You'd think since I'm the creative type (i.e., writer and designer) that I'd do a better job at capturing my own child's "isms." Anybody with a child knows what I'm talking about. Isms are those little comments that come out of the blue that, when taken out of context, make no sense at all; but when you are able to relate it to something in your close proximity, it makes perfect sense. Bekkah is full of those isms, and she keeps us laughing on a daily basis. She also gets away with some of those isms that her sisters never could. After all, she speaks the plain, honest truth. Like the time we were at a local Jason's Deli, and we saw Mark Richt, coach of the Georgia Bulldogs. Our two oldest girls, both teenagers, were in awe and tried to act cool. They would have sooner dropped dead than speak to him. However, from behind the two sisters emerges tiny 11-year-old Bekkah the Braveheart with blonde hair, blue eyes and glasses. "Hey, Mark!" He looks around. "Mark!" she shouts again. Finally he spots her and waves. Then at the point of pure embarrassment to her sisters, she holds her hand up to her ear in a phone gesture and shouts, "Call me!" He gives her a big smile and waves at her again, then walks out the door. Who would've thought you could just call out his name and he'd answer? Her sisters were mortified, yet laughing along with everyone else. Bekkah was grinning from ear to ear. It was priceless.
Bekkah was so looking forward to some down time at Gramma's house during Christmas vacation this year, watching Criminal Minds (yes, I let her watch that show... she's a fanatic about it) and Ghost Whisperer. To her chagrin, her second day at Gramma's was spent Christmas shopping with her cousin Sarah at the mall and a few other places. Now, had it been the first shopping trip of the season, she probably would have been more excited. However, between family trips and school outings with her class, this was probably about the seventh Christmas shopping trip she'd been on in the last three weeks. That's enough for anyone to throw up their hands. So I asked her when I picked her up the next evening about her time with Gramma and Sarah and where they went. Her reply was quite animated, hand gestures and all. "Up and down! Up and down! And THEN, we did it AGAIN! I wanted to throw up!" Apparently they'd been through the mall several times, up and down the escalators. That was not quite the reaction I'd envisioned with her favorite cousin who'd been away at college for several months. So much for warm and fuzzy. But as with any kid, I don't always get to hear about that.
Two of her latest and favorite isms are, "I love you SO much" and "I miss you SO much," with all the emphasis on all the right words. She can be downright sappy at times. One day her stepdad Mike came home from a business trip, and Bekkah ran up to him, wrapped her arms around him in a full, strong embrace, and declared, "Mike, I missed you SO much." The tall man with the deep voice just melted. Not two hours later, she was asked to put up a toy at bedtime. She kissed it and said longingly, "I'll miss you SO much." Mike and I just looked at each other, wondering how she could miss an inanimate object for a few hours as much as her stepdad for several days. But to her, all things are equal and precious, and that's part of her magic.
Our family has been most fortunate to witness something truly amazing with her gift. Now, for clarification purposes, we have a blended family. Mike's wife passed away when his girls were 10 and 6; my first husband and I divorced when Bekkah was 3. Mike and I, who have known each other for several years, married five years ago when our girls were 8 (Bekkah), 9 (Emily) and 13 (Abbey), respectively. Our now 18-year-old daughter Abbey has been away at UGA for the last several months, with only two visits home. She's not one for hugs, much less kisses, and doesn't show much emotion except when it comes to Georgia football, but really, that's more about passion than emotion. Enter Bekkah, the youngest. She is the only person allowed to hug Abbey, but that's only because Bekkah won't take no for an answer. The rest of the family knew immediately when Abbey arrived home from school for Christmas break; as soon as the front door shut, Bekkah scurries as fast as she can from the family room into the kitchen. With a long squeal of "Aaaaaabbey!!" she wraps her arms around her as tight as she can and says, "I missed you SO much!" The small-framed girl who lost her mother at such a young age and has not let anyone else into her personal space since that time, gives Bekkah a huge pass. Abbey doesn't shrug her away or roll her eyes like she does with everyone else, but stands there and accepts her strong hug, returning the affection with a pat on her stepsister's back. To Bekkah, that pat means the world. And she has her sister back if only for a short while. I'm not sure who missed the other more. This scene brought a tear to both Mike and me. The two girls have been inseparable for a week and a half. What a gift.
