear and effective interventions that have allowed children and adults with Aspergers to live high-functioning lives. This is the kind of stuff that makes people interesting, after all.

But it’s still overwhelming. A little bewildering. A bit scary. Even with much of the groundwork laid, the task ahead is daunting. Having answers doesn’t solve problems. Acting on those answers does. And even knowing all we know and all we already knew, there are more things we just don’t know yet. And can’t know until we run into novel situations or until Gavin matures or until we’ve plowed through the absolute mountain of information out there.

The good news we don’t have to figure this out on our own. The better news is that the professionals have lots of experience and the prognosis is good. The best news is that Gavin is still Gavin and, label or no label, he’s a pretty damn cool kid. We’re all gonna be just fine.

Random Thoughts

I don’t mind winter in Minnesota. I honestly don’t. Aside from one or two absolutely brutal weeks, it’s entirely tolerable. Heck, if it’s not frostbite-within-thirty-seconds weather, I’m inclined not to wear a coat if I’m just running to the mailbox or from my warm car to a warm store. I’d rather not be over-bundled. Not that I’m in shorts and a tank top, mind you. After 20 years in this state I’ve learned to dress in sensible layers. Granted, there have been one or two occasions when the distance from my warm car into Jerry’s Foods seems to have grown to several miles and even I’m giving myself strange looks for not wearing a coat. But by and large, no problems.

All that being said, I must admit that when I took Brubeck out for a walk the other day I had a real yearning for spring. The sun was shining and the ice was slightly mushy and I got a mental whiff of those first days of April when it really is comfortable to be outside in just a sweatshirt. I started imagining long, brisk walks with the dog, Eiledon on her bicycle in the cul de sac, the muskrats and turtles reappearing in the pond (oh! Did I ever mention that we had a pair of foxes out there a month ago? I think they were scoping out the muskrat den for having their own kits! WAY COOL. But we haven’t seen them since.)

Digress much?

So the stupid groundhog saw his shadow. Has anyone bothered to point out to the folks in Punxsutawney that regardless of whether their portly rodent mascot sees his shadow, March 21^st comes about six weeks after February 2^nd?

In any case, it does my heart good to look out the window at 5:30 in the evening and see that it’s still light. I know it makes a difference to my husband to walk out of the office and know for certain that it’s not 10:30p.m. It’s amazing how just a few minutes more of sunlight each day can make such a dramatic difference in a person’s outlook.

It’s good timing, because my outlook needs a bit of elevating these days. Things aren’t going so well for my son at school or at home. We finally did get the official Aspergers Syndrome diagnosis, along with ADHD of the combined type and extreme anxiety. So there’s work to be done. The good news is that we’ve already been doing a lot of it. He’s had an IEP since kindergarten for social/emotional issues and it’s mostly the same stuff they do for kids with AS. Still, it won’t be an easy road ahead.

But in the mean time, even when there’s snow and cold, there are these glimmers of the coming spring. Eiledon had her first band concert today and it was wonderful to see how far these children have come in just seven rehearsals. Dan even snuck out of work for an hour to be there to show his support. Ledon was front row, first chair (probably courtesy of being so tiny) so we could see her clearly as she played her flute. It was good to end her school day on a high note (ba-dump-bum: tssss!)

And I didn’t have to wear a coat out to my car.

Bed

Gavin gave me this topic when I told him I couldn’t think of anything to write about. He typed it at the top of this page and said, “There. You can write about that.” So I am.

There was an ad campaign for mattresses some time ago, possibly for Slumberland or some such store. The tag line was “I love my bed.” I always liked that ad because I could relate. As someone who needs a more-than-average amount of sleep, I utilize that particular piece of furniture more than any other in the house.

It’s sort of sad that we haven’t made a greater investment in our mattress—we bought it 1999, when Eiledon was a baby. It was all we could afford and we were told it would probably last about five years. We thought by that point we’d certainly be able to “upgrade.” Alas, other things have always taken financial precedence and we’re still sleeping on the same mattress.

It has two deep wells, one on Dan’s side, one on mine, so that when a child crawls in with us in the middle of the night, he or she inevitably rolls on top of one or the other of us. With Gavin, the problem is that he generates more heat than a small nuclear plant, making the crushed parent sweat profusely. With Eiledon, it’s her elbows and knees—she has almost no body fat so she’s quite bony. I love waking up with a sharp object crammed into my neck, don’t you?

