Core

“Mommy, that boy called me stupid.”

I shaded my eyes against the yellow heat of the sinking sun and saw Alex, his big brown eyes simultaneously wide and droopy, pressed against chain link as if trying to squeeze through the backstop and draw comfort from me. I hitched Michael up onto my hip and got up from the bleachers, thinking fast. A first grader’s perception doesn’t necessarily equal reality, but neither can I discount the look on his face.

“Did you say something to him about it?”

He shook his head, looked down at his baseball glove. “He told me I was stupid,” he said again.

“I know it’s hard, but when somebody says something mean, you have to tell him ‘please don’t say that.’”

Coach called the boys then, and Alex returned to practice. But the name calling had sucked all the energy out of him. He didn’t catch one ball all night, and instead of scampering around the field after the missed throws, he trudged, as if the core of his being, that beautiful heart, had turned from brilliant radiance to cold lead.

When practice was over, he returned to me. I hesitated to bring it up again–mountain out of molehill, you know–but he saved me the trouble. “Another boy said ‘I hate being your partner.’”

I sighed and hugged him as we walked toward the car. Cleats and Keds tapped softly against asphalt, our twin cores hurting in unison. Although mine goes deeper, through thirty-seven years’ layers of slights both real and perceived. You think you develop a thick skin, but you don’t. You just hide the pain better. Pain is necessary, I reminded myself, and whispered a prayer for inSpiration.

“You know,” I said, “when people say mean things to others, a lot of times it means they don’t like themselves very much. If you say, ‘Please stop saying mean things,’ they’re going to realize you’re stronger than they are.”

He didn’t answer, but I’ve learned that lack of response from Alex doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t get it. I wanted to tell him it doesn’t matter if he’s not as good at baseball as the other boys, because his heart loves and his ears hear music and his fingers obey, and he’s intensely, beautifully creative and reads at nearly a third grade level. But dumping ointment upon salve until the wound on his soul is a gloppy mess doesn’t help. Kids can tell when affirmation is really just meant to distract them from their own weaknesses.

So we walked the rest of the way in silence, and I put my faith in the future. And I prayed I can shepherd him safely there.

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Published in: on April 26, 2012 at 8:15 am  Comments (23)  
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And Then, My Laundry Pile Moved…

It’s a crazy day as usual in the Basi household. My mother would shake her head if she saw me stepping through the laundry pile at the top of my stairs, on my way to drop the last diaper in the washing machine before I run it. Detergent, push, spin the dial, pull, wash hands, step through the laundry pile again as I head back to the baby, who needs to nurse before I teach NFP.

(Please excuse my mess.)

Wait a minute…What the…? The laundry pile just MOVED. What the heck kind of bugs are we growing in this house?…

Cackle, cackle, cackle.

And a head pops up:

“Alex?” I can’t help laughing. “How long have you been in there?”

“A while,” he says. “I was playing Spiderman and the lizard.”

“Man! I wish I had the camera!”

“I’ll do it again,” he says obligingly. And he does.

Gotta love that boy.

Published in: on April 19, 2012 at 6:22 am  Comments (6)  
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Close To Me

Scene: Morning on Spring Break, time to go outside and play. I’m going through the complicated maneuver of putting on Julianna’s shoes with a growth on my back.

Scene: 8:30 Mass on a Sunday morning. We’re sitting in the front pew–taking up the whole front pew– and it’s time to kneel down. Only I can’t. There’s only room for one knee at the very edge of the kneeler, because my three ambulatory children have decided they all need to inhabit the end where I’m sitting. I have to physically push children farther down the pew to make room for myself.

Scene: my nursing chair in the corner of my bedroom, with a baby who can’t decide if he wants to eat or play. Nicholas climbs up on the Medela foot stool and leans over top of the baby, who grunts and lets go the breast in order to concentrate on, I don’t know, BREATHING. Julianna takes flank position, leaning over the arm rest and putting her weight on my arm–the one trying to support Michael’s head at the breast. “Guys!” I say, exasperated. “Back off!” Michael wiggles and laughs.

Scene: Good Friday services. Christian is out of town, so I’ve called on my cousin to sit with us and help me wrangle children. They like my cousin. They’ve stayed at her house several times while I’ve had professional commitments. But they want nothing to do with her. As the service goes on, there is a silent but ongoing wrestling match for who gets to sit by Mommy. The end result is that between my cousin at the end of the pew and us there is a dead space of almost three feet, followed by five bodies piled on top of each other. When at last I hand the baby down to her–the only one who can’t move himself–Nicholas lights up and dives for my lap.

Perhaps I have a magnetic personality.

Published in: on April 12, 2012 at 7:53 am  Comments (6)  
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First Grade Sex Ed

Sex Ed (The Office)

Sex Ed (The Office) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I learned more about my son’s first grade class in ten minutes on the highway than I’ve learned all year at the dinner table.

We were returning from picking up a friend for an overnight. As my crowded van sped down the highway, the boys started discussing school. “Do you remember (X) doing his freak-out dance?”

