The Dream House

I had a dream again about the old house. It was the first house we bought after we were married. It was the house we brought the boys home from the hospital after their births. An old dutch colonial that was previously a barn back in the 1850's. It was cut horizontally and moved across the street in the 1920's and made into a home. We bought it in 1996 and lived there for eight years, replacing windows, a boiler, a water heater, the roof, plumbing and God knows what else. We had an invasion of digger bees one summer and worried about flooding after the grassy lot across the street was filled in with expensive town homes.

In my dreams of the house I am sneaking in the side dutch door, swinging open the top window and unlocking the door from the inside. I move about the house, the hickory floors scuffed but shiny, past the knotty pine walls and the built in maple shelves. I creep up the old staircase and down the hall to the baby room, the walls still a tender celery green, the wicker rocker chair facing out but there is no crib. The boys have grown and moved on. I am sad for a moment but then out the window I see the current owners coming in the front door. My heart races and I am in a panic and when I move down the hallway the floorboards creek and I shrug into a closet. "I shouldn't have come back," I think to myself and then I wake up.

It's not surprising I had the dream again. I had been back home and our first house was a mere ten minutes from where I grew up. I drove past the house. The new owners pulled out the evergreens and shrubs in the front and put in an above-ground pool in the small backyard. They kept the wooden blinds, the front door green and added only tiny improvements to the screened in porch. I felt strange driving past it, sneaking looks like I was casing the place. It was an old house sold "As Is" and I didn't want to meet the new owners and be regaled with the improvements they needed to make. I also wanted to keep the memory of it frozen like I had remembered it. A simple, loving home where my two boys spent their earliest years.

I drove past it twice and then went past the train tracks, the commuters waiting for the 7:25 a.m. to Chicago, newspapers folded under arms, briefcases slung over shoulders and coffee balanced in hands. I had done that commute for years. I couldn't help thinking where did all the time go?

I often think how little we knew back then. We had the world at the tips of our fingers. We had two healthy boys within a 19 month span. I had quit my job and my husband had started his own business. I had so much to be grateful for. I had no idea that there was anything wrong with Sean. He was strong and handsome. He walked early, moving nimbly around the old house. His huge eyes always met me before the rest of his taut little body caught up. My boys posed for Christmas card pictures in the front room sofa, my oldest hugging his little brother, their smiles wide and beautiful. They tumbled in the silver maple leaves in the fall, piled snow from the driveway into forts during the winter and followed me to the train station to see their dad come home from work during warm summer nights.

The house holds all that for me. The early days before life got complicated, before needing to learn so much about autism, before knowing how our lives would forever change. By the time we had put our house on the market, I had known, deep in the belly of my soul, that my son had changed. He was no longer the happy, engaged, laughing baby. He had become a more serious, less flexible and easily agitated toddler.

The year prior to our move he qualified for early intervention under the developmental delay category -- his speech was behind and his social skills were impaired. He had done a year of special education and a summer camp for children with delays. I had known what was to come. I wanted to come to terms with it all privately, to absorb the impact without neighbors, friends and family with me. I wanted to leave Illinois and to start over with what I knew was to come. I had to say good-bye to the home that held such hope and dreams and promise for us. I had to walk away to a wider, open space where I could start from scratch.

I have always known that I was to live here in Portland. Maybe not forever, but at least for part of my life. The first time I came to the Northwest it was like walking into the arms of a lovely, good friend who I had missed for too long. Strangely, I felt I had come home.

The hardest part was leaving my family and friends behind, saying good-bye and moving forward. And saying good-bye to the innocence of that life, to the bliss that moved like purposeful and easy breezes, in and out of our daily lives.

So I dream about the old house on Center Street. The silver maples and birch trees dotting the street, the lawns shaved into green postage stamps and the baskets of petunias swaying on the light posts. And the winters where the snow caked like creamy frosting on the roofs, the paper lanterns burned peacefully on the front porches during Christmas night and the mournful whistle of the last train out of the city echoing through the bare arms of cold trees. I keep my baby boys there, remembering their sweet red cheeks and pale eyes peering out at me through the crib bars, the old floors creaking as I walked toward their outreached little arms, pulling them into me, safe and warm.

