Traveling with baggage

Becoming a parent is such a profound change in mindset that many things will never be the same again - eating, sleeping, socialising, working and even traveling.

I am now sitting in my sister's lounge in Australia, thousands of miles from my home. This is the first time I'm visiting my only sibling since she and her family immigrated to Australia two years ago. This is really a rare trip and I am so grateful to have the opportunity to see where my sister lives, works and raises her young family.

While I sit in the lounge at a little past 2pm in the afternoon my boys are opening their eyes and greeting a new day in South Africa. I look at my watch and I wonder if they're curled up on the couch with their cup of chocolate milk yet? Did they sleep well? Do they miss me?

You see, whether you embark on a holiday with kids (and all their paraphernalia) or leave them at home and go solo, you will never travel lightly again as a parent. I may not have a ton of kids stuff in my suitcases, but I am carrying an uncomfortably heavy heart.

I miss them terribly and even more so when they tell me to 'come home mommy'.

Our last skype conversation when a little like:

Harlan: "Come here to me mommy"
Me: "In a few more sleepies baby"
Harlan: "But I already sleepied mommy!"
Malakai: "Come now mommmy!"

Aaaahhhh... crack goes my heart.

The last time I travelled internationally (for work at the time) I didn't have little children in my life, I wasn't a mommy, and I certainly had no idea that it would be quite as hard to leave them at home. A part of me wants to jump on a flight because hugs and kisses via a computer screen is just not cutting it for me or my babies, but another part of me knows that this is a wonderful opportunity and that I must enjoy my sister and my time with her because it may take years before I see her again.

Who knew that travel would be weighed down by so much emotional baggage?

BY Loren Stow

Acceptance

Acceptance is like a gigantic onion – it is a layered endeavour that never fails to make me cry; firstly from sheer frustration and then from utter relief. Today, I am somewhere in between the two…

Disclaimer: firstly, let me say with unequivocal surety – I do not wish that my son didn’t have Down syndrome. I don’t want to change him. I love him so fiercely it feels like a suit of unbreakable armour. For him I would run headlong into a speeding train. Malakai is a delightful, loving and clever little boy who is also unbelievably kind and insightful.

What they don’t tell you about parenting a child with special needs – and what I didn't fully realise until recently (say... this morning) – was that there will be layer-upon-layer of acceptance. And I’m all for acceptance, because seriously, who wants to mope around forever wishing things were different? Not me.

The rub of course is that acceptance is seldom easy, and never pretty – well at least not in my world. And just when I think I've crossed one bridge and all is well, another bridge pops up. The key to remember is that these are bridges and they are designed for safe crossing. I will get to the other side. Luckily I'm not talking about massive, gaping, dark chasms (although sometimes it may feel like that).

We accepted Malakai’s diagnosis at birth quite easily I think, and his first two years were like a honeymoon. I relished in being Malakai’s mom. It was beautiful. Then along came Baby #2. Harlan brought with him not only nine months of colic and screaming, but he also brought with him everything that Malakai was not… I was suddenly faced with day-to-day examples of how my first son was not actually typically developing (duh... I know... it's hard to explain). That was a tough one. Acceptance Round #2 took about a year and a bought of Post-Natal-Depression. It wasn’t pretty, and I said and did a few things I am not particularly proud of today. But nonetheless, it is done and dusted – water under the bridge (see my clever use of analogy here?)

After another two years I am now facing Acceptance Round #3…

What I particularly love about being a parent is teaching my children what I think is the most important lesson for any human being – that their needs are important, but they are no more important than anyone else’s needs. This manifests itself in good manners, sharing and thinking of other’s feelings. My sons do all those things very well and it makes me so proud.

What Malakai doesn’t do though is listen… If he gets something into his mind, that’s it. He cannot let go of that impulse or thought. The result? A child that runs away when we’d like him to sit still; a child that sticks his tongue out at his teacher because he doesn’t actually want to go to school; a child that refuses to eat something he doesn’t like even if he is literally starving (and I mean literally).

