Accomplishment

Thursday, December 15, 2011
5:00 pm

This has been one hell of a day.  Mom and I wrapped a ton of presents at work today, after which I hightailed it home to grab my cap and gown, only to fly right back out the door again after about twenty minutes with The Hubbs, The Princess and The In-Laws.

I'm now standing in line in a room I never noticed before, tucked away next to the commons at school.  Like a good little sheep, I've found the line I belong in based on my last name, and now I'm moving forward at a snail's pace.

Oh.  It's my turn.

I give the lady my name, and she hands me a card with my name spelled phonetically on it.  I ask if there's anything else, and she relinquishes a Ziploc baggie with a bright gold cord inside.  I'm in danger of tearing up, so I thank her and walk across the room to trade in my coat for the aforementioned cap and gown.

The cord is for high honors: grade point averages of 3.75 and up.  I'm one of about ten in the graduation class of 200+ who has received one of these cords. 

An hour and a half later, feet aching from standing in line for so long, I'm slightly disenchanted.  I'm wondering why in the world I am bothering to walk at all.  Having kept in contact with The Hubbs since my family arrived, I'm acutely aware of the fact that this is about the worst place in the world for The Princess.  She's miserable.  Grampy has already left the auditorium with her and is presumably chasing her in some quiet recess of the school.

Finally - finally - the line starts moving.

I head into the auditorium, where the band is playing "Pomp and Circumstance."  The bleachers and chairs are completely packed.  I can't find my family anywhere, though I'm trying my damnedest to sneak a peek as discreetly as possible.

We file to our seats.  I'm in the front row.  The college president and board of trustees start their hullabaloo on the stage in front of me, and my irritation melts away.

Does it feel cheesy?  Sure.

Is it worth it?  You're damn right, it is.

At one point during the hullabaloo, graduating students with white cords (indicating honors - 3.5-3.74) are asked to stand, followed by those of us with gold cords.  I stand, and I'm in real danger of crying now.

Not to worry, though.  When I sit back down, my cell phone slides down out of its place in my bra (Don't look at me like that.  I couldn't get to my pockets with the graduation gown on, and I needed to be available in case The Hubbs needed me for some reason.) and onto my belly.

Shit.

As discreetly as possible, I unzip my graduation gown and retrieve my runaway (hot pink...I know, very subtle) cell phone.  Zipping my gown back up, I rearrange my cords and return the offending phone to its spot, where I sincerely hope it will remain for the rest of the ceremony.

As if on cue, my row is beckoned to line up to receive our diplomas almost immediately following my phone fiasco.  I follow the people in front of me, spotting Gumma and Nana with their cameras.  Ever the distinguished individual, I make a face at them on my way to the ramp that leads to the stage.  Gumma takes a very attractive picture, and Nana even manages to capture it on video.

A short while later, my name is called.  I head across the stage wearing my cap, gown, and coveted gold cord.  I receive my diploma holder.  I'm gently herded over to the president of the college for a photo op before heading down the ramp and back to my seat.

On my way back, I hear a stage whisper: "Amy!"  Looking to my right, I see my favorite Spanish teacher grinning and giving me a thumbs-up.

The rest of the ceremony goes by in a blur.  All of a sudden, we're switching our tassels to the other side.  We've done it.  We've graduated.

The band starts up again, and the graduates are filing out of the auditorium.  Passing through the doors, I think, "That's it," just before realizing the entire faculty is lining the corridors back to the cafeteria.  They're clapping and cheering, and the sound is deafening.  I am grinning from ear to ear while simultaneously wishing I could find The Princess and get her the hell out of here.

The commons area fills up in no time.  I'm trying to organize a meeting with my family, so even though all I want to do is look for them, I force myself to stay put.  I've told them I'm right next to the Christmas tree, so that is where I shall stay.

There they are!  I see The Hubbs breaking through the crowd in my direction, accompanied by an extremely distressed little girl.  She has the eyes of a caged animal, and I can tell it won't be long before she hits her absolute limit.

We head back into the room where I started at 5:00 this afternoon, which is blissfully quiet and empty during this exciting time.  The Princess runs back and forth and back and forth and back and...you get the idea, stopping only to stim with the tassels on the ends of my gold cord.

Once our whole group is back together, we head for our cars and make our way home to relax and gorge ourselves on pizza from our little local place.  This is a much better idea than going out to eat, considering The Princess's evening thus far.  I just can't imagine subjecting her to any more noise or commotion tonight.

As we're sitting together in the living room of our little yellow house, it hits me.  I did it.  And I am well aware of the fact that this never would have happened without these people who love me.  These people who I love.

Thank you, guys.  You know who you are.

1...and Story Time

One more day until graduation.