Road Trip (From Hell)

I suppose we might be gluttons for punishment. Or perhaps really disillusioned people. But somehow, after weighing our options, we decided that it made most sense fiscally and pragmatically to DRIVE to Chicago from Portland, Oregon for our summer trip to my hometown.

As the day drew near, we began to rethink our launch strategy. Should we just toss the kids in the car after dinner and begin our trek? Would they sleep in the car and allow us to cover more ground? We had planned to make the trip with two full sixteen or so hours a day of driving. It may be the equivalent of swimming in a tank of sharks or particpating on the show Fear Factor and having snakes dumped over us while we lay in coffins protected by goggles and a lycra body suit (Lycra! god help me - maybe worse than the snakes?)

We decided that was our best option. The boys were excited. School was out and the highly anticipated trip to see all of their cousins and grandparents had finally arrived. My husband drove the first 6 hours stopping in Ontario, Oregon near the Idaho border for gas and coffee. All three of our heads popped up like jack in the boxes -- my oldest spying the Arby's at the gas station and Sean asking, "We are in Chicago?" It was maybe 4 a.m. but the idea of the boys falling back asleep was quickly fading.

The ride continued through Idaho, the landscape greener than most summers due to a rainy spring and wet summer. And then we crawled into Utah, followed by Wyoming, every few minutes a chirpy voice asking, "Are we there yet?" or "Can I hop?"

We made it to Rawlings, Wyoming around 3 p.m. and exploded out of the car like a trick can of cloth snakes. My husband took Sean to the pool and my oldest and I brought some luggage up to the room and melted into the hotel funiture.

The next day we ate a quick breakfast and headed back onto Highway 80, heading east, with half of Wyoming and all of Nebraska and Iowa and most of Illinois in front of us. Day two seems to always be the hardest. When I was younger I did a bike fundraiser with a gal pal. We had biked sixty miles the first day. We felt proud and strong, but after we ate dinner we were sore and started trolling the little town we had stopped in for industrial size Ben Gay. We almost cried on Day Two when we mounted our tired and sore bodies on our bikes and headed out for another sixty miles. I can't even remember Day Three but I know we smelled very minty and our bodies were fairly numb from the pain and the loads of Ben Gay.

This is exactly how Day Two on our Road Trip from Hell felt. Our bodies were like parenthesis, slouching in the car (we took the small hybrid to save on gas -- left the roomy, gas guzzling loser cruiser van @ home in the garage), never free of the sun's steamy glare.

We drove forward, the land like wet slick quilts, softly billowing into gentle ripples, jeweled with fences, crops, ponds and livestock. We had come from the mountains, from the muscle of the intermountain west, sliding down into the placid and predictable heartland, where we could see for miles with no surpises.

By evening thunderstorms had moved down from the north and the radio warned of tornadoes and flash floods. My husband white-knuckled the drive, navigating through sheets of rain, over swelling rivers, thankful for the lightening that would light up the inky darkness, and the boys shuddered from the shaking thunder.

By 1 a.m. we made it to my parent's home. Sean hopped into the house, hopped onto my parents and laughed, so excited to see them. After hugs and talk we fell into beds, so happy to arrive safely. To think of the journey back home sent chills up and down my spine so I tried to remain in the present, to enjoy the sight of my mom and dad, to relish in their laughter and smiles and to let go of the stressful ride and the "what can go wrong on the ride home" thoughts. I just wanted to be in this moment, to frame it with hope and happiness, to keep that feeling frozen into a tight cube, to save for another day when I needed to find joy.

Making the Cut

It was time. When I looked at him it was getting tougher to see the big round eyes under the haystack of red hair. I had been putting it off. A quick toss in the shower or matting it down with "No More Tears" could barely hide the nest that was growing on top of his head.

After his last haircut, we left without being completely finished. Amanda, the gal who cuts our hair, had battled Sean fairly effectively while he slouched and pulled and yelled as she tirelessly worked the clippers and sprayed water on his head. But the battle was too heated and when the comb snagged hard on a large knot it was time to call it quits. Besides, his sides were shaved clean and neat and some of the top thinned out so I waved the white flag and unleashed Sean from the plastic cape, an unappetizing sucker covered in red fur clutched in his sticky hands. We'd have to learn to live with the swath of red hair that spilled like a waterfall down his forehead.

