It’s been two weeks since I posted? Really? How did that happen?

Oh, yeah. My patience was buried in the kids’ bedroom under their shared space:

My sanity was buried under Stink’s storage unit crap hole desk:

And somewhere along the line I permanently lost my brain among toys and games that had missing pieces and migraines from having their parts shoved so hard into shelving they couldn’t be wrenched out with crow bar:

Thank God Farmer Stacey – a dear friend I met from my Baby Center writing days because, you know, I was such and expert in parenting duh - gave me some super helpful advice in dealing with kids and their stuff. She promised it would make my life, and theirs, so much smoother. Here are some excerpts from our conversation.

Day 1

Me: You are raising 5 boys under fourteen years old  in a 1000 square foot house. You seem more calm than I am. Like, smoking the doobage drinking a carton of Two Buck Chuck a Day calm. What’s your secret?

Farmer Stacey: We are minimalists.

Me: Sounds good to me, but how do you do it?

Farmer Stacey: You need only tell them three words.

Me: I Love You?

Farmer Stacey: Throw It Out.

Me: But their three words will be, “But I can’t!”

Farmer Stacey: And your three words will be, “Then I will.”

Me: Huh.

Day 2

Me: I don’t want my kids to be consumer culture knuckle draggers. I pride myself on their thrift store clothes and shared living quarters. I don’t know how realistic it is to get rid of so much stuff. I mean, we’d have to toss 50%.

Farmer Stacey: From the looks of those pictures, more like 75%.

Me: But that leaves maybe two shelves for them each.

Farmer Stacey: Sounds about right. They’ll have to actually make choices and get rid of stuff they don’t use.

Me: But what about their opinions on stuff?

Farmer Stacey: Let them decide.

Me: But what if something is special?

Farmer Stacey: Let them pick their favorite.

Me: But what if everything is important?

Farmer Stacey: Then it’s not really special.

Me: But what about their feelings about it all?

Farmer Stacey: (Huge laugh) You crazy L.A. self-esteem folk. (Gasping for air) Life is about choices! You’re not hurting them. You’re helping them learn to regulate. You could hire a maid like a lot of people and strip them of their ability to be independent and organized, or you can teach them.

Me: That’s a bit extreme. One of the best moms I know homeschools. Her kid is brilliant. She has a maid and her kid is far from spoiled.

Farmer Stacey: Are you willing to shell out the money on a maid?

Me: No.

Farmer Stacey: (A la teacher) Then you have to make a choice.

Me: Am I one of the kids now, too?

Farmer Stacey: No condescending meant. I have tons to get better at, too. But the fact remains that making decisions – from defending space to working on diet – is hard.

Me: Huh.

Day 4

Me: My brain is spinning… I suppose we’ll start first with… I mean…. Huh. I think I’ll just sit here, avoid writing, overeat and implode.

Day 5

Me: So I am ready to implement. The room is in such a state, it’s going to have to be done in phases.

Farmer Stacey: Sounds awesome! Send me pics of your progress!

So I did.

But first, there were tons of tears.

And then, we came up with the idea of a garage sale to sell some of their junk treasures.

And then I told myself, not dissimilar to tics, that this clean-up thing was not for the faint of heart.

I started to see it as a marathon, not a sprint.

I made up a plan to get it done, and stayed consistent. I decided not to yell, scream or lose my cool in any way. After all, what’s the point of organized perfection if you ruin relationship in the process? It’s about balance. “No, you can’t have ten thousand Legos. Anything that doesn’t fit in the bin has to go….”

“But yes, you can keep your stuffed animals, space hoggers or not! I will have Papa build us a shelf. But until then, let’s clean up the floor.”

So we did.

And then I about passed out with joy at the delight of seeing wood! (Not that kind of wood, you pervs.)

You might wonder why I’m spending all this time talking about room cleaning. For me, it’s because when the tics are up (right now? non stop vocals) I need to remember that my kid has some pretty amazing gifts that Tourettes can’t touch. And I can’t really have him working on those (writing, reading, playing piano) when there is so much crud he can’t find his sheet music or books.

I write this because, in getting rid of things we don’t need, we can make room for new and beautiful memories. (Like going to Disneyland tomorrow! Yes! I’m still an L.A. consumer! I don’t live on a farm and I am fine with that!)

And I document this because there was a time before the Tourettes.

Before all the junk of life piled up.

A time when I just had two little babies and a very spartan nursery and the world unfolded in front of me like a dream. All was going to be as shiny and hopeful as the freshly painted walls. My dreams would sparkle like the stars on their border.

And guess what, Tourettes or not, they still do.

Check out more posts about Tourettes at the New Jersey Center for Tourette Syndrome where this blog is syndicated.

My overall goal is to make Sundays a day of rest. No offense God, but I do that for me as much as I do for You. I need to unwind with my favorite people. It’s a day to come home to a fridge full of food that I have already bought, change into fat pants, and do whatever the heck we want: Hang with friends, see family, have a few laughs.

