That Mom

I've become "that mom."

The one that gets the look from random strangers in restaurants.

In grocery stores.

At the park.

The one that is helpless to do anything about her child's behavior.

The one that doesn't know where to begin to explain what is really going on.

Why her child is screaming and completely out of control.

Why her child just pushed another child when that child accidentally (and barely) brushed against his shoulder.

Why her child is cowering in the middle of the gas station - screaming and plugging his ears with his fingers.

Those looks cut right through me.

But not because the judging hurts me.

What hurts is knowing that I was once the one giving the looks.

I was the judge.

And I was so wrong.

Now when I come across the path of that mom I feel a surge of compassion.

A sense of solidarity.

I want to reach out and hug that mom.  Tell her I understand.

And I want to repent.

Being "that mom" has made me a better person.
Because it's made me turn to "that ONE."

The ONE who sees "that mom" and "that child" and reaches out His arms to us.
And loves us.

And then "This Mom" is forgiven and changed.

And new.

My, How We've Changed

It's been nine months since we received Davy's diagnosis of autism.

Nine very eventful months.

So much change.

Mark and I have changed.

We approach life differently now.  Our choices are always framed with "how will Davy do?".

We spend money differently.

We plan outings differently.

We judge less.

We stay home more.

We are way more intentional.

Our Big Three have changed.

They are more compassionate.

They are more patient.

They can assess the atmosphere of the room and, more often than not, they respond accordingly.

They are learning with us and are so willing to grow and change with us.

I'm so proud of them.

And Davy has changed.

Oh, how he's changed.

Nine months ago he could barely put two and three words together in a sentence.

Now he talks constantly.

Nine months ago he lived in a bubble he had created for himself.

Now he lives in and among us.

It's messy.  And it's hard.  And it's beautiful.

And I'm so proud of him.

Here's a list I've been working on.  It's a list of all the little (BIG) ways our little guy has changed.

- Talks.  REALLY talks.  Intelligently and with reason.

- Lets me comfort him when he's hurt.  Lets me hold him close while he snuggles in to me.  This just started in the last few weeks... and I love it.

- Plays with toys.  Not a lot, but some.  And definitely more and more.

- Pretends.  This is just starting and is HUGE.

- Hugs us.  Not often.  But some.  Those hugs are priceless.

- Kisses me.  The big, wet, slobbery baby kisses.  Better late than never, people!

- Uses WORDS to express needs.  It's not always clear, but we're getting there.

- Shows empathy.  When Charlie was in the hospital and then came home still so sick, Davy expressed a level of compassion and concern for him that surprised us all.  This gives us so much hope!

- He laughs.  A lot.  He's really trying to engage in the joking and kidding around that is pretty constant around here.

- Practically... he's learning to dress himself.  And he's cooperating more with this process.  He's learning to brush his teeth and tolerating this more.  He's tolerating the hairbrush more.  He eats tiny bites of carrots.  He can use a fork.  He's getting better at using a spoon.  He uses the bathroom (mostly) independently.

There are more changes.  Many just sparks of change.  But these sparks fan flames of hope in our hearts.

We are grateful.  Hopeful.

And embracing change. 

Puzzle Pieces

Our little Davy-boy turned four on Saturday.

We are celebrating this week (Birthday celebrations Steele-Style usually last about a week) with my homemade chocolate cake, lots of Thomas the Train, Finding Nemo, and six glorious days on the beach.

It's pretty wonderful.

And it feels appropriate to be here this week.  For this event.

Davy was and is such a gift to us.

We like to call him our "do-over".  Our "bonus baby".

I tell him every single day that he is my treasure.

But our journey with him has been a struggle in many ways.

He's always marched to the beat of a different drum, if you will.

With an obsession with Coldplay, an uncanny ability to recognize music (and connect songs to artists), a struggle to connect with others, a frustrating speech and reasoning delay (and a host of other unique qualities), he has given us clues from early infancy that he is unique.

Not typical.

Special.

A living, breathing puzzle.

We've tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together - spent countless hours sorting them, organizing them, discussing them... in order to make sense of them.

But it hasn't been working.

Then, in January, we received a phone call from the director of Davy's preschool asking us to come in for a meeting.

The day of that meeting was a bad day.  That was the day we realized we needed help.

He needed help.

David is autistic.

We've suspected this for a long time now - had other professionals suggest it as a possibility.

But now it's staring us in the face.

Now we see that the puzzle has 1000 pieces.  A mosaic.  In 3D.

It's daunting.  This puzzle is going to take a lot of time and effort to put together.

But we're confident the end result will be beautiful.

And, really, aren't we all puzzling in our own way?

And God, the Master Designer of all puzzles, I know, will help us sort the pieces of Davy's little mind and put this puzzle together.