When my husband got home that evening he remarked that Sean looked like he was the lead singer from the Flock of Seagulls. I thought it was less retro and more faux-hawk. After three weeks, when it became almost a backwards mullet, I went for the first pair of scissors I could fish out of my drawer -- a pair of rusty old poultry scissors and followed him around as he hopped and swatted away my hand. I gave it my best shot with the dull, worn poultry scissors -- a clean snip across the front. I tried to thin out some of the top but the blades were dull and I didn't make much progress. When it was done, the backwards mullet was somewhat more tamed replaced by a jagged curtain of red bangs across his forehead. I thought it didn't look too bad but my husband, who wouldn't notice if I painted all the walls of our house magenta and replaced the dining room table with lawn furniture, noticed my handy-work and said, "I didn't think it could get worse."

After another three weeks, when his hair poofed like an atomic mushroom cloud on top of his head, I knew I couldn't put it off any longer. I had failed to make an appointment with Amanda, who I thought could use a break after the last appointment. Besides, she cuts my husband and older son's hair and does a heck of an eyebrow wax on me -- we couldn't chance ruining that relationship. She was too valuable to the rest of us.

So on Saturday, while my husband was up in Canada playing rugby and my older son was down the street at a lacrosse tournament, I gathered up what little courage I had to take Sean to a random barber shop that I had no intentions of EVER returning to.

When we walked in, the bells on the door was the first noise to irritate Sean, followed by hairdryers, clippers, a loud television and barbershop talk. Luckily, there were two chairs open and the only woman cutting hair there, pretty and small, motioned us over. I whispered to her that Sean had autism and could be squirmy. After that I sat across from him and held my breath.

She went to work, slowly at first and then, seeing panic in my eyes and hearing Sean's growls and at one point, he pinched her wrist, said "I should make this quick, huh?"

I nodded and said "Thank you," over the drone of clippers.

The barber next to Sean did a running commentary on Sean's behavior.

"Guess he doesn't like haircuts?"

"Stay still, son, or you'll get clipped and it will hurt."

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

"You're just making it longer."

I glared over at him. Behind him displayed proudly on shelves were Star Wars and Lord of the Rings figurines entombed in boxes. He wore a wrinkled t-shirt half tucked in and pants that could sure use a belt. I did my own running commentary of him in my head beginning with,

"Nice toys, Man-Boy."

The barber on the other side was kind. He was cutting an older man's hair and kept looking over at Sean. Several times Sean tried to make a break for the door and I leaped out of my seat and wrestled him back in the chair. The nice barber said, "Maggie is great with kids. She'll do a good job."

I waited anxiously and could feel the heavy stares of other customers on Sean and me. I didn't care so much as I saw gobs of hair fall from the clippers and gather into little mountains on the floor. I would never be back here. Another bridge burning in flames behind me. It's all part of being a mom.

She did the best she could and even tried to make his sides completely even. I told her it was fine, that his hair looked great and paid her.

"Let me get you change," she said.

Which I replied, "No, keep it. I can't pay you enough for this haircut."

We hustled out the door and into the minivan. I let Sean know that his behavior was lousy and unacceptable to which point he said, "Could we go to Target?"

"Really?" I thought to myself, "Are you KIDDING me???" I didn't even respond and when we turned away from the barbershop and passed the larger than life Target bulls eye sign he said with utter disbelief, "But why we not going to Target?"

Clearly, he missed the main points of my little talk. I explained it again, "You need to sit and be good for your haircuts. You yelled and even pinched the lady. That is not okay."

His eyes went wide in the rear view mirror, the tears slowly filling in and he said with shock, "I didn't earn it?"

I didn't know if I should laugh or cry but I opted to shake my head no and turn the radio up to drown out the impending tantrum.

When we arrived home I had a message on the home phone. It was from the irritating barber who was doing the play-by-play of Sean's haircut. He wanted to let me know that I left my cell phone there.

I hung up the phone, had a silent scream in my head, got Sean back in the car and began the ride of shame back to the barber shop.

I parked the car and told Sean to wait a moment while I ran into the barber shop.