For me, a child that listens is a well-behaved child and a child who doesn’t listen is a naughty child. Simple. Getting a child to learn to listen is process that takes a lot of reinforcement, setting boundaries and enforcing consequences when these boundaries are overstepped.

I have been diligently teaching my sons to listen, and in my mind up until now they were just two toddlers. This has all changed though now that Harlan has finally started to listen (at 3.5 years), and I have once again realised that Malakai is different. At almost five years old, he still doesn’t listen. I may as well be speaking Greek for all he cares.

This morning’s school drop was particularly difficult – not because it was any more hectic than usual. Begging Malakai to sit in his class and not follow me out, pleading with him to remember that he’s going to enjoy his day, and sternly admonishing him over screaming at his teacher because he wants to get out of the classroom almost the minute he enters it… all par for the course. But this morning was different because while I was begging and pleading with Malakai, another little boy in his class laughed at the spectacle. He laughed at Malakai. Of course, the other little five year olds come into their classroom, sit down and entertain themselves until the school day starts. That’s what typical five year olds do. Malakai’s difference hit me like a slap to the face. My son is different. I cannot expect him to behave like the other children. I can hope, of course, but I cannot expect…

And so, I now need to work on Round #3… Accepting that Malakai will behave differently. He won’t listen and hasn’t yet learned at five years of age how to control his impulses. I cannot expect him to be different from who he is, and this is simply a manifestation of his diagnosis. By expecting him to be different, I make him less-than. I make him bad. And he isn’t bad. He is a delightful little boy who has an extra copy of chromosome 21 – this makes him different in the way he develops and behaves.

So now what? My boy is different and it cannot be hidden behind being a baby or a toddler any longer. His peers see right through him to what makes him different from them. He sticks out. He is funny to them. How do I take my son’s hand and guide him through this new phase (the phase where everyone else moves forward and he stays behind for an indefinite period)? Do we stick with mainstream schooling because he deserves a life amoung other little boys and girls, he is worthy despite being different, or is this the time to move him to a 'special setting' where he will be surrounded by other differently-abled children? I simply don’t know yet.

First things first though – Acceptance. From there, all things are possible.

BY Loren Stow

Finally! An app for when my kid wees!

Luckily for us moms, Huggies Brazil has just launched an app that can tell you when your baby's made a wee, because the last 6 million years of child-rearing has obviously left mothers still mock-fainting in frustration on a daily basis - oh my word! if only I could get this nappy-thing right! thank you from the bottom of my heart!

*Ahem*

Whatever happened to simply using... well... I don't know... your eyes? Surely I am not the only mother in the world who is blessed with the super-power of vision-detection? When my baby's nappy is hanging between their knees, they probably need a change, no? Another amazing skill mothers acquire is a sense of time passing... if it's been hours and hours, well then baby probably needs a change, no? And then, there is good old fashioned common sense - if it is stinky, saggy or dripping down the baby's leg, it might be a good idea to change their nappy. 

But lets for one moment suspend all notion that mothers are skilled enough to figure out their baby needs a change... let's pretend that we have actually eaten our porridge-brains in a misguided and totally famished moment...

This app, called TweetPee (very innovative), supposes that you put a little thingy on the front of your baby's nappy which measures 'moisture levels' and tweets you when your baby's made a wee. What isn't clear is if it can discern a big wee from a small wee, and perhaps a very runny poo from a wee? Perhaps it has a pee-to-poo ratio measure-rometer? The app also lets you punch in when you've started a new bag of nappies and lets you know when you should put your next order in (of Huggies, no doubt). Because, simply peering at your nappy-stash is never enough of an indication that you're about to run out...

For those of you who are interested in yet another product aimed at making parenting non-existent easier, this app is only available in Brazil at the moment - sorry for you! For the rest of us, we will have to slog through the mental-minefield of our babies' bodily functions.In all honesty, tell me when they've made an app that actually changes a baby's bum in the middle of a cold winter's night for me and I might just be interested. Otherwise, don't insult my intelligence.

