The Force Is Strong With This One

It's something I do every year. Plow through every incarnation of that Dickens story I can find.

There's the little matter of the book, of course, ever since I first read it in my single digits. And every movie. And every animated version. And an awesome little novella that tells the story from Jacob Marley's point of view, and it's about time (that one was a present from my boyfriend on our first Christmas together, the boyfriend I later married, he so gets me). For ten years running there was even the live performance in New York, with my sister (and just fyi, she and I still haven't forgiven whomever's responsible for cutting off our beloved tradition at the knees, and neither one of us can stand hearing any part of the Alan Menken score anymore, makes our eyes go wet and our hearts break audibly).

Anyway, to my point, I do this every December. Over and over. And every year, and in every rendition, something crazy happens. Something rises up from the pages, sneaks off the stage, seeps out of the the screen, right into me...something I could swear up and down that I'd never seen or heard or felt or known before. I get something new each Christmas, with new eyes, and new ears, and maybe even a new heart.

How does a story do that?

I don't know either, but I'll tell you what it was this year. It was that moment when Mrs. Cratchit asks her husband how Tiny Tim behaved in church that day. As expected, Bob Cratchit gives her the scoop that Tim had been "good as gold and better." And Bob goes on to deliver that little speech about his son, as the rest of his family sits around and listens--lines that I've read and heard and seen and felt, and read and heard and seen and felt, over and over, so many times.

"Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant for them to remember, upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.

Bob's voice was tremulous...and trembled more.

That's what did it to me this year.

His voice was tremulous...and trembled more. Of course it was. Of course it did. Mine sure as hell would have done. The thoughts that floated around Bob Cratchit. Thoughts about how this little child, lodged so much into his heart as to be a part of it, so fragile and bent and broken and wrongly made, so imperfect in the eyes of a world that will not see, ending up being the very vehicle to maybe teach the world around him about the highest force in existence.

Perfect love, that is. Just a little thing like that.

And p.s., in case you don't already know this about me, I could NOT care less what your name for this force is. I really and truly don't care. I don't care what kind of a building you visit to focus your thoughts on this force, or if you don't go anywhere at all. I also don't care which famous ginormous book you might leaf through to help you fathom it, or if you go by a book at all. That you or I or any of us grope our way to feel the force, and come to have it strong with with us in our time, even now and then, in ups and downs, matters more to me, and who cares how. Really. So in  A Christmas Carol,  it's the Christ child that's understood as the catalyst to explode perfect love into the world. But a little disabled boy holding hands with his father in a tiny country church--that's who Dickens sees as having a ghost of a chance (sorry) to carry such an understanding into the here and now. To the regular people going about their business and living their lives around him. If they even let themselves notice him at all.

A little "broken" boy.

Is there anything that could possibly grip your heart harder?  Me neither.

And somehow I've never paused and become "tremulous" about it in such a soul-stopping way, right along with Mr. and Mrs. Cratchit, and all the assundry little Cratchits, until this very time.  Go figure.

Dammit, EVERYTHING makes me cry these last few days before Christmas day. I blame Dickens, I really do.

But that's ok. It really is.

Good as gold and better.

Happy Merry Everything.

Love you,
T

Yes, Grace, there is...

So I'm a little annoyed at Judy Blume right now. Grace is reading Superfudge, one of my favorites, and having a blast, just like I did. But there was something I didn't remember about the book. About three chapters from the end, Judy Blume acts like there's no such thing as Santa Claus.

I was reminded about this little tidbit when Grace suddenly pulled her head out of the book, a puzzled expression all over her face, and stated, "I know where babies come from, and I still believe in Santa."

I was confused, then alarmed as I started to remember. The main character, Peter Hatcher (a fifth grader just like Grace), complains to his parents that they shouldn't be encouraging his younger brother, Fudge, to believe that Santa is real:

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to let him go on believing in Santa....After all you told him where babies come from. How can a kid who knows where babies come from still believe in Santa?"

So now it was clear that the time had come to have that conversation with my child.

She had to be told about the multidimensionality of the universe.

