Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day

I realize it’s June 23rd and the title for this post makes hardly any sense but bear with me. It’s the mysterious beauty of autism – the way Sean’s mind winds and wraps, spinning tangled fishing line into patterns of spun silk.

For the past week he has been wishing me and those around him “Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day.” Today, on our morning walk he greeted fellow walkers, joggers and even pets a Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day. For the most part, people just smiled, most likely unable to understand his speech – the words rush out, haltingly stop and then stammer, his eyes scrunched tight and his left hand covering his small ear.

It took me some time to figure out Sean’s obsession with Martin Luther King Jr. For Sean, a connection always exist, even in its strangest scope and far reaching grasp. But Sean connects to Martin Luther King Jr. not for Dr. King’s tireless efforts and work toward racial equality, social justice and peace but merely for the fact that like Sean, Martin Luther King Jr. was born in January – January 15th to be exact (although Sean clings to January 10th as Dr. King’s birthday – this makes their birthdays, in Sean’s mind, a day apart instead of six days – the connection much more significant.)

How he knows this information is from his love and borderline obsession of dates and calendars. He can recall most anyone he meets birthdates – not always 100% but he’ll get the month right. And he loves to go over all the holidays – his second favorite to Dr. King’s birthday is Three King’s Day on January 6th. He has even made up holidays to represent objects he adores like January 7th has become National Accordion Day in our home – a day to roll out the barrels I suppose.

Along with the holiday, Sean likes a song. For Three King’s Day he insists we sing We Three Kings – which can be awkward at best in a 7-11 in the middle of June when all I’m looking for is the newspaper. Pink Martini has a great version of it that we’ll sometimes watch together on You Tube and leaves the singing up to the professionals.

So when he looked up at me, his voice straining to find the words to ask me,
“WHHHAT song is-s-s-is-s for Ma-Ma-RTIN LUTHER K-K-KING DAY!!!”

I had to think quickly on my toes which lately has been an “issue".

“A song?” I asked trying to buy some time.

“YES! A-a-a song.”

And so I sang “I have a dream, I have a dream, I have a dream, dream, dream, dream, dream” – to the tune of When The Saint’s Go Marching In. That’s all I had – not in a very creative space at that particular moment. But I must say, -the song, simplistic in words with a catchy tune was embraced by Sean. It’s locked into the internal I-Pod of his brain that randomly sings Christmas songs, country music and now original music (sorta) by no less than his very own mom.

I love when he sings it. He is quiet and playful and he doesn’t stammer or stutter nearly as much as he does in his regular speech. And when he sings it I can’t help but think he does have a dream. A big, fluffy, cottony dream accompanied by his favorite instruments: the accordion, guitar and violin – some magical symphony that somehow works, singing his dreams – his heart songs.

And I often think how important Dr. King’s message was – not only in the historical sense in the speech he gave in August, 1963 on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in DC, but today, at this particular moment, when I see a small, beautiful, disabled boy who’s mother wants nothing more than for others to see him as equal. To see him as whole.

Such a gorgeous speech, such an amazing piece of writing. What brings tears to my eyes when I read it, what rings true today for all those who have struggled for equality is summed up beautifully with this line:

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

So maybe Sean’s on to something. I like the message. Why just keep it to one cold day in January. Let’s have it handy, even in the middle of June. Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day to you and yours.

It's May 31st Already? Are You Kidding Me???

I can't wrap my brain around it. The matter of Time. Where is it going and why is it moving so fast? I was going to have so much done by June 1st. I was going to have the carpets cleaned, the oil changed, an office set up in the basement, an organized garage, winter clothes packed away, flowers planted, (maybe an herb garden -- who am I kidding?) and be down a solid ten pounds for summer wear. Instead, the closets are stuffed with ski jackets and boots, the loser cruiser is chugging along smelling faintly of burnt oil, I have no office in the basement, the garage is still a scary, dark place, carpets are scary, too, the only flowers I'm growing are of the weed variety and ten pounds lost? HARDLY!

I can blame the spring. It's been lousy. A day of sunshine here and there and then rain, lots of it, constant. My bones ache from the dampness. I can blame it on over scheduling myself. But the truth is there are days when I'm wrapped up in an electric blanket like a burrito watching a marathon session of Top Chef and eating cereal for lunch and petting the dog with my foot.