"Remember me?" I said walking in and laughing but really on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The woman who cut Sean's hair grabbed the phone from the other barber's station (maybe he was blowing his tip money on the new Shrek toys at Target)and handed it to me. I was relieved that he wasn't there and that I would be spared a lecture on raising children or the dangers of leaving my cell phone behind in random stores.

"Thank you again. You were very patient and I really appreciate it," I said securing the phone in my back pocket.

"You can bring him in anytime," she said with a generous smile affirming my belief that there are some really good people in the world.

As I left, I bit it on a parking curb -- ass over tea kettle and fell in front of a parked car with a couple of teenagers. I scrambled back to my feet and headed to the mini-van that was shaking up and down. Sean had decided to hop in the car, his laughter spilling out of the back vented window.

My palms were scratched and bleeding and my pride was a tangled heap at my feet but I manged to say a simple prayer of gratitude -- "thank you" into my aching clasped hands. I had finished what I had set out to accomplish, as little as it might seem to a stranger. Sure it didn't come without a lot of aggravation, not to mention my wipe-out in the end (at least I didn't knock out any teeth) but it was complete. Done. Finished. Yey!!

Searching

Where is the boy? Where did he go? Sometimes he is with me -- certain and complete. Happy and smiling. Running with wind on his bare shoulders, outstretched arms and muddy fingernails, his head rolling back in waves of laughter, his eyes closed and his mouth wet with drops of spring rain.

He is not here today. He is gray as if pillowcases of storm clouds are shaking out above him, his eyes squint with anger and his fists are curled, like unripe apples from branches.

I walk carefully -- my back holds onto tension like a heavy sponge and my throat is dry and sore. I want him back -- free of anxiety and anger. Free of autism.

But not today. He pulls away from me like the skin of an onion, translucent and vulnerable, falling to the ground. I keep close but some days it is impossible to put us back together and I hold on to what is left and what I can actually keep in my hands and feel with my fingers.

I haven’t looked at the baby book in a long time. It cradles memories like held breath, suspending time and pain for only so long, until I am dizzy and my lungs shatter. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. For him. And for us. I wish he could live without the diagnosis. It is a lot for such a small boy.

I watch his brother grow into a young man, strong and kind. He ties his shoes, packs his lunch, brushes his teeth, puts on his coat and smiles at me, his freckled hand waving to me as he runs to the bus stop. And Sean is near me, unable to put his shoes on correctly, unable to put his lunch in the backpack, unable to brush his teeth well, unable to zip his coat or to ride on a bus with his brother. There is only a mere 20 months between these boys and yet I feel the gap growing greater with each passing day. Their hands can no longer touch - the distance too great.

There is a picture of my boys, together in a moving box, laughing and falling into each other. It should make me happy but lately it doesn’t. I hastily tape my heart back together. Sometimes it breaks when I think of what we had then. We had hope and energy and love, bubbling like water from fountains, spilling with abundance. Did we know it at the time?

I try to remember that life is so much more than what I can even imagine. Sometimes it’s crucial to let go of the past and leave it behind in the photo albums that collect dust in the bookcase. And sometimes I need to remind myself that each day is full of new, budding moments and that I need to hold still and watch the future unfold, like a fresh flower, each petal unfurling into a silky, damp blossom holding out beautiful possibilities to the child playing alone in the fields.

A Break in the Clouds

There seems to be some room for sunshine lately -- both figuratively and literally. The heavy rains of April and May have lightened up, turning everything a dreamy green and making the roses pop with rich reds and creamy yellows. The dogwood, lilac and magnolias are heavy with flowers, spilling over fences, tumbling down branches.

And Sean has gotten better, too. His meltdowns riddled with anxiety have lessened and he is sleeping more, pillow scooped in arms, covers kicked to the floor, breathing steadily in and out.

I’m afraid to talk too much about it. Afraid that I will jinx it and Sean will fall back into the hour long crying jags or inconsolable meltdowns or the anxiety that keeps him imprisoned. But it has been ten days now of a happier child.

I am not only happy for us -- my husband, older son and me but I am happy for Sean. He was struggling so hard in thick of it. The littlest noise or sudden surprise or unhappy moment would send him into a tailspin. He doesn’t want to be like that. No child wants to feel like that. And all we could do is survive. Keep our patience and strength and love for him constant, even during the days when it felt like we could give no more.

