Americans and Oz

Americans. Obstinate. Fun. Rebellious. Opinionated. Freedom. These were a few of the things my hubby and I pointed out to our son as we walked around our nation’s capitol this past weekend. We had a TON of fun climbing over tanks, helicopters, a Navy seal boat (yes, it was a boat and not a ship!), MWRAPs, and a field hospital at the Public Servant Recognition Week displays. My son got to try out an Enigma machine and my husband and I were amazed at the amount of free loot he walked away with (he will never need a new pencil!). Yes, this IS what makes America great.

Even the protestors, the ones walking around the military display saying they boycott the war on terror, helped us to show our son what makes America great.

One protest I experienced this weekend, that I can not get my head around, was one going around Facebook AGAINST Mother’s Day because not every woman is a mother. I am a mom of a special needs child and since this particular walk is more work than rewarding, I am VERY grateful for a day that teaches my son to appreciate me. That may sound a bit heady but those nuances of showing others your appreciation will never come naturally to my son and he needs to see mothers being appreciated.

I rarely share with others how hard it is to mother my son and this came back to bite me this past week, again. Twice now I have had people question my parenting abilities because all they see is a little slice of our lives and not the whole picture. So, in a very rare instance of vulnerability, I want to invite you to take a look behind the curtain.

Oz. That is where I live. Things that always worked to motivate my students in my classrooms never work with my son. Oz. My mornings start off with aggravation and often yelling in frustration as I try to get my son ready for school. No matter how much time I give him to get ready, no matter what strategy I’ve tried our morning often starts this way. Oz. His breakfast: two NutriGrain bars, a banana, and some milk, takes him 45 minutes to eat. I stopped giving him cereal because he would take an hour and 15 minutes to eat a small bowl. Oz. After school I spend at least an hour tutoring him in math and reading just to keep him on level with his peers. Oz. In the afternoons, when he is playing at home, he often wets himself because he has no desire to stop and use the bathroom. Oz. Dinner time is not a fun time to teach our son how to have a conversation or to ask what was fun about his day or what was particularly hard. In Oz, dinner is spent begging and pleading with our son to eat at a reasonable pace so he can have some free playtime before bed. This is only a tiny slice of Oz.......his doctors and therapists know the full picture and continue to encourage us that we are doing the right thing for our son, even if others disagree.

The worst part about Oz is that too many times I end up being the Wicked Witch of the West instead of Glinda.

I had a professor who gave our class an essay by a parent of a special needs child that tried to explain what being a parent of a child with special needs is like. This parent said it is like planning for a trip for Italy but then finding out your vacationing in the Netherlands. In my experience it’s been like ending up in Oz . . . a place far, far, away from what everyone else experiences as a parent. The maps (parenting books) do not help because they are written for Americans, not Ozians. The only help I have found has been the therapists and doctors whom we discuss our parenting strategies with and tell us to just keep on walking the yellow brick road. It is a lonely road that I only share with the Wizard (my husband) and Toto (our dog Barney) praying for God's help.

Oz. I have become fond of this place. Some days my son shows less signs of being a flying monkey and is the loving tin man, giving me hugs and kisses. Other days he’s the lion and bravely makes it through meals with no fight. He is often the scarecrow working hard on a puzzle or learning a new word. No matter what character of Oz he takes, I love him dearly.

So, the next time you see me frazzled or wonder why I parent the way I do, stop and ask how me how it is in Oz. I just might invite you to take a walk on the yellow brick road.