Undertow

My dad was a traveling salesman for a while.  It made for unpredictable income, but it also provided a few opportunities for family getaways.

When I was about eight, we were able to go with him to Florida and spent a day on the beach.  This day stands out as a great day overall in my stack of childhood memories.  I hadn't seen Jaws yet, so my fear of sharks was not yet overblown (But is there such a thing as an overblown fear of sharks?  I don't think so.), and I didn't know about jellyfish, stingrays, or coral reefs.  I was fearless in the ocean.  To me, it was just a giant swimming pool.

And I loved it.

My baby brother and I built sandcastles.

We hunted for seashells.

And played in the waves.

It was pretty awesome.

And there were no shark attacks.

Turns out, though, unbeknownst to me there was another enemy in the water.

And I discovered it that day.

Dad and I were out a bit from shore.  I was playing and splashing and having a jolly good time when, without warning, my legs were whipped out from under me and I went under the water.

Now, I was a relatively strong swimmer (for an eight year old) and I could handle myself in the water pretty well.

And yet every time I tried to right myself, something sucked me back down.

Over and over again.

In reality, this experience probably lasted about five seconds.  Maybe ten.

But it felt like time was standing still.  I was terrified.

Suddenly, a hand reached down into the water, grabbed me, righted me and pulled me, sputtering and choking, back onto my feet.

My dad's hand.  In the midst of my fear, I had completely forgotten he was there.

That in that moment I was not beyond his reach.

I know that the metaphor here is pretty obvious.  But I needed obvious today.

Today, caught in the undertow of chronic pain and feeling tossed and turned by it, time for me stood still and fear set in.   It was difficult to right myself.  Pain sucked me down and despair kept me spinning.  And even though I've become a relatively strong swimmer in this sea of pain, I found myself unable to get my head above water.

And then it happened.

A hand reached down and pulled me up.  Reminded me He was there.

That I was not beyond His reach.

That I would not drown.

I'm grateful that His arm is long enough to reach me.

That He has the strength to rescue me from the undertow.

Favorite Birthday Gifts

Today, in honor of my 43rd (yikes!) birthday, I am back on blogger and doing my best to write a COMPLETE entry.

It's my birthday gift to me.

It's been difficult for me to get back here because, honestly, I don't know what to say.

I'm better.

But I still hurt every day.

I have a long way to go and I don't really want to talk about it.

Not today, anyway.

Today I am 43.

43.

How'd that happen?

I thought I'd share some of my favorite birthday gifts over the years.  Fun for me, and I need fun.

(Note:  these are not listed in any particular order.  Don't want to hurt anyone's feelings...)

- When I turned 8, my parents gave me a simple, but beautiful birthstone ring.  I loved it.  And I still love it.  You'll see it sometimes on my one of my pinkie fingers.  It's super special to me for many reasons.

- When I turned 25, exactly one week from our wedding day, Mark presented me with a new NIV Study Bible... with my new name engraved on the front.   I still use it.  And it still makes me smile.

- Last year Molly and Ronna gave me an uber cool To Kill a Mockingbird t-shirt.  Love, love, love it!  And I love that they know how much I love that book.  And I love that there even is such a thing as a To Kill a Mockingbird t-shirt.

-  For my 40th birthday, just three months after our little David was born, Mark and the children gave me a Willow Tree collection of figures to represent each one of us in our family.  I love it.  And I love that Morgan, Jackson and Charlie chose the figures.  It's a centerpiece in our family room.

- In the summer of '05, I miscarried our fourth baby (yes, Davy-boy is #5).  It was a devastating loss that so many women suffer and I was wholly unprepared for the aftermath of grief.  For my birthday the next month, my precious sister-in-law, Ann, gave me a simple, but beautiful heart necklace from James Avery to represent our baby in heaven.  I wear this necklace ALL THE TIME.  It is so very special to me.

- Last summer, the kids and I dropped by Mark's office one day to have lunch with him and, like we always do, we popped by "Uncle Jeff's" office to say hi.  As we stood there talking, I noticed he had a series of Van Gogh paintings scrolling on his computer screen and I admired all of them, but one in particular.  A couple of months later, on my birthday, he surprised me with an oil painting replica of that painting, beautifully framed.  Wow.  Just wow.

- Several years ago, in the midst of a difficult season in my life, Mark and my friends put their heads together to plan a special day where the main gift was TIME.  Time with people I love.  And time to breathe a bit with those people.  The day began with a massage, then I was surprised every couple of hours when one person would drop me off to be with the next person.  The day was filled with pedicures, yummy food, shopping, coffee, more yummy food and then a party!  What a day.  I will cherish it always.