Partly, I'm in denial that school will let out soon and there will be no respite from taking care of Sean. Long days with lots of questions, the same questions, that can be repeated all day long.

"Who has birthdays in January?"
"Does Verle know Miss Becky?"
"Can you make a lower case F? Now a lower case G."
"How do you spell Easter?"
"How do you spell macaroni and cheese?"
"Why do people sneeze?"
"Talk to me, Mommy."

I am trying to be zen-like, be in the moment and not to over-think it. To try to let go of my irritation and stress and to just be. Easier said than done.

There are no play-dates for Sean. No "run up to the park and see what the kids are doing." He can't navigate in that world. He is just so different from his typical peers and in some small ways he knows it. That's the heartbreaking part. I don't think he wants his best friend to be a slightly exhausted and crabby 41 year old lady with bad posture but that's all he has right now, me. And I am going to try harder to remember that -- when I've spelled Blue Heeler for the fiftieth time or shadowed him in the yard most of the day to make sure he doesn't run after a car -- I am all he has some days.

Two weeks left and then my boys are home. Hopefully in that time I can at least set up an office downstairs and get the oil changed in the car. At the very least, I can plant some flowers -- the idea of something growing and blooming always gives me some hope. And we all need hope.

Give Me The Tooth, Nothing But The Tooth

I guess I've been in a bit of financial shock lately. So much that the idea of writing has not really come up on my radar. I'm still absorbing the shock of the dentist bill for Sean. A cleaning and sore tooth that ended up totalling $1818.00. I'm not kidding.

First things first. His mouth was sore. It took me a while to figure it out though. He's not the type of child who is going to approach me and say, "Gee Mom, my tooth hurts. I think I have a cavity." Instead, lots of tantrumming, struggling at school and just general unhappiness. Then he asked me to scratch his tooth.

"Your tooth?" I asked.

"Yes." Scratch it." And he took my finger and tried to make it scratch his tooth.

"Why?" I asked pulling my finger away from his little tooth and tight grip.

"It itches," he said plainly.

"Does it itch or hurt?" I asked.

"Both. Itch my tooth Mommy."

My girlfriend Christy told me her son, who has autism, came up to her with a pair of scissors and pointed with the sharp edges to his toothache. This is the last resort usually. We wonder why our children seem to be upset too easily, or wake up too much during the night and it's not until a strange pantomime or request ("itch my tooth") that it finally makes sense. Aha. Your tooth is killing you. I get it.

Now, the discovery is sometimes a maze but the worst part is still to come. The actual dental appointment -- finding a dentist that is willing to work with your child. Many children with autism need to be sedated, even for the littlest event like a cleaning. So naturally we go to a dentist that provides "sleep dentistry" -- if that's not an oxymoron I don't know what is.

We went to Sean's dentist who is really a kind man and his staff is great with Sean. I've done this solo twice before with "itchy teeth" but this time I asked my husband to come with me since I was able to make a Saturday appointment.

Sean is okay at first. The assistant asks if he wants to watch Diary of a Wimpy Kid. My husband asks if they have Wiggles (much more Sean's speed) and unfortunately they don't. They begin with laughing gas, which by no means ever works for Sean or makes him laugh. He constantly pulls at the rubber mask and my husband and I are quite sure he's not even breathing the gas through his nose but rather mouth breathing.

Next it's the sedation. Sean will be "awake" but unaware of what is happening. Even still, we hear his holler and yell from the room. It takes quite some time to relax Sean and when the dentist does the cleaning and x-rays he discovers two teeth that need to come out.

This is when I am shown the bill. $1818 -- includes sedation, two teeth pulled, cleaning and xrays. My mouth runs dry. What choice do I have really. I wonder if I should offer up my liver for payment - -a little rusty from college and my early twenties but probably worth something or maybe a kidney -- I only need one, right? My husband looks like he might throw up when the bill is shown to him. I'm sure he's doing the math and that is like at least three airline tickets to somewhere really warm during the rainy season in Portland.

He staggers over to the mini-fridge and snack baskets and tries his best to eat and drink $1818 worth of fruit soda and granola bars. All in all, he ate maybe $4 worth and there were no free toothbrushes or trial size toothpaste to snag on our way out to make up for the rest.