We originally bought the king-sized bed because I am a restless sleeper. I flop around and kick and on not one but two occasions have awakened in the middle of a dream only to watch myself punching my husband in the face. Dan takes up about 20 percent of the bed, crammed into the top left corner, unmoving, with a gray tabby wrapped around his head. Having a bigger bed has allowed him to get decent sleep even when my active and vivid dreams have me flailing all over the other 80 percent.

Who would have thought that a king-sized bed STILL wouldn’t be sufficient to meet our sleeping needs? But toss in a kid or two now and then (along with a couple of cats) and we’re wishing we could have custom-ordered something bigger. A lot bigger.

Of course, the bed isn’t just for sleeping. (Get your mind out of the gutter, that’s none of your business.) No, I meant that the kids believe that our bed is a trampoline. Or a landing pad for a running leap. Or a wrestling ring. I guess, after all, it’s good that we haven’t invested more in it. I’m sure a couple of rowdy kids could destroy a two-thousand-dollar supreme-deluxe-extra-cushy pillow-top, memory-foam, you’ll-feel-like-you’re-on-a-cloud mattress just as easily as our bargain basement number. Maybe we’ll just wait until they move out before upgrading.

G’night!

The Best Christmas Present Ever

Not a new car. Not a piece of electronic equipment. Not jewelry or crystal or fragrance. Not music, or even books. No, the best Christmas present I have ever gotten is a pair of slippers.

I’d been asking Santa for slippers for years. Probably since we replaced the carpet with laminate. We keep our house pretty cool overnight in the winter and the temperature difference between our bedroom with the door closed and the rest of the house (largely open) is significant. The worst, of course, is the floor which, at 5:45 in the morning and 62 degrees Fahrenheit is a rude, daily reminder that I’m no longer unconscious.

Each year as the days grew shorter and the mornings became more chilly, I reiterated my desire for a pair of slippers. But in typical fashion, I never remembered to actually go and get any, nor to ask Santa for them with reasonable time left before Christmas. So every year I got great gifts (I’m on my third Bruegger’s bottomless mug, thanks to my wonderful husband) but no relief for my poor, frozen soles. And, of course, I would whine to Dan about how I hadn’t gotten what I’d really wanted and he would feel bad and then I would feel bad and then my feet would still be cold.

This year I remembered earlier, and made a pointed request for a pair of Lands’ End shearling slippers. I’d seen them in a catalog once. They looked warm. However, when Dan and I hopped out on line and found some, they were RIDICULOUSLY expensive! I hope it doesn’t make me sound cheap, or anything, but FORTY-FIVE DOLLARS for a pair of SLIPPERS?!? I threatened Dan to within an inch of his life that he was not to buy those slippers for me. He just rolled his eyes. Maybe Santa would take care of it.

By a few days before Christmas, Santa still hadn’t had a moment to find slippers for me, so he wandered into a Lands End Inlet. The supply of everything was pretty much decimated, but there was a big bin of “clearance” items and, upon digging through, Santa found one pair of navy blue, fleece slippers in a size XL. He was pretty sure they would be too big, but considering the state of the inventory, he thought it would be prudent to hang on to them. Originally more than $30, they’d been marked down to $14.50, so, bonus on the price. A helpful salesman confirmed that there were absolutely no slippers in the Land’s End online inventory in my size. He did suggest that Sears at the Mall of America carried their merchandise and offered to hold the XL pair until 9:00pm.

Off Santa went to The Mall, where he spent three hours parking, surveying that pathetic leftovers in the Sears slipper department, and wandering the miles of other shops, never finding quite what he was looking for. At last, he returned to the Inlet, resigned to purchasing not exactly what he wanted.

He was graced with a reassuring sign when, upon his return to the Inlet, he found the exact same parking spot from which he’d departed four hours earlier, vacant—just for him. The slippers were waiting at the check-out counter and, with growing certainty, Santa said he’d take them. In another Retail Christmas Miracle they rang up at an additional 40% off, bringing the total cost to just eight dollars and seventy cents. It was meant to be.

On Christmas Eve, Santa wrapped the gift in his trademark brown paper and tucked it under the tree alongside presents for each of the slumbering Moirs. He still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced, but knew he’d done his level best and that I would appreciate the effort. Back in his sleigh, he called to the team and headed off to the next house.

Christmas morning was a blur of bright packages, cheerful stuffed animals, and exuberant, pajama-clad anticipation. There were treasures for everyone, even the dog and the cats, and I received some lovely gifts from family and friends. Nothing, however, was as joyous as the moment I tore the brown paper off those slippers. Navy and not brown. Fleece and not shearling. Extra-large and not large. And absolutely perfect in every way.

My feet couldn’t be happier.