Instead, we oversleep. It’s frantic. The kids have barely eaten breakfast. Clothes and books and small plastic toys that have no home are strewn over the bedroom. I so desperately want their living space to reflect their minds: Organized. Creative. Thoughtful.

In a fantasy land, they’d live in this

In reality, they live in this

(Oh, wait! I can’t show you, because I can’t find my camera because of my own huge mess and that is the point! I need to get my discipline on.)

With some patience, and this is my goal, I’d be content if we could just get it to this

 

Ten million thoughts race through my mind:

“Stink is ticking. He can’t have milk with his cereal! That’s dairy! But maybe the noises are just to drive me to the brink of insanity because of the strep issues he’s been having. Or lack of sleep. Oh, hell, it doesn’t matter, he tics! And I have nothing else to feed him, so milk it is!”

“Their room needs a complete overhaul. Yes, new paint, shelves and fancy toile containers will contain their nonsense and prove to the world how superior I am at mothering.”

“I know! To be a superior mother, instead of buying them exterior goods to cover up mess, why don’t we just spend the day cleaning up so they can develop internal tools!”

“Well, shxxx, can’t be that mother today. We have too much to do. Instead, I will just have to practice breathing and remembering that a messy house does not mean I am a bad mom. Instead, we are having real experiences outside the home, and more important.”

“Okay, who am I kidding? This place is a shxxhole.” (Sorry, Margaret, for cussing. )

“I know! I will get a part-time job to put toward a lovely room! I can get a maid and have order!”

“But then… really… how realistic is this? I wouldn’t be around for the kids. Why don’t I just finish my book? That will make some money for me!”

“Even better… why don’t I just remember that God loves me for who I am: Imperfect. A bit scattered. But generous and kind (for the most part) to my little piggies lovely children… which leads me back to church once more.

For a moment, I actually feel better.

But then… this happened.

Enter: Sunday School.

Stink is going to join the bigger kids this week. The 4th and 5th grade boys look like members of boy bands. Stink is wearing an Elmo shirt and has shaggy hair. He’s happy. He’s adjusted. But he’s ticking. So I do what I always do. I tell the new teacher the drill: “Stink has tics. (Enter part where I seem like an over achieving defensive mom) He’s super smart and has loads of friends, but sometimes he makes sounds like a muffled duck a few throat clears. Don’t worry about it.”

I get interrupted right away. It’s less rude and meant to be more assuring. “No worries,” says the chipper leader. “I already told the other teachers he is super high functioning.”

What? High functioning? As if… he’s autistic or something?

And that leads me to anger and frustration.

Yes, about a month ago he threw himself on the floor in protest to a boring lesson and not being happy about a toy being taken away.

Yes, he sticks his feet in the sand when things don’t go his way at times.

He is argumentative and very rigid and uncompromising with change.

Yes, these are traits of… drum roll please… say it slowly…. High… Functioning… Aspergers.

And yet, they are also traits of a strong-willed kid. They are signs of someone who is bright. Who knows what he wants. My kid is funny and kind and doesn’t have issues making friends.

Oh, there goes the defense again.

Why do I care if he has or does not have something? Why does a few words from a Sunday school teacher, who was nothing but kind, get me so crazy?

How neurotic am I?

After months of feeling like I was moving ahead… that we had a routine at home and, yes, a clean room, and good communication with the kids and very few tics… everything has gone to the hell.

And yet, isn’t that life? Isn’t that like tics? You have ups…. you have downs. You are good days with perspective… and bad ones with pity parties.

I’m not depressed. I’m just a bit overwhelmed. There’s a fine line between loving your child for who he is… and living in denial. And yet, if my son is content and thriving at school, how is that denial? Isn’t that just a bit of Mama being defensive?

Perhaps I share too much on this blog. Perhaps I’ve done my kid a disservice by being so open about his T.S.. I mean, if I’m going to throw it out there, I’m going to get the comments.

At the end of the day, or the beginning as the case is, I’m going to have to go with peace. My son is at peace, so must I be.

We do need some more discipline here at home, so I’ll be focusing on getting my house together and getting the kids to contribute more. We need a schedule. We need a routine. We need early bed time. Those high functioning parents and children thrive on routine, don’t they.

The takeaway for you and me: T.S. or not. Special needs or not. As a mom, I need some order. Because with some order, I can focus on my children’s gifts, not what the world or I so desperately want to label them.

How about you? Do you feel overwhelmed or are you in a good space?

Let’s talk about this!

I received an email from someone who found my posts at the New Jersey Center for Tourette Syndrome. She lives in Hopetown, PA and has a son with mild T.S. symptoms that get worse in Spring. Anyone have a great neuro they can recommend in either PA, NJ or NY that you LOVE LOVE LOVE – especially considering the distance she might drive? What about a homeopath or environmental doc?