“Bow-wow-freak-out!” Hysterical giggles. First grade humor. I tuned out–until I heard, “…you know, when he said the word that means…” I glanced in the rearview and saw Alex’s friend indicating a particular part of his body.

“His penis?” Alex said innocently.

“Don’t say it!”

I began to listen carefully. The details were a little muddy, but the story involved the word “wiener” and miming riding a motorcycle. Not particularly risqué, but clearly, the boys found it so. It had all the hallmarks of the scenarios I’ve outlined before: the “dirty” feeling, the embarrassed giggles, the body as the butt of titillating jokes.

I wanted to intervene, but my kids weren’t the only ones in the car. It’s not my place to teach someone else’s kids about sexuality. Right?

“This is where it begins,” Christian warned when I told him about it. “You’d better nip this in the bud.” I threw my hands helplessly in the air, for the first time caught unprepared.

It was a busy weekend, and nearly two days passed before I got a chance to draw Alex aside. Yet even with 48 hours to prep, I was woefully unprepared. I know I can cause just as many neuroses by making a federal case out of something small as I would by ignoring it altogether.

I started by asking him to tell me about it, hoping I would find inSpiration by hearing his perspectives. It didn’t really help. I pointed out that (X) might not have been talking about the penis at all. After all, “wiener” is a name for a kind of a dog and for a hot dog. And I told Alex the basic sexuality lesson: our bodies are beautiful, and we should treat them with respect.

He gave me The Look. It’s the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of The Look, but I’m sure it won’t be the last. The Look told me I had both hit the important point, and missed the delivery entirely. So I stumbled around for almost five minutes, seeking a pithy statement that never came, and finally gave it up as lost.

Three hours later, I had it: Our bodies are the gift God gave us to serve him. Everything we do to serve God, to not serve God, we use our bodies to do. That’s why our bodies are beautiful, and why we should respect them–because they’re all we have to serve God with. Fortunately, I got another shot the next day when Alex brought it up at the dinner table.

You might say I’m overreacting. Boys do toilet humor. Lots of girls do toilet humor, too. There’s a whole class of movies based on toilet humor, and good people enjoy them all the time, right? You might say I’m being a Puritan by suggesting that  bawdy humor demeans the person.

But I would respond: How can women expect to be respected by men, and men by women, when the body is treated with derision for its functions? The constant barrage of disrespect toward the physical home of our souls desensitizes us to abuses. We start to look at ourselves and everyone else as two separate entities: the soul, which is worthy of respect, and the body, which isn’t.

But that’s not how it works. Anyone who’s been on the receiving end of jokes about weight or acne or Coke-bottle glasses knows the body and soul are inseparable. An insult to one wounds the whole. Like it or not, the way we treat our bodies in thought and word and action impacts the whole person.

Besides, little ears are listening. Ever since that day, Nicholas has been repeating softly, “Bow-wow freak out.”  If he got that, what else  did he “get”? Somewhere in that mysterious little brain, he’s processing all he heard from the Big Boys. He doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about, but he heard the word “penis” and he heard someone he looks up to acting like it’s a scandalous thing.

Personally, I’d rather I and my children view themselves and everyone they know with a sense of wonder and beauty.

Parents of older children–you’ve all had situations come up. Kids start learning about and processing their sexuality a bit at a time, usually in the presence of their peers. I’d like to be better prepared the next time. What situations and attitudes have you encountered as kids get older? How did you deal with them?

Published in: on March 29, 2012 at 7:22 am  Comments (16)  
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The Passing of the Baby Years

Alex, April 2005

It crept up on me, this wistfulness. A  feeling that these days are slipping away like pearls through my fingers. The way he looks at me and the wiggles settle into stillness. The way his whole face lights up when he smiles, just because I looked at him and said hello. Moments that make my heart hiccup.

It was the end of a long, very busy and chaotic day. Both sets of grandparents in the house, and Next Littlest Brother bouncing off the walls from birthday cake (in the middle of Lent) and presents. By 7:30,  Michael vibrated like a coiled spring, his little muscles taut, his head batting from side to side.

Julianna, March 17, 2007 in the PICU

My mother, with the slow gentleness she only exhibits toward grandbabies, settled him against her chest and took him upstairs. I followed, a moth drawn to a flame. She laid him down on the carpet in

the hallway, speaking softly to him as the shrieking glee continued downstairs. “It’s time to get you settled down, little boy,” she said, and his face nearly split with joy, legs and arms kicking wildly. “Does your mama have something more comfortable to put you in?”

I retrieved his sleeper, and we continued to sit there, two grown women reduced to helpless adoration by a fourteen-pound child. And a deep pang spread outward from the center of my chest, crushing breath for a moment. Because this stage is passing away and if, as I expect, we have to call it at four, I’m experiencing it for the last time.

“I don’t remember this stage with the others,” I said softly. “I’m trying to really live in the moment…but I don’t remember it with the others. I keep hoping once it’s all past, from a distance I’ll be able to pull it out, I’ll be able to look back and remember. Really remember. But I’m afraid it’s just going to be gone.”

Nicholas, March 2009

My mother’s hand brushed over his body. “It’s going to be gone,” she said, the voice of experience. “And grandchildren are different.”