*

The Princess is four and a half years old.  She does not speak.  She will stim all day if you let her.  She rarely (if ever, depending upon who you are) responds to verbal requests, though this particular point is getting better on a daily basis for those closest to her.  She has sensory issues.  The littlest thing can set her off.  Try as I might, I can rarely figure out what triggers her meltdowns.  All I can do is hold her and soothe her the best I can.

All of the autism stuff aside, this has got to be the most generally happy kid I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I consider myself lucky as hell that God chose me to be her momma.  I feel blessed every day for what I have with her, her daddy, and our splendiferous pooches.

But my heart breaks a little every day, too.  Other moms of four-and-a-half-year-olds are taking them to see Santa at the mall, having their pictures taken with their smiling faces reflected perfectly in the camera lens.  These other little ones are writing their names and holding amazing conversations.  They sit quietly in their rooms and read, because they want to.

The Princess couldn't possibly understand an abstract concept like Santa Claus.  She can't tell anyone what she wants for Christmas, because she doesn't speak.  She also has no interest in television or most other things that are marketed for kids her age, so it's a moot point, anyway.  Taking a picture with a stranger in a loud, hot, crowded mall?  Forget about it.  Writing?  Not yet.  We're still in the I'd-rather-eat-crayons-than-draw-on-the-paper stage.  Conversations?  I'd be happy with the ability to say yes and no.  Hell, I don't even care if it's verbal.  Shaking or nodding her head would be the coolest thing in the history of the world.  Reading?  More like tearing the pages out of books and stimming to her heart's content with the scraps.

Our girl has received many books, as most little ones do.  The difference between her and these other kids is that she doesn't seem to understand what books are all about.  After a few misguided attempts to let her figure them out, the surviving volumes have been moved to a safer place, out of her reach and - largely - out of our minds.

The Hubbs and I love to read.  I know a lot of people say this, but we mean it.  When given the option to watch TV or read a book, we'll almost always choose the latter.  Throw on a little bit of classical music and we're good to go for the entire evening.  In case you're interested, we've been playing the heck out of Pandora's Mannheim Steamroller Christmas station lately. 

Sunday evening, The Princess climbed up on the loveseat with me while I was reading, and she snuggled up next to me in the sweetest little hug.  After drinking in her affection for a few minutes, I slipped to the basement where her books are, and I grabbed two choices: the original Winnie the Pooh treasury and Wet Albert. 

I brought both books upstairs and gave her a choice.  She chose Pooh Bear, so I put Wet Albert away for the time being and The Princess, Pooh, and I went into her bedroom.

I read her the entire first short story, one about Piglet and a Heffalump, before bed.  Did she sit still?  No.  Did she hang on every word?  No.  But she paid attention in her way.  She spent those 20 or so minutes in constant contact with me, climbing all over me as I read her the story.  From time to time, I asked what she thought, and she mumbled back at me.  Not in English, but hey...I'll take what I can get.  I stopped a couple of times to either rearrange myself or take a breath, and she went forehead-to-forehead with me until I started again.

She loved it.

I loved it.

Finally.  She's four and a half, and I can finally have story time with my daughter.

24...and the ABC's

Remember when The Princess started singing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?"  She's still doing it.  All.  The time.

Except as time goes on, sometimes she modifies it slightly.  In one spot, ah ah becomes ah-ah-ah-ah.  In another, ah ah becomes ah-ah-ah.

There is no variation in the placement of these changes.  When it happens, it follows the exact same pattern each and every time.

She's changing the rhythm ever so slightly to morph "Twinkle" into her ABC's.

Escape

It never ceases to amaze me, this range of totally unveiled emotion. Of course, there's a bit of it in every child, but I can't help feeling as though with my girl it's somehow...I don't know...more.

In the span of five minutes, The Princess goes from happy to sad, angry, bored, frustrated, independent, needy, and everything in between. Absolute, unbridled joy is often followed immediately by inconsolable, blubbering, alligator-tear-streaked misery.

Her eyes give her away every time.

One look at that beautiful face, contorted in reaction to some invisible force, eyes pleading for help even though she has no words, is enough to break my heart.

I turn my head for a second, pleading with God to help me help her. When I look back, she's grinning with tear-streaked cheeks, pulling me in for a hug, eyes twinkling as though nothing ever happened to disrupt her.

And just as quickly, she's in her own world, focused completely on some seemingly mundane thing like a scrap of paper, as if it's the only thing in the entire world and deserves no less than her undivided attention.

I know from experience that this piece of paper can be the center of her universe for an hour or more if I let it. I also know that I've been told it's best to try to redirect her energy to something constructive when she starts to stim.

But somehow, I just can't bring myself to do it. At times, it seems like stimming is the only thing that allows her the opportunity to escape the constant barrage of input that sends her senses reeling so many times each day.

And so it is, from time to time, that I sit here and quietly observe. I refrain from offering an alternative, and I drink in the calm on my baby's face.

Everyone deserves an escape.