The truth is, these are just a few examples.  Mark is an amazing gift-giver... extravagant, really.  He's taught me so much about giving and receiving gifts.

I was never that good at either.  I gave with hesitation (not from stinginess, but with doubt that my gift would be special enough), and I received with a sense of guilt because I just knew the money could or should be spent another, better way.

Now, though there are still these hovering tendencies to sort through at times, I have learned the value of a gift.  Not the monetary value, but the value that comes when someone who loves you expresses that love in a thoughtful, meaningful way.

And through this, I am drawn even more to the One who is the best gift-giver of all.

Hemmed In

Last year I purchased Jackson a new pair of (kind of pricey) Boy Scout pants.  I bought them with room to grow (again, kind of pricey), which meant that I needed to have them hemmed up by a tailor.

I wish I sewed, but alas, I must pay to have someone else do these tasks.

I specifically asked the tailor to make sure to hem up the entire excess, so we could let them out as Jackson grew.  A couple of days later I went to pick up the pants.  Studying the hem job, I was alarmed because the hem was super small - like maybe an inch!

When I called her attention to it, she explained that she had folded up all the excess material into that tiny hem.  "It looks nicer that way," she said.  She was right.  Somehow she managed to squeeze all that extra material into a one-inch wide space.  Amazing.

And this is why I pay her the big bucks.

*******

I feel squeezed into a one-inch wide space right now.

For the better part of six months I have been unable to drive.  I can't go to church, to restaurants, to the movies, to my kids' special events, to the grocery store...  and the list just goes on and on.

I spend most of every day either in bed or in an anti-gravity chair (THANK YOU, Matt and Emily!!).

Surrounding me are two tv trays and a small table.

They are cluttered with...

My Bible & Bible study materials

Novel(s) I am reading (there's usually at least three I'm dabbling in)

My wallet (for online shopping and reimbursing friends for various shopping errands they have run for me - THANK YOU, FRIENDS!!)

A package of Boogie Wipes and a box of Kleenex (for wiping noses-one mommy job I can't seem to pass off to said friends)

Four remote controls (yes, I said FOUR)

Games magazines (for the rare moments the drug fog lifts and I can work puzzles)

Notepads and pens (if I don't write it down the very SECOND I think of it.... it's gone)

Coffee mug (no explanation necessary)

And various other items I feel need to be within my reach.

**It's a good thing I love my house and the people in it.**

Even so, last week I decided to feel sorry for myself and threw a pretty classic pity party.

It happens.

I'm not claustrophobic, but I began to feel closed in.  My large living room, with its vaulted ceilings and many windows that allow natural light to flood in each morning, became narrow and oppressive.
Despair of ever feeling good again set in as I realized that I have become, in essence, a "shut-in."

I'm sure this sounds a bit melodramatic, but c'mon... six months is a long time, people.

And though I am DEFINITELY better, the end of this journey is most definitely not in sight.  I've got a long way to go.  A lot more days in this chair.

That's my reality.

And this truly settled on me last week.  Sooooo....

I consumed at least 3 pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream (Triple Caramel Chunk is my new fav, but Phish Food will always have my heart.).  Dipped Hershey's dark chocolate bars into a jar of peanut butter every single day.  And lost myself in the world of Ashley Judd as Becca Winstone on ABC's Missing.

To name a few.

And then, after a good, cleansing ugly cry... I heard that still, small Voice.

I have hemmed you in.

And the picture of Jackson's Boy Scout pants popped into my mind's eye.  All that material, packed into that small space... just waiting to be released as Jackson grows.

I have hemmed you in.

I don't know what He's doing.  But for some reason, in this time, in this place, with these children and this amazing husband that I love, He has me hemmed in.  He has narrowed my spaces, eliminated almost every external distraction and forced me to be here... in this small place.

Trusting Him that this tiny measure of space is packed with potential.

You hem me in -- behind and before;

You have laid your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too

wonderful for me,

too lofty for me to attain.

Psalm 139:5

Random Thoughts...

I haven't blogged in forever.

It's hard to blog when it's hard to put a coherent thought together.

With the exception of 3 doctor's appointments and a ride through the Chick-Fil-A drive thru, I haven't been out of my house or out of a hospital in over four weeks.

Morphine makes me crazy.

My husband is amazing.

So are my children.

And my friends.

And my church.

And my mom.

And my step-dad.

I am having more good days than bad days... FINALLY!

Today isn't a good day, but it isn't really a bad day either.

I'm okay with an in-between day.

It's way better than a bad day.

I'm still on a LOT of medication.

Can you tell?

I've forgotten what I am really like.

I'm looking forward to re-discovering me.

I am COMPLETELY sure that God is near me.

He's all around me.  Beneath me.  Before Me.

Thankful.