I bent down and pressed myself against the tiny body, willing my nerves to capture the sensation and hold it, knowing they aren’t capable. And I wondered: am I really ready to move on? For a moment, weakened uterine walls and early deliveries and NICU stays and the sheer chaos of daily life with four children, one of whom has special needs–all of it disappeared into petty nothingness against the emptiness of life After Babies.

Because let’s face it, I’m a baby person. Two years from now I’ll be pulling my hair out over Michael, who will be saying “no” and breaking things and wanting me to play with him (blech!). Right now, his desires and mine are in nearly perfect unison. I want to touch him and talk to him and hold him, and he wants to be touched and talked to and held. Not that there aren’t frustrations–there are–and of course, not having to wash diapers every 48 hours, and being able to sleep at night, are big pluses to the later stages. Still, Babyhood is the part I love most about small childhood. Holding someone else’s baby just isn’t the same, at least not for me. There isn’t that visceral reaction, that gut-deep connection between me and this particular child, who is mine to care for, for whom I am the center of the world.

Michael, Dec. 1, 2011

Michael is on my lap now, tired and refusing to nurse, as has been his pattern of late, and reminding me that babyhood isn’t all transcendent moments. We really are stretched to our limit now. The kids we have need us, and there already isn’t enough to go around (how long has it been since I practiced my flute, for instance?). But I understand now how a woman can enjoy a “change-of-life baby” in a way she hasn’t been able to enjoy earlier babies. The kids go off to school, and it’s just Mommy and Baby again, like it was with the first one…only then, she was too freaked out to enjoy it properly.

Will we go that route? Honestly, it’s hard to imagine. My body really is pretty beat up from surgeries, and with three rambunctious boys, Christian sees college bills and car insurance premiums barreling down on us, to say nothing of the big unknown that is Julianna’s future. We have to be responsible.

But it makes me sad.

Published in: on March 22, 2012 at 8:06 am  Comments (9)  
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A Portrait of Nicholas

This isn’t something I do often, but just for my own sake, I want to share a glimpse of my kids, separate from how they interact with me (which is what I usually write). Since I’ve been struggling with the stage Nicholas is in a lot lately, it seems like a good idea to start with him, and what an amazing kid he really is.

  • He adores his baby brother, even though said brother has usurped his place in the world. He giggles every time Michael’s wildly-flailing fists contact any part of his body.
  • The cute speech-isms of new speaker are fast fading. This week I realized that “too-ie” has now become “cookie,” and “the nail has a tail” (the snail has a tail–sounds rather Dr. Suessish, doesn’t it?) has now become “the sail has a tail.” He drives Alex crazy by repeating everything he says. A few days ago we spent Michael’s morning nursing going back and forth on the word “harmonica.” He tried it five times, and three of them came out as “formica,” “Mo-hannah” and “har-monta.”
  • He’s getting to be a whiz at puzzles; this part of the age of three I do love, because I love doing puzzles. He’s working a 100-piece Thomas puzzle and a 30-piece fire station puzzle all by himself. Welll, mostly all by himself.
  • He loves to paint.
  • His conversations with Julianna are adorable. They trade off big sibling status; they bicker over toys three dozen times a day, but in between, they crack each other up. They like to hold hands, and he takes the lead in this matter all the time.
  • He instinctively understands that he has to ask Julianna yes or no questions, so they can converse quite fluently despite Julianna’s limited and still barely intelligible vocabulary. In fact, they converse much better with each other than Julianna does with any of the rest of us.
  • We have never had a conversation with him about Down syndrome, and thus he’s growing up with a much more organic picture of what it means to be Julianna’s brother than Alex has. It will be interesting to see how he and Alex process the subject when they get older.
  • He’s so ready to go to school. In two weeks, he’ll be screened as a peer mentor for next fall, and we plan to send him to preschool at Early Childhood Special Ed. Every day, he tells someone that “Juweeanna wides the ye-ow bus, and I wide the bwue one.” (That would be a city bus…but he’s never been on one, except in his dreams.)
  • He’s been dry at night several times, with help. We’ve undertaken a new project, you see, tired of quadruple diapering at night, and we’re getting the kids up at our bedtime and in the middle of the night when Michael nurses. Trying to train little bodies to wake up when bladders get full.
  • And yesterday, Hallelujah Lord, he reached for the open compartment on the printer….and then, remembering how many times he’s been scolded not to touch it , he stopped, looked at me and said meekly, “Do you need that closed, Mommy?” As a reward for asking, I let him close it. And then I gave him a big hug and told him how proud of him I was.

And–how appropriate–he just came over and said, “Mommy, I need you.” Translated: I want to sit on your lap. So here he sits, asking where O is and what the camera is, and did I push the “i”? and “N starts with me!” (Meaning, his name starts with N.) Another day in the life begins.

Published in: on March 15, 2012 at 6:54 am  Comments (3)  
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What Luke Skywalker Taught Me About Motherhood

The three lead protagonists of Star Wars, from...

Image via Wikipedia

It was one of those days.To wit:

Michael would not consent to be laid down…all day. Imagine. Every time I tried to