On a side note, my son’s tics have been up lately. Spring seems to always bring them on, along with some more impulsive behavior. For you new moms out there, don’t panic. He’s not screaming obscenities or knocking down random toddlers in play areas. (Sheessssh… T.S. can get some pretty bad press.) He is, however, much more obstinate. He’s not as quick to listen. He’s moodier. He’s shorter with his temper.

Oh yeah, he’s ten.

With a zit on his nose.

Um… me thinks the teen years loom close.

Can’t blame everything on T.S., now can I?

Check out more posts about Tourettes at the New Jersey Center for Tourette Syndrome where this blog is syndicated.

* Pic above has nothing to do with the post. I just want it. It’s by Chritian Dior and it’s so fabulous! I might look like a six one drag queen. Or a menopausal mermaid. Since my Topanga T (my bff) and I are watching our words, however, let me just go with forest nymph. It’s all good until small animals start pecking my toe nails.

It’s been a wild ride the past year or so. Just when I get closer to finishing my book, something happens like my mom breaks a hip. Or she gets breast cancer.

But then her hip heals! And she is cancer free! Hooray!

So there is now no excuse to not finally finish that book of mine.

But it’s Spring Break. And really, how much writing can one do when they are surrounded by two children, their three friends, and the neighborhood dog who insists on barking at their front door every day at five begging for treats and play time?

And then there is my husband.  The dude works – a lot. And while I don’t expect him to shower me with attention like our dating days of yore, it does seem that we live in two separate worlds at times and I’m not really sure how that happened.

You see, he used to be this guy.

And I used to be this girl.

And we had this guy

Then my hot boyfriend morphed into this guy

And I morphed into this girl

And while we used to pour our joy into each other

We started pouring it all into them

And while I’m stoked that in some ways we have a wonderful happy together family

I wish that we felt a little more at ease with each other

Instead of trying so hard

But like tonight’s Beauty and the Beast show, which I was so happy to do a profile piece on, I am once again inspired to never give up. Like Tourettes, it’s imperative to find the beauty beneath the beast. In all our relationships, we must turn our compasses toward the lyrics of the main song: ”Bitter sweet and strange… finding we can change… learning we were wrong.”

I am not perfect. Nor is my husband.

This life… it’s not always the fairy tale we expected before we had kids or were married.

But I’m thinking that no one has it all. And like the many shows I see that seem so together, I must never forget the hard work that goes into it. The days and days of choreography and practice and sweat and tears for the final applause at the end.

What a gift it was to spend the entire evening with my beautiful daughter, who went from this girl

To this one

She is kind and elegant and quick to laugh and forgive.

So must I be.

The takeaway: Don’t give up because of a bad day, because in the end, there promises to be a positive review after a wonderful performance.

Thinking of you all tonight.

Easter and Passover are here. Didn’t we just have Christmas? How is this possible?

As it is for us every Spring, Stink’s tics are up. Part of it has to do with the pollen. Part of it has to do with the fact that he is recovering from strep throat. AGAIN. Some of it has to do with more video games and food cheats than usual this weekend. Maybe some of it has to do with extra school work?

Oh, and some might just have to do with the fact that tics come and go. They come and go. Ah, yes, they come and go.

I’m not overly worried. A squeak here, a gulp there. Am I annoyed? YES. But do I know he’ll be fine? Absolutely.

We are out of his regular supplements. He’s just taking his Juice Plus (vitamins) and his focus pill. At some point I will plunk down the cash for his other regime. 

I suppose I’m just done trying to fix this. I can’t. I’m happy where he is right now. He’s a well-adjusted kid who tics. Could be worse.

I am not trying to sound cavalier. I still take my Zoloft. I still go to therapy once/week. But much of that has to do with my own artist desires being squelched as I put my real spirit aside to raise my kids. While on one hand I’d like nothing more than to go writing 60 hours/week for some TV show, in my heart (and I don’t mean this in some martyr way) I know my place right now is here with my kids.

So I write for my local paper and do theatre reviews. (Hooray for front row orchestra seats on Tuesday for Beauty and the Beast!)

I do profile pieces for my daughter’s best friend’s papa who is a world renown artist. (See the piece on John Paul Thornton here)

I start my own websites on theatre reviews because maybe, just maybe, I will do this for pay one day.

And then I, very slowly, work on my book on Tourette Syndrome.

I don’t have the answers for tics. And I don’t attempt to have any answers for life. But one thing I know is that there is a season for everything – for calm and for chaos. For twitches and stillness. For valleys and highs.

I am learning to be content in less than peaceful circumstances, and I am ever so grateful.

What do you do when you are not worrying about Tourettes? Have you made any progress in that department? Does it help that I continually remind you that a kid with tics who is confident is better than a kid without tics who is a dweeb?

I love you all.

I love your kids.

We are in this together.

Andrea

* Pic of Stink at the end of his fourth grade year. I’m not sure what happened, but he went from a chubby cheeked mama’s boy to a moppy haired boy band inspired pre-teen who won’t let me kiss him in front of his beloved teacher. Little shixxxt.