The notes from school have gotten better, too. He’s not perfect but he is doing better. And for now, we have to accept that and remember how much better it is this week than a week and a half ago.

It’s also a reminder that we take this life one day at a time. We vow to experience it, under no set conditions, and we trust that we will do our best to make the most of it. A child like Sean reminds me everyday of this -- to take each day generously, to hold onto it in my heart and to always hope for sunshine, even a peek during the cloudiest days. And if the sun doesn’t budge behind a curtain of clouds then let me remember to bring my umbrella in case it pours!

A Bad Day, A Bad Week

How does one define a bad day? And a bad week? Sometimes words can fail me but I will give it my best shot.

Sunday
Dad is going to China. After track we head to the airport. Sean starts asking about the library.

“Can we go to the library? Can we?”

“Airport first, then swimming and then library.” I say slowly.

“No swimming! I hate swimming. The pool is closed! No swimming!!”

This goes on until we arrive at the airport. My oldest has smartened up -- he is wearing headphones and singing off key to some song that I don’t know and that makes me feel really, really old. My husband hands out hugs and goodbyes. I know how much I will miss him. Not for the man he is or the husband he is (he is both a fine man and good husband) -- but mostly for the dad he is. He is the relief pitcher -- quick and steady, especially on the days when I’ve given up the lead -- he jogs onto the mound and throws brilliantly -- gets the save and my oldest and I carry him shoulder high off the field.

The tantrums keep coming, although once we get him into the pool with his teacher he is happy again. My oldest son and I walk to the Dairy Queen -- to self-medicate -- I go with the regular vanilla cone and he orders something that looks like nuclear waste with a plop of ice cream in the middle. We sit in the sunshine and let it warm our bodies and melt our ice cream to that perfect texture. We agree, “No library” and brace ourselves for the fall out. We remind ourselves that he has to earn the library. Clearly he hasn’t earned a trip to the library.

When his swim lesson is done I wrap him in a towel. We have hidden all signs of DQ -- even checked my breath and wiped my mouth (he has a great sense of smell.) My oldest gave up on the lime green sludge and tossed the rest in a garbage can. We get back into the minivan and head to the house -- thankfully no mention of the library (that will come in the evening before bedtime when he will cry, “But we forgot to go to the library! I didn’t earn it!!”)

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday
A blur. Like letting your windshield slowly bubble up with raindrops -- seeing how long you can go before putting on the wipers -- a modest thrill like a game of chicken with yourself. Sean wakes up early -- hops and yells so loudly. I try to let his brother sleep while luring Sean downstairs with the promise of PBS Kids. Make note -- PBS Kids doesn’t begin children programming until 6:30 a.m. At least that’s the case here in Oregon. UGH. Nick Jr? “NO!” Sprout. “That’s for BABIES!” I find a DVD, it is shiny and I’m drawn to it like a castaway is to a rowboat. “Please FAST FORWARD THE PREVIEWS!” he yells, his ears covered with his trembling hands. I catch my reflection in the television - honestly, I can see the sheet lines on my forehead or are those worry creases. Who cares.

Thursday
Bad day at school. He has started to destroy his classmates food -- squashed kiwi, smashed banana and spilled yogurt and applesauce. When he comes off the bus he is pacing. The tears are standing on his bottom lids and he runs to stomp in the flower bed. I try to stop him as he charges past me like a bull.

“I forgot my lunch box!! I left it at school. I didn‘t take care of it!!” His lungs are on fire.

“It’s okay. We have another one in the house,” I say calmly feeling my own heart rate building, feeling the sting in my throat and eyes.

“NO!!!! I want MY lunch box!” He turns and runs straight down the street, his arms wind milling and screams spilling out from his open, angry mouth. I nearly tackle him and try to wrangle him in the car. Thursdays is gymnastics. This ought to be interesting.

I can’t stop myself. I am crying telling him that he is being unfair and making bad choices -- by this time he has scratched me and his body is flailing like a trophy fish reeled up onto the deck of a boat.

“We can stop by the school on our way to gymnastics,” I say once I have calmed him down.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He is breathless. It’s off to gymnastics. Clearly, this has taken the fight out of the dog.