One day I'll write a book about Bekkah's isms, if I can remember them all. Until then, I plan to enjoy the isms each and every day.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Why?
"Why?" I can't tell you how many times I hear this during the course of a day. It just rolls sweetly off Bekkah's tongue like silk. Most of the time it's just a habit, like clicking the top of a ball-point pen. You aren't really aware you're doing it, it just becomes automatic. I can usually have an answer for her when she asks, no matter how many times. Sometimes my husband makes up things just to get her out of her rhythm. But today, I just can't answer her question.
It's hard enough to explain to our two typically developing teenagers how the economy has affected our education system. But how do I explain to my daughter why her science teacher--who fully embraced Bekkah's participation in her classroom--won't be there next year, neither will the high school special ed teacher she sees on a daily basis during adaptive PE? My daughter just lost two amazing teachers this past week as part of a drastic measure to reduce the county's education debt of reportedly $3.5 million. We lost a total of 35 highly qualified teachers throughout the school district and will have a four-day school week starting in the fall. To make matters worse, Bekkah's middle school special ed teacher hasn't been guaranteed that she will get to stay, that she may have to fill the vacancy at the high school. It drives me crazy that our kids aren't considered in these formulas for cutting the budget. Kids with special needs have the most difficulty transitioning through unexpected changes.
I am very fortunate to live in a county--and in a time--when kids with special needs are more accepted than ever. I accompanied Bekkah on a recent overnight field trip where I witnessed firsthand the genuine love and acceptance her peers have for her. The middle and high schools have a club called Friends Helping Friends. Eighth graders and above volunteer to help in the special ed classrooms, organize an annual field day, and sponsor special outings... and new this year, they sponsored a dance for them during school hours. All the kids loved it, special or not. Of course, I think all the kids in this club are special in their own right.
So how does a culture of acceptance get totally missed by administration? "Why?"
It's hard enough to explain to our two typically developing teenagers how the economy has affected our education system. But how do I explain to my daughter why her science teacher--who fully embraced Bekkah's participation in her classroom--won't be there next year, neither will the high school special ed teacher she sees on a daily basis during adaptive PE? My daughter just lost two amazing teachers this past week as part of a drastic measure to reduce the county's education debt of reportedly $3.5 million. We lost a total of 35 highly qualified teachers throughout the school district and will have a four-day school week starting in the fall. To make matters worse, Bekkah's middle school special ed teacher hasn't been guaranteed that she will get to stay, that she may have to fill the vacancy at the high school. It drives me crazy that our kids aren't considered in these formulas for cutting the budget. Kids with special needs have the most difficulty transitioning through unexpected changes.
I am very fortunate to live in a county--and in a time--when kids with special needs are more accepted than ever. I accompanied Bekkah on a recent overnight field trip where I witnessed firsthand the genuine love and acceptance her peers have for her. The middle and high schools have a club called Friends Helping Friends. Eighth graders and above volunteer to help in the special ed classrooms, organize an annual field day, and sponsor special outings... and new this year, they sponsored a dance for them during school hours. All the kids loved it, special or not. Of course, I think all the kids in this club are special in their own right.
So how does a culture of acceptance get totally missed by administration? "Why?"
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Blessings in Disguise
You know that time in your life in your early twenties when you're pondering life and wondering what your purpose is in this world? It seems you have more time to spare than you know what to do with, and you're searching for that A-HA! moment to send you in a direction. I remember that time very clearly. Going from interest to interest, feeling empty, wanting something but not sure exactly what that was.