I know. It's the talk nobody's ever ready for.  But there are no manuals for exactly how to grow a kid, particularly where matters of quantum physics are concerned.

So I patiently explained how Santa Claus exists on a dimensional level that's separate from ours, albeit just as real, and that right around the winter solstice there are immutable laws of nature that allow a being like him to cross into the dimension that we're currently experiencing, and that unfortunately there are a lot of parents who aren't up to speed on the physics so that, sadly, their kids have no choice but to grow out of one of the most important truths they used to be privy to.

At one point during my explanation, my daughter interrupted me to ask, "Mommy, are you ok? Your eyes look like you're about to start crying."

I admitted that it makes me sad that some families lose Santa Claus just because they lack a sufficient background in science...but that I was fine. Just fine.

Judy Blume will be getting a strongly worded email from me, however. There are obviously gaps in her education.

Soup

I was warming up some soup for Calvin just now--beef barley, his favorite. While I was standing there at the stove, stirring, he sidled up to me and started pulling on my arm. I'm used to this, it means "follow me to the thing I want you go get/do for me." So I said, "Not right now, Cal, I'm making your soup."

But he tugged on my arm again anyway, calmly though, not so much demanding as inviting. Then reached up to my shoulder, pulling downward, and it finally dawned on me that he wasn't trying to pull me away, or toward something he wanted. He was pulling me down to his level...so we could be face to face.

Then he proceeded to plant a gentle kiss on my lips.

Then he said "Lubboo."

Then he smiled at me.

Then he put his arm around my hips and rested it there for a few beats.

Then he ambled along to the table to wait for his soup.  All the while wearing his school-bus-yellow noise-blocking earmuffs that make him look like he should be waving at planes from a tarmac.

So there I was, left holding my wooden spoon, stirring what turned out to be my favorite can of soup I've ever made in my life. Not wanting to move even an inch away from that spot until every last particle of sensory input he'd just provided had time to spiral through me like a warm current and become a permanent part of my soul.

Because moments like this come along to remind us that we can do this. In our own imperfectly stellar way. And when they come, it's probably a good idea to hang on with all we've got and never EVER let them go.

I lubboo too, sweet boy.

Now eat your soup.

120 Cases of Measles...Are You Scared?

If the owners of the media have their way, then yes, you are. And as such, there's something I need to get off my chest so it doesn't explode. If you've watched the news in the past few days, you've heard about a measles outbreak in this nation and, thusly ,a renewed panic over nonvaccination. And how so many of us have presumably been misled that vaccines can be linked with autism.

The truth is, we have not been misled. There is plenty of good evidence that more care must be taken when it comes to how we vaccinate our kids. This does not mean we should not vaccinate. It does mean, among other things too numerous to go into here, that the measles, mumps, rubella, and chickenpox vaccines might not be such a good idea mixed up in one vial. 

I'm begging everyone who can hear me. Please don't buy into the hype. Do you think it's a coincidence that this propaganda is being scattered around during autism awareness month? Does 120-something cases of measles (an outbreak? really?) across the entire U.S. concern you as much as 1 in 68 children with autism? 

As usual, what the media will say about us "vaccination phobes" is inaccurate. Because most of us are are not afraid of vaccines. We like that modern medicine can help protect us from diseases that used to kill or maim us.  What we are afraid of is a vaccine machine that has blown up into a monster that's out of control and that sanity has left the building. 

Just this one thing I'm about to bring up should be enough to raise your eyebrows. Just this one. Let's just take the MMR, or MMRV if that's what they're giving again these days (the MMRV is what my kids got before it was temporarily discontinued, who knows why, believe me I wasn't informed that for some reason the potion injected into my kids was deemed unsafe and taken off the market, this was a piece of info I stumbled upon on my own when my own child's health blew up in my face).