Friday
I take him into school and talk with his teacher (the loveliest person possible. Sean’s luck is that he has had three really great teachers - Miss Rebekka, Miss H. and now Miss Judy). Before I know it Sean has taken a 32 ounce water bottle and turned it upside down, the water pooling in the middle of the class.

I take him to the sink and make him grab paper towels and wipe up the water. One of the para-educator’s gets the mop, an indication that this isn’t the first time. He does wipe up some of the spill but keeps saying, “Get out of here!”

Not too long after, he grabs the big bouncy pilates ball and hurls it out the door. His school is up on a hill, a steep mount that spills down into a fairly busy street.

“I’ll grab it,” says his kind teacher who is recovering from a pulled hamstring.

“Absolutely not. I’ll be right back,” I say running, too fast, toward the hill and almost falling down the slope. My clogs dig into the wet earth -- clogs -- how impractical. What was I thinking? I should live in track shoes.

A nice man who has put the brakes on his Volvo comes out of his car and chases and catches the ball.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice desperate. “You have done your good deed for the day,” I am almost out of breath. I have an urge to hug him and then secretly beg him to drive me far, far away towards California and then across the border to Mexico. No one will find me there.

“No problem. I saw it coming down and I was like, what??” he said handing me the ball.

Now it’s up the hill, the clogs slipping and my ankles nearly touching each other. And yes, a huge, muddy, round ball under my sweaty armpit.

I give it to Miss Judy, her face so kind. “It will be okay,” she says with such heart I feel the tears aching behind my eyeballs. I don’t say anything to Sean. At this point, nothing I can say can translate the hurt and heat in my heart. I give him a flat, stern look that is completely lost on him.

As I exit out the door I feel the itchiness in my eyes and throat -- moving as quickly as I can to the car so I don’t lose it near the student drop-off line. Please don’t let me see anyone I know. Please don’t let anyone stop me. I just want to make it to my car, to the familiar, faint smells of sweaty hockey equipment and Burgerville wafting through the vents. I am desperate to get into the car and jack the radio up loud to drown out my own crying. I hate the sound of my crying. It is mournful and some how sounds like it is crawling up from the depth of my belly. I make a note to look into a tinted windshield and tinted driver/passenger side windows. I just have to make it out to the main road which minutes earlier I was chasing after a gigantic ball. At last, I drive away, Natalie Merchant singing “These Are the Days” and my achy moans like a dog howling at a full moon are hardly audible. Thank God.

I try to clean myself up in the rearview mirror -- rub my eyes, pinch my cheeks. It’s on to my oldest son’s school where I somehow managed to volunteer to drive some students and chaperone them on a visit to the junior high school that they will be attending. My oldest is growing up and I can almost feel him pulling away. I push the thought out of my mind and race to his school, muttering under my breath and criticizing all of my fellow timid drivers. Pedal to the metal. I hate being late.

Saturday
Early. Sean is up. Loud. My oldest has a friend sleeping over. I dress Sean and quickly get him outside so the older boys can sleep. We drive to the market and Sean picks out a doughnut that he tears apart like a wild animal. When he is done he has an uneven chocolate mustache and goatee.

It is not even 7 o’clock. On the bright side there is no wait at the Starbucks so my double tall extra hot latte is ready in no time. We cross the street where there is a nice two mile path and begin our walk. The air is perfumed with wet earth and creamy blossoms that gingerly fall from the branches with the slightest breeze. We hit two parks -- do the tire swing, slide and monkey bars. I check my cell phone -- it is after 8 a.m. We head back to the house where the boys are just waking up. I make pancakes and cut up strawberries.

Sunday
Early again but this morning Sean is sleeping in a bit. I creep out of bed and check Delta’s website. My husband’s flight is not only on time but twenty minutes early. The kids wake up and we head to the airport.

My husband emerges -- I feel the relief instantly. He stands like a tall glass of water and I am a camper lost for days in the desert. Together at last! He gives the kids t-shirts that he has picked up at the Shanghai Expo. They pull them over their heads smiling - they are happy to see Dad. And I am beyond thrill. He takes Sean to track and I mange to go to church with my oldest. I haven’t been to church in ages but am hoping that a friend and teacher will be doing mass. He is not but I am surprised at how much I enjoy the service, mostly the music and the homily.