Flash back to 1973. Ms. Lilly was my babysitter the first four years of my life. As a porcelain artist, she was often engrossed in her handiwork, and sometimes her eyes were not always on the three or four kids she was charged to watch. One day her daughter Deborah made a fun game of chasing the children around the yard. Deborah towered over us toddlers like a giant, and her lumbering non-rhythmic gait made her unpredictable. I remember hiding behind Ms. Lilly's apron, then she would gently tell Deborah to not chase us any more.
Then there was mild-mannered Brian who rode my bus in middle school. The other boys picked on him, and I despised them for it, but I didn't know how to react. I've always felt guilty that I was frozen to react or defend Brian.
Other than these two people, who I am certain provided profound changes in perspective for their families, I never knew anyone else who was "special." But like most folks, when you are on the outside looking in, you have difficulty getting past the exterior and looking at the person. This had been my perspective, until 13 years ago.
Now, every time I look at my daughter, I think, "Yes, this is my purpose. I remember." I have to be honest, sometimes that thought is followed by, "Lord, help me." But then I smile and look at Bekkah's face. When she's sleeping I still see the tiny, fragile baby we brought home from the hospital. In a lot of ways, she's still that innocent child. Other days, well, I wonder how on earth she comes up with some of her ideas. She knows more than I give her credit for, and when you think she's not paying attention... well, look out, because she'll surprise you. The diagnosis of Down syndrome was terrifying at first and a bit overwhelming. Once we got through the shock and into the stage of accepting the facts, we were able to open our eyes to who our daughter was and who she could become.
Bekkah is the most loving and forgiving person I've ever known. She'd rather offer the olive branch first than have you be mad. She's never met a stranger, and her hugs are limitless to whoever needs them. She was meant to be in my life and to be my purpose.
But I wasn't counting on how absolutely undeserving I am of that purpose. She is my gift.
For anyone who has ever known the unconditional love of someone with special needs, you'll know what I'm talking about. For those of you who don't, I am sharing my gift with you. Stay tuned.
Flash back to 1973. Ms. Lilly was my babysitter the first four years of my life. As a porcelain artist, she was often engrossed in her handiwork, and sometimes her eyes were not always on the three or four kids she was charged to watch. One day her daughter Deborah made a fun game of chasing the children around the yard. Deborah towered over us toddlers like a giant, and her lumbering non-rhythmic gait made her unpredictable. I remember hiding behind Ms. Lilly's apron, then she would gently tell Deborah to not chase us any more.
Then there was mild-mannered Brian who rode my bus in middle school. The other boys picked on him, and I despised them for it, but I didn't know how to react. I've always felt guilty that I was frozen to react or defend Brian.
Other than these two people, who I am certain provided profound changes in perspective for their families, I never knew anyone else who was "special." But like most folks, when you are on the outside looking in, you have difficulty getting past the exterior and looking at the person. This had been my perspective, until 13 years ago.
Now, every time I look at my daughter, I think, "Yes, this is my purpose. I remember." I have to be honest, sometimes that thought is followed by, "Lord, help me." But then I smile and look at Bekkah's face. When she's sleeping I still see the tiny, fragile baby we brought home from the hospital. In a lot of ways, she's still that innocent child. Other days, well, I wonder how on earth she comes up with some of her ideas. She knows more than I give her credit for, and when you think she's not paying attention... well, look out, because she'll surprise you. The diagnosis of Down syndrome was terrifying at first and a bit overwhelming. Once we got through the shock and into the stage of accepting the facts, we were able to open our eyes to who our daughter was and who she could become.
Bekkah is the most loving and forgiving person I've ever known. She'd rather offer the olive branch first than have you be mad. She's never met a stranger, and her hugs are limitless to whoever needs them. She was meant to be in my life and to be my purpose.
But I wasn't counting on how absolutely undeserving I am of that purpose. She is my gift.
For anyone who has ever known the unconditional love of someone with special needs, you'll know what I'm talking about. For those of you who don't, I am sharing my gift with you. Stay tuned.
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