BY Loren Stow

On motherhood

I have personally found the journey into motherhood to be less like roses and butterfly kisses, and a little more like a baptism of fire. I’m sure this has its roots in personality type – I am a perfectionist and not that fond of loud noise… I am also sure this has a little something to do with having two horrific birth experiences which brought me two rather difficult babies – one with special needs and the other with colic.

                I went from being able to control my entire existence (which included keeping the noise levels down) to being flung entirely unprepared into this responsibility of motherhood, my imperfections held up to my face. My life as I knew it imploded over a series of years, in the most spectacular ways. Looking back, it is almost comical.

                Today, almost five years since welcoming my first son, I am a born-again mother. My old self has all but completely given way to the urgent needs of two toddler boys, and I cannot go even two nights without missing them with an intensity that only a mother can understand.

                I only wish that I had attended a post-natal class – one that didn’t only prepare me for birth and taking a new baby home, but one that prepared me for what motherhood would bring. So much uncertainty, feelings of inadequacy, shock at the total upheaval that would come. I wish someone, somewhere, would have given me the heads up because I know I am not alone.

                I still long for silence and order – the things that instinctively make me feel like I’m doing a good job with my life. But I have learned to accept the chaos and noise, because these two things are delivered in two particularly delightful packages – my sons. They grow and develop and change and become – on a daily basis… it is astounding (and incredibly gratifying) to be instrumental in the human beings they will one day become.

                I believe that there are mothers out there who take to this whole experience like ducks to water, but I am not one of them. I accept that. For me motherhood is often difficult, painful even. And that’s ok. Instead of simply jumping into motherhood, I have taken to it by slowly being stripped bare. Loosing layer upon layer has taken me closer to the truth of who I am, what I need to do, and why I do it day in and day out.

                I am the mother that I am, and that is ok.

 

It's lickalicious ;)

Having a child with special needs brings with it many moments that require instant 'think on your feet mode'. Yes, I know that this is the case with most children anyway, but trust me... a child with special needs throws in just a few more volts of WTH???

As Malakai has grown older, the differences between him and his peers have become a little more pronounced. While he can rock his numbers, colours, shapes, animals and nursery rhymes with the other 4-5 year olds, his social skill set is somewhat different (read: strange).

A really good example of this is his 'goodbye ritual' - a really good lick, right up the side of the face, followed by a downright glowing smile. I've tried to explain to Malakai that there are many ways to say goodbye, and licking is not at the top of the list, but to no avail. I've tried saying no, ignoring, reprimanding, and modeling appropriate farewell behaviours with our entire collection of fluffy toys, all lined up, but no, nothing has yet convinced him otherwise.

So now I simply brace myself to have my hastily applied foundation removed by an exceedingly well-delivered lick when I drop him at creche. It's ok, I tell myself, it's just a phase...

However, when I fetched Malakai recently and he came running over, hand-in-hand with one of his few friends, I was overcome with emotion. How sweet that my son has a friend, and sweeter still that this other little boy has taken the time to bond with a child who struggles to communicate, does inappropriate things at times and still wears nappies.

As they came running towards me, hand-in-hand, happy music played in my ears while my eyes burned a little with threatened tears. Aaaahhhh, my son has a friend despite all the things that make him different. Everything is well with my world... and then... LICK.

Oh the look on the poor boy's face as he came in for a hug and instead got a face full of saliva... Well, it was more than a little shocked, with some insecurity and perhaps even a twitching eye thrown in for good measure.

Think on your feet Loren, think woman! What on earth do I say to this little boy without making my child feel socially inadequate?

I wish I could tell you that I said something really witty, that made the whole thing totally acceptable... but I didn't. I simply whispered an apology to the little boy, took Malakai by the hand and got the hell out of there. Of course I tried to explain to Malakai that licking his friend goodbye was not something that his friend enjoyed, but he's still a licker.

I realised that day that while Malakai throws me seemingly insurmountable curve balls that knock every rational response out of my head, but he's actually just fine. In Malakai's world licking is the in-thing, muchos-coolos, totally ok... I am the one with the social issues that turn me bright red with shock and horror, not him.


BY Loren Stow