While we walk toward the minivan I am starting to think that the bad week has passed and maybe there is hope for a turnaround. The dread starts to lift and I reach for my son’s hand as we walk. He doesn’t pull his hand away. I know this gesture is fleeting (he is almost eleven) so I walk hand in hand and feel hopeful and savor this simple, joyful moment.

Keeping on Track

Sean runs track through Special Olympics. He just started a couple of weeks ago but my husband couldn’t imagine a better fit for a boy bubbling over with energy. The team meets on Sundays at a high school track near our home. We didn’t know what to expect. Sean did soccer through S.O. and we were extremely happy with the outcome.

The first practice was unusually sunny, the grass was bright green cut short in the middle of the track. We decided that Sean would run the 400 and do the long jump. My husband stayed close to keep Sean focused.

They broke up into groups and Sean was paired with Jeff, a man probably in his twenties who had Downs. The buzz about Jeff is that he was clearly the fastest. He had a strong pace and good form and he was proud of his reputation. Sean and Jeff ran a practice run of the 100 and the 200, Sean’s pace strong, keeping in his lane a bit of struggle but full steam ahead. Jeff finished first followed by Sean. He waited for Sean and gave him a high five. I was near the fence waving madly at Sean, clapping and telling him that he did great. Sean gave me a quick smile and looked back at Jeff as Jeff placed his hand on Sean’s shoulder and said kindly,

“Let’s get back over to where the rest of the runners are.” They walked off together.

I wanted to hug Jeff and thank him for taking such tender care of my boy. Would this happen in a typical situation? Would a typical peer put his hand on my son, a gesture of friendship and kindness, or would a typical person not really know what to make of Sean? It didn’t seem to matter to Jeff. Sean was a little kid with fast legs and big eyes and he was looking out for him.

Later my husband and I waited by some benches near the track. A young woman, maybe twenty years old or so came up to us with her hand out and introduced herself,

“Hi, I’m DJ,” her hand searching for mine.

She wore an “Oregon School for the Blind” t-shirt and she had a tick disorder, maybe Tourettes syndrome and possibly had high functioning autism. We talked for a bit. She was going to do the shot put and the 200 -- these were the events that she felt where she excelled. At the end of our conversation she said simply,

“I enjoy enjoying life.”

My husband smiled at her and said, “We should all have that attitude, DJ.”

I couldn’t respond. I was falling through her words, lingering in the peacefulness that she brought to us. She was legally blind, had a constant tick and social impairment issues and yet she took nothing for granted -- the sunshine warming her bare arms, the rush of wind against her skin when she ran and the weight of the shot put in her arms. Life was not going to be wasted on her. She was not going to sit in darkness and loneliness. Absolutely not. She was grateful for the life she had been given as imperfect as it might have seem to others.

Sometimes I think our definition of success is too narrow. We translate success to the houses we build and lavishly decorate, the imported sleek cars we drive, the expensive vacations we take, the country clubs we join and the jewels that hang on our wrists and fingers. In our culture this symbolizes success -- we have arrived. We have made it.

And yet that Sunday, on a high school track field, I saw achievements that are intangible and often forgotten but are so much more important and valuable. I saw a young man take Sean under his wing, his generous feathers protecting and guiding my child. A man who some may feel sorry for or think how lucky they are to not be him never knowing how beautiful and kind he was.

I saw a girl, who many would guess carried the world heavy on her shoulders, but instead walked with the lightness of an angel, spreading her smile like wings and offering up hope and happiness. She said it perfectly, she “enjoyed enjoying life.”

How often do we ask ourselves this --- are we enjoying our lives? Do we work too hard for stuff that we think will make us happy; forgetting to slow down and to spend time searching each other’s hearts where happiness is truly housed.

I learned more from these two people on a Sunday in April then I have learned in a long while. Driving past this track meet, some may laugh at, make fun of, feel pity for or be frightened of my child and the other disabled athletes. But the members of that track team will have the last laugh -- they get it. They know that life is what you make of it regardless of limitations. That life is a present, wrapped and hidden deep in our souls. A present to be opened and cheerished.