But back to my point, there's this measles and mumps and rubella and chickenpox vaccine, all in one shot, which is incidentally the only way you can get it because it's the only way Merck will sell it. It is given, for the first time, between ages 1 and 2. Then, in New York State, in order to be admitted to kindergarten, the kids must get a "booster." Of the MMRV. Just a little side note that you may or may not know--it so happens that the only vaccine dose that's requred by New York State law is the measles component, but you can't get that by itself, so what the hell, boost them all. Why not. I mean, if you just wanted to take penicillin, but the only way you could get it was in a formula that combined it with Prozac, Tylenol, and, I don't know, Celebrex, you wouldn't mind, right? I mean what the hell, it won't kill you. Maybe.

So why not give a quadrupal vaccine when just the single component is required. No worries. And if you've heard or read anything about how there are doctors, here and in other countries, doing research that suggests that combining all those vaccines in one vial makes each individual virus more virulent, and therefore dangerous, maybe even causing bowel damage, that some autistic kids have been found to have the vaccine strain of measles in their diseased lower intestine, just put that out of your mind. Keep your eye on the ball, here, there's been an OUTBREAK of measles.

Except get this about that kindergarten booster thing I mentioned above. Most of the time the kids still have immunity to these viruses from the first shot, and need a "booster" like they need a few ounces of arsenic in their juice boxes. You know how you find this out? Simple blood test. It's called "checking the titers" to see if the immunity is still solid. I found a pediatrician that doesn't blink an eye about checking this out before re-vaccinating. Those doctors aren't easy to find. His words were "I check my dogs' titers before revaccinating them, why wouldn't we do it for kids too?" Good question. Maybe the answer has something to do with how well the people who make the MMRV are doing when every child entering public school kindergarten is required to get this booster.

Except that they're not necessarily required. If the child's blood shows immunity to measles, at least in NYS, they're good to go. Maybe you haven't heard this.  The doctor I know who doesn't object to checking titers, on children as well as dogs, told me that in his decades of practice there has only been 1 kindergartner who didn't show immunity after the first shot. Sure, that's a small sample. Anecdotal evidence. It's the best we're going to get, because if those with the big power and the big money don't want us to know stuff, do you think that their big power and their big money is going to be put toward helping us gain this knowledge? With huge double-blind scientific controlled studies blah blah blah? Um, no. 

So when we're told that there's no incontrovertible evidence that vaccines are related to autism, there's some truth to that. If by incontrovertible evidence you mean "expensive funded study." It's like the old joke about looking for your keys under the lamp post when you lost them in the bushes. Because the light's better over here. 

So there you have it. Want answers? We need better lighting. And for that, friends, we're on our own.

Light Me Up Blue

Yesterday was my birthday, and if I live to be exactly 90, I am exactly middle aged, plus one day. No fooling. Yippee.

And today is April 2, which means that two years ago today my Grampa died. (The rest of them say Papa, which is fine, but once upon a time it was just me, and he was Grampa, and I've never really made the switch.)  Makes for a disturbance in the force today. My tribe is hurting. We miss the leader of the band.

And it's World Autism Awareness Day. Light it up blue day. Blue feels about right. The school nurse called this morning, I saw the school number come up and I was like, seriously? Is he even off the bus yet? She wanted some insight into why they had to hurry and get him off the bus and figure out what all the hysterical crying was about. His ears look fine, his throat too. Any thoughts on what might be bothering him?

"HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW!!!!!" I screamed at her. Silently. 

Out loud I told her he's been fine, happy all morning. And it's completely true, but I feel like she thinks I'm lying, because maybe deep down I am lying, maybe there was something terribly wrong and I'm just in a constant state of denial. Even though I'm his mother and I'm supposed to know him to the depths of his soul and understand how to take care of him. So much for MY autism awareness.

But what does she want from me, he giggled and laughed and made kissy faces with me while we waited for the bus, he hopped aboard with a spring in his step, and that was that. Is it my fault I don't speak his native language, and he doesn't speak mine? Of course it is. Whose else could it be? Way to go mother of the year. 

Aren't you glad you tuned in?

But speaking of you... 

Do you have any idea how many of you wished me well yesterday? Sent me good wishes and sweet sweet words? Called me your forever friend, partner in crime, beautiful friend, Wonder Woman, beautiful wild woman, fabulous cousin, sweet friend, My Tracy...wonderful wife (last but not ever least). One of you even made me a tray of eggplant parm that I got to keep all to myself (timely road trip, dear husband...). On and on you all went, remembering me and being kind. 