It is the day before Mother's Day and my husband laughs, "Happy Mother's Day. Do you love it?" Just what I've always wanted -- $1800 worth of decayed teeth, x-rays and a little to-go plastic bag with sparkly strawberry Crest toothpaste and a toothbrush.


I agree and sign the papers and start consoling myself. Hey, at least they take credit cards. Just think what I will do with 1,800 VISA points. That's a little more than a $15 Starbucks gift card. I'm making money on this deal. This is actually a good thing...

After THREE hours, Sean is rolled out to us in a wheel chair. He is slumped over and looks like he's been on a two week bender, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, and his back curved like a comma, his chin nested in his neck.

"You okay, little guy?" My husband asks.

Sean's mouth is filled with gauze and he is as sweet as a lamb. No fight in him, just droopy eyes and lips.

"Sean, are you okay?" I ask, bending down to him and wiping blood from his cheek.

"I'm not Sean, I'm Bertie," he slurs and my husband and I look at each other. Even in this state, he still wants to change his name to Bertie. You've got to be kidding me.

The dentist tells us he will probably sleep most of the day. We snicker thinking fat chance. We wheel Sean to the car and he slumps into the back seat with me. He is like warm play-do and I love how pliable he is in my arms. Often times, I'm hesitant to touch Sean, knowing that it will startle him or upset him but at that moment, he is a blob and I'm enjoying his tenderness.

We take him home, and try to steady him, he staggers and falls into the wall -- this boy who has incredible balance can hardly make it two feet in front of him. He doesn't sleep but lays around asking us to pull out his tooth.

"It is out, Bertie. It's just going to be sore for a little bit."

A week later he finally stops asking us to pull out his tooth. I feel like we are through it, at least for now. All I can do now is wait for my credit card bill and dream about the money I'll make -- my $15 Starbucks card. Coffee, anyone?

Postcard to Bertie

I went to a writing retreat last week. One of the speakers handed out index cards and asked us to write a "postcard" to someone we haven't had a chance to have a good chat with. For some reason, like most things in my life, my thoughts went to Sean and how often we have been struggling to make sense to each other. I knew I was probably supposed to write to an old friend or a family member I hadn't seen in some time, but my mind kept going to that red-head who even when he sits next to me can feel like he's a thousand miles away.

The teacher told us to write. We had three minutes:

Dear Sean? Bertie? Blythe?

Who are you today? This morning your hair looked like a tangled plate of spaghetti in red sauce and your eyes yawned open -- bright bluish green like swimming pools and I wish I could've jumped into them.

We had a tough morning, didn't we? Too much tug of war and not enough working together. And, honestly, I was glad to see you off to school. I needed a break. I do love you, little guy. Heart and soul. Be better today. xo Mommy

When the time was up we had an opportunity read aloud what we wrote. Only a couple other people knew that Sean has autism but the rest of the class, probably 16 others had no idea. As I read I heard laughter and people nodding. Yes they had all been there before with their children, grandchildren, friend's children -- wanting to rush the little grouchy rugrats out of the house. A break from the whining. Good riddance.

I hadn't meant to make people laugh, or smile or find it relatable. And I couldn't help thinking what if they knew my child was handicapped -- would my words seem harsh, maybe even cruel. Was I a lesser person for saying it? Would they feel bad laughing if they knew that Sean was autistic?

Gosh, I certainly hope not. If it's anything at all it's honest. Kids are tough. Kids with special needs can be especially draining and it's okay to turn away from the bus or the school drop off line and feel a bit euphoric daydreaming about a cup of hot coffee and reading the paper uninterrupted. When Sean is with me he is with me -- he is right next to me, his little mind racing asking me question after question ("Miss Judy call me Bertie? I was Bertie when I was in your tummy? I was never Sean.")

The teacher asked us to flip the index card over and gave us our second writing prompt. He asked us to write a postcard from the person in response to the one we had just written. Three minutes and go:

Mommy, I am in here. I am sorry that I am having a tough day. My neurological wiring has been off lately and I'm struggling to keep it together. I really need you to be patient with me. I need you to answer the same questions over and over -- it makes me feel safe and connected. I am floating, sometimes in the unfriendliest air, afraid to breathe or shut my eyes -- afraid the world will go black and swallow me. I don't mean to be like this. Most days I just want to show you who I really am. Love, Bertie (NOT SEAN)

Luckily we had the option to read what we wrote and I opted not to. I think it might have been too hard. It's the truth though. It's what keeps me connected to him, to loving him with all heart and soul. Because deep deep down, I know these are words that he wants to say but can't. And he needs me to believe that those words swirl in his heart and mind, and although he has never spoken them outloud, I trust that he speaks them in his dreams and thoughts.

