1+1 = 4 x C to the Square root of Chaos

 

I never was the most gifted student of mathematics, and as someone who loves language as much as I do I was shocked to recently discover that mathematics is a bit like another 'language' and that I should in fact like it if I like language so much...

Nah...

Not my thing.

I was so happy when I wrote my matric maths final paper way back when (let's not mention how many years ago that was!) and I think I closed my paper and myself on maths. Beyond the most rudimentary of addition and subtraction when I need it most, I steer clear of sums of any kind. I just don't have it in me...

So I was understandably excited the other day when I met another dad who agreed with my suspicions on additions to the family - that is to say that one child is one child, of course, but adding another child to the equation does not equal two... well not in terms of work involved, the attention forcibly demanded, and the overall effort needed to get from morning to night without needing to crack open a bottle of scotch.

No.

1+1 simply doesn't = 2

Why is this simple act of adding another child to a family such an upheaval? Why does it feel like we now have 22 children instead of two, like we missed something along the way that we were supposed to read or know or learn? I had to start to think, and because I'm just not that good at mathematics, I couldn't use figures to well... figure it out.

This is my theory though - and I think I've kind proved it when I happen to have just one of the boys with me instead of both, which by the way is a total breeze and makes me feel almost like a good mom again - but I digress... The reason that two kids equals the effort of having 22 kids is because they are boys (yes, this matters... and no, all you moms to girls only... girls simply don't get anywhere near the chaos of boys), and because they wired to do several things seemingly simultaneously and with such agility that I sometimes feel like I'm in the middle of a guerrilla warfare, not sure of which way to turn...

I like to call my theory the 1+1 = 4 x C to the Square root of Chaos

Compete
Two kids like to compete for space. For attention. For who gets what first. For more attention. For who spoke first. For more attention. For who broke what and when. For more attention... and... ummmm... for more attention (I think that about covers it).

Compare
Yes, they want everything that they other one has... all. the. time. It can be a completely useless broken clothes hanger (this is not a word of a lie) and the other one will want the exact same thing, in the same colour, broken in the identical way. And you're like, "oh no, I would never give into my children in that way..." but I do, and you will too. Just wait.

Conspire
Just when you think your children will never stop competing and comparing, they do something even worse... conspire. The team up like a crazy little two-pack and just attack; hanging off my arms and legs, jumping all over, giggling as I trip all over the place and try to get them into the car without having one of them land under oncoming traffic. I have had mornings dropping the boys at creche where I just hang my head I leave and exhale... seriously. And then conspiracy usually leads to the last 'c'...

Crash
You just know it... this is going to end in tears. Someone is going to have a meltdown. There will be snot, and maybe even blood, and definitely screams and accusations and a total drama...You're just not sure exactly how it will happen, but it's coming and that's no lie...

So, that it exactly why 1+1 does not equal 2! Because with two (or more) invokes the  4 x C to the Square root of Chaos. But I've learned a few things in my last almost-four years of rearing 22 children, and there are a few antidotes - the two most popular being smiles (your childrens', which will just make you instantly forget everything a bit like the zapper thing on Men in Black) and naps (please refer to my very important post about this) which give you time to recharge and regroup, ready for the next round...

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

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