And today, because of what today is, lots of you are posting pictures of my baby boy, because of how precious he is, and because you want everyone you know to know all about him. Know why he's worth lighting up the world about. Blue, certainly...and all the rest of the frequencies that make the colors. On the spectrum. An infinite spectrum of light that starts and ends with colors we can't even see. Yet.

And another thing, Grace hid in her room yesterday to take out her clay and fashion me a puppy in Mets colors. She even made it like he was made of tiny baseballs, but left out the stitching because she didn't want him to look like he had scars. She came to me and said, "I didn't make you a birthday present this year....APRIL FOOL!!!!!" 

Yes. Infinite spectrum of light that starts and ends with colors we can't even see. Yet.

So thanks for the hand up. All the hands up. Thoughts and words. And characters tapped out on a keyboard, or a touch screen. A little clay puppy. Sloppy happy kisses waiting for the short bus.

So many reasons to get up off the couch.

And so, I'm up.

Some Days, Y'know?

It was a little before noon today when the nurse called to tell me that Calvin was miserable and crying endlessly so I'd better come get him because they were stumped. So much for productivity. I'd only just summoned the will to pull out the broom and sweep all the debris on the main floor of the house into a ginormous pile in the center of the living room. Suppose I might as well leave it there indefinitely and call it modern art. Maybe the kids will enjoy jumping in it like a pile of autumn leaves. Right now I so don't give a fuck.

While on the way to school to pick up my boy, a stupid useless c-word pulled out of a parking lot onto the main road, which is normally a fine thing to do, except she wasn't looking and I happened to be in her way. The massive gray-black snow banks on either side of her might have been a factor, but you're supposed to peek around those before gunning it. Brakes work as good as the horn on my car, yay for me. Wanted very  much to pull up to within a millimeter of her back bumper and ride along the rest of my merry way with our two cars making sweet sweet love. Congratulate me that I didn't. That and the pile of modern art in the middle of the living room will be about the extent of my accomplishments today. I've done worse.

Just saying that I'm feeling a little discouraged (by which I mean burnt out to a crisp) but hopeful that this is the part of the movie where everything seems like shit on a shingle after a shower, then the clouds part, the sun pokes through, the plucky heroine gets a makeover and goes on a 10-day detox diet, and spring prevails.

I think that's probably the way it'll go.

Humor me.

Loving Avonte

I don't want to write this. I don't want to do anything but go back to bed...as though I have any "right" to be in such agony.  But I can't help it, so why even try.

They think they may have found this boy's remains, after months of hoping all would be well.

All I can come up with as an explanation for this despair that's all but doubling me over is that it's for all of us. For all us mothers who live with the shadow of fear of having to go through what Avonte's mother has gone through. For all of us who have survived the near misses, and for her and all the others who may be surviving the worst of all possible outcomes.

The spiritual reality I live in says that all minds are joined. Since this is true, then on some level this mother and all the other mothers can feel the unending love I have for them and their babies. They can feel the comfort, the healing, that I wish for them with all of my being...somehow...some way. You can add your unspeakably powerful thoughts to mine, and there's no telling the mountains we can move,,.mountains of grief...a thousand oceans of tears. We can do this for them. It costs us nothing. 

For Avonte's mother, I pray so hard that you feel your joyously free and everloving boy next to you always, forever, in a world without end, closer than your own breath and heartbeat, because I know that's where he is. Don't ask me how I know. I know. If I didn't, I don't think I could go on functioning.

I have to pull myself together now and go on doing the job that's mine to do. Mothering autism and all that goes with it. It's the greatest, most awesome gift I could have ever not seen coming. I thought I already knew that, but I may not have fully gotten it until today. Right this second..

Think the highest thoughts today, all the love in the world, in all the worlds. Picture that boy in the light as hard as you can. It's where he's always lived, and where he always will. No matter what the evidence from the water ends up telling us. Whether this boy has moved on to his next adventure, or is still somehow dwelling in ours, love him like he's your own. 

Because he is.