Must See TV

Rarely in my blog entries do I ever promote anything. Mostly because I'm far too disorganized but also because I don't want my blog to be anything more than advocacy, story and resource. That said, I need to pass along a press release I received regarding an upcoming six part series on the PBS NewsHour focusing on Autism that will begin airing on Monday, April 18th. It looks like it is going to be a fantastic report and definitely a 'must see' for anyone dealing with the struggles and mysteries of autism.

Knowledge is power. I'm hoping that you'll tune in to the series.

ARLINGTON, VA (March 29, 2011) – Autism - it’s a developmental disorder that has become increasingly prevalent, affecting 1 out of 110 American children. Despite years of study, little is known about its cause and access to treatment varies. Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of American families hungry for answers struggle to care for the unique needs of children with the disorder. Among them, Robert MacNeil, co-founder of the PBS NewsHour and grandfather of Nick, a 6-year old boy with autism.

“I’ve been a reporter on and off for 50 years, but I’ve never brought my family into a story … until Nick,” MacNeil said, “because he moves me deeply.”

MacNeil and producer Caren Zucker tell the story of Autism Today in a 6-part broadcast series beginning Monday, April 18, 2011 and a robust online component where viewers can join the conversation. Ms. Zucker has produced many stories on autism and is the mother of a 16-year old son with autism.

Monday, April 18
An introduction to Nick and autism as a whole body experience: MacNeil brings viewers along on a visit with his daughter and grandson Nick in Cambridge, Massachusetts, to see how autism affects the whole family, including his 10-year-old sister, Neely. Nick experiences autism not just as a disorder in brain development but also as physical ailments affecting the whole body.

Tuesday, April 19
Autism Prevalence: Why are the numbers of children with autism increasing? At the UC Davis MIND Institute in Sacramento, California, MacNeil sees the wide range of different behaviors that comprise the autism spectrum. Anthropologist Richard Grinker argues that the rising numbers of children with autism is explained because conditions previously given other names, like mental retardation, are now included in the autism spectrum. Scientist Irva Hertz-Picciotto says the wider definition only partly explains the increased prevalence, pointing instead to a variety of environmental factors.

Wednesday, April 20
Autism Causes: The rise in autism numbers has caused a surge in research to find the causes. For the latest thinking, Robert MacNeil speaks with four leading researchers: Dr. Gerald Fischbach of the Simons Foundation, Dr. David Amaral of the MIND Institute, Dr. Martha Herbert of Harvard University and Dr. Craig Newschaffer of Drexel University.

Thursday, April 21
Autism Treatment: Although children with autism see doctors periodically, they go to school everyday. It is the school system that bears most of the burden of treating children with autism because treatment means education. MacNeil visits two schools in New York – a public school in the Bronx teaching 700 children with autism and a charter school created in Manhattan as a model of possibilities in educating children with autism. With only 30 students, it can use one-on-one teacher/student ratios employing intensive Applied Behavioral Analysis – the gold standard treatment for autism.

Monday, April 25
Adults with Autism: Although federal law mandates educational services for children with autism, there are virtually no services when they become adults. MacNeil profiles Zachary Hamrick in Mahwah, New Jersey, about to turn 21. As his family contemplates the uncertain future now facing hundreds of thousands of young people like him, his parents ask themselves, "What will happen when we die?"

Tuesday, April 26
Autism Policy: The NewsHour series ends with a discussion of the public policy issues raised in the series, including the enormous discrepancy in the quality and availability of services for children and future adults in what the federal committee that determines research priorities for autism now calls a "national health emergency" with a panel of experts including: Dr. Thomas Insel, Director of the National Institute of Mental Health, Catherine Lord, Professor of Psychology, Pediatrics and Psychiatry at the University of Michigan, Ilene Lainer, Executive Director of the New York Center for Autism – a private advocacy group, and John Shestack, a Hollywood producer and the co-founder of “Cure Autism Now” a former advocacy group.

Slump

I've been deep in one lately. Unable to accomplish much that I set out to do. Mornings go like this: Make coffee. Have a sip. Put coffee down (somewhere that I won't remember like on top of the dryer, on the bathroom sink, up in Sean's closet or near the pet food.) Find coffee. Re-heat coffee. Sometimes can't find coffee at all and have to make another cup (will find coffee later -- most likely in microwave when I'm warming up something for dinner.)

Next, wake up Sean.

"Let's get up Sean,"
"I'm not Sean," a grumble rises from a tornado of covers.
"Who are you today?" I ask.
"I'm Bertie." A red head pokes out.
"Okay, rise and shine, Bertram."
"It's Bertie."
"Get up, Bertie."
The red head retreats back into the cave of blankets.
"I mean it. Get up. Now. Come on, Sean."
"I'm not SEAN. I'm BERTIE."

And this goes on and on...

Finally the heat clicks on and Sean/Bertie hops out of bed and perches on the heating vent.

I fumble through his drawers and pull out clothes, grab shoes from the closet and bribe him with breakfast if he can get dressed quickly. Well, maybe not quickly, but at least get dressed.

Breakfast. Smoothie. Plop all the ingredients into the blender. Whirl. Find Rice cakes. Find Peanut Butter. Where's my coffee?

Let dog out. Beg dog not to bark. Just do your business. Dog looks at me like "Where are you going? Don't you want to hang out in the rain and watch me?"

Back to bribing Sean into kitchen with smoothie. He reminds me, losing his patience that he is Bertie. The dog is barking. I can't find my coffee.

Clean out blender. Make lunches. My oldest is easy. Turkey and cheese sandwich, milk, chips and a granola bar. Sean, not so easy. It's as if I'm packing lunch for a squirrel. Almonds. String cheese. Potato chips. Fruit leather. Soda water or juice (whatever I pack drink-wise always comes home unopened.) Rice bar. What Sean begs for everyday is the even unhealthier cousin of Hostess -- Little Debbie. Every day it goes.

"Can we get Little Debbies?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"They could make you really hyper."
"I like hyper."
"Well the rest of us don't. Besides, they're not good for you."
"Why not?"
"They could last forever on a shelf."
"I like them."
"We are not getting them."
"Why not?"

Sean's form of crack. He admires Little Debbie at the grocery store, in the lunchboxes of fellow students and he googles them on the computer. Most days my computer is on the Amazon page with that happy-go-lucky Little Debbie peddling her Honey Buns or Cosmic Brownies. Don't be fooled by the rosy cheeks and pretty smile.

Wake up my oldest. Remind him to go through the garage and CLOSE the garage door (if I don't specifically tell him, the garage door will be left open.) Also, put the dog in his crate. Don't forget lunch. And lacrosse practice tonight. He nods his head but I'm pretty sure he'll fall back asleep. I leave the phone on his dresser. It's off to school.

"You tell Miss Judy that I'm Bertie?"
"Yes."
"She will call me Sean."
"Actually, she will call you Bertie. She is way too nice to you, Sean."
"I'm Bertie."
"Whatever."

I call home. My oldest picks up. He is up and moving. After I hang up I wonder if reminded him to close the garage door.

I stop by the office and help out a little bit. Head to the post office. Do a little grocery shopping. Come home -- yey! the garage door is closed. Clean up the kitchen. Walk the dog. Feed the cat. Do some work for my classes. Beg myself to write something (opt not to, wonder if there's a Top Chef marathon on Bravo, look outside, watch rain coming down in buckets, wonder if the backyard grass will ever dry and start looking for my reading glasses.) Usually the search for the glasses (and mind you, I have at least half a dozen pair) can take anywhere from a minute to half a day. Often times, they are perched on my head and when I'm at my wit's end looking for them I'll walk by a mirror or a reflection in the sliding glass door and see them.

Look at clock. Geez, where did the day go. Start to feel overwhelmed. Need to check in with friends. Need to answer e-mails. Make appointments. Figure out what I should cook for dinner. Do laundry. Write scolding letter to Alaska Airlines regarding "Spring Break Travel From Hell Nightmare". (Oh, that's another post for another day...) Start book that looks to be the size of the Holy Bible -- must read almost 600 pages by Wednesday for book club.

Why am I just standing still looking out at the rain? My coping skills are horrifying lately. Why is it so tempting to lay under the glass coffee table in the fetal position and take a nap? Why is the dog barking? Why can't I just organize my life?!

Hustle to the bus stop. Here comes Sean with a name tag that says, "Buster."

"Who are you now?" I ask.
"Bertie."
"Your name tag says Buster."
"I'm Bertie now."

I read the note from class. He has had three name changes: Bertie, Blythe and finally Buster. She tells me the name tags seem to be working. He is less anxious and isn't persevering as much on names. Sometimes I can't believe this is my life. I wonder if Miss Judy feels the same.

Sean/Buster/Bertie wants to talk. He wants to spell. He spells Big Big World. He spells Captain. He spells Wiggles. I wish it wasn't raining so hard and he could play outside. I wish we could get a game down from the closet and play it. I ask him if he wants to play a game or something.

He looks irritated. "I want you to talk to me." he says. Which means he wants to spell the same words over and over and then he wants me to spell them. He hops and stims and spells words. I try to gage if he seems happy. Some days I just want him to be happy and not worry so much about him and his inability to play games or have friends or to carry on a conversation that makes sense to another person. It's hard to imagine how difficult that can be for him and how much I take that for granted in my everyday life. I try to remain upbeat. I make a deal that we can spell words for fifteen minutes but after that we have to something that I want to do (and clearly drinking martinis with a ten year old can't be an option.) I set the oven timer and when it buzzes I tell him we are going to go downstairs and he can play on the exercise ball while I fold clothes.

He is my little shadow. He hops and does amazing tricks on his ball and I try to remember that we all have fun in different ways and he seems to be having fun. And that has to be enough for now.

Febru-DREARY Finally Over

The last month, even with only twenty eight days, can sometimes feel like the longest, most tedious month. We battled rain, a soaking downpour for days on end, leaving my hair frizzy and fingers like prunes. And with the rain comes the isolation. The ground muddy and completely soaked with puddles like small lakes spreading around us, trapping us indoors.

I complained about the weather in my writing class. A fellow student reminded me that the rainy winters are what keep the population at one million and not seven million. The summers are incredible, blue skies and sunshine, mountains in the distance but first we must suffer through a long, wet winter.

I often wonder if the lack of sunshine makes Sean harder to handle. He doesn’t have the opportunity to run and climb trees and ride his bike. He plays on his gymnastics rings, hops up and down the stairs and rolls on his giant exercise ball. He is often edgier and stims more. And I am in not in a good mood either – sore throat, congestion, headache and cabin fever-y. I find myself being short with him when he begins his list of questions over and over:

“There is no such thing as a talking door house?”

“Why did Dad clap at the hockey game?”

“How do you spell Wiggles?”

“Everyone has bad days?”

And I respond quickly:

“No such thing as a talking door house. That’s on the Wiggles and it’s a TV show.”

“Dad was excited and happy that his team was winning.”

“W-I-G-G-L-E-S”

The last question always gets to me because there seems to be a certain unreachable sadness in his voice and loneliness in his eyes.

“We all have bad days, Sean. We have to work hard to have more good days.”

Sean struggles to have good days. He’s had a couple in a row but then the pressure gets to him and the note comes home saying that he had to cool down in the quiet room or cried and threw a tantrum outside at recess.

“Kids bump into me. They throw the balls in the wood chips.” He says this over and over when I ask him about recess. The children are playing games of tag and wall-ball, and Sean feels as if he is being swallowed whole by the ground, squeals and laughter from children startle him, his heart racing and his hands clammy with sweat.

I try to explain that the kids are playing and that they are not intentionally trying to stress him out but he has little understanding. He repeats back to me what I say in question form.

“It’s not on purpose? It’s only an accident? Don’t get angry?”

I hope Sean can, at some point, feel somewhat in sync with the other children or at the very least find better coping skills and understand social situations better. For now though we take it day by day and try to chart some kind of progress.

The truth is we are crowded in the house, the windows streaked with rain and pine needles, the gutters clogged with mossy leaves. The schoolchildren are crowded, too, trying to carve out some space to join in on some fun underneath the covered play area. And we are all just trying to get along and to get through it without losing our patience and wits. At least it’s March – we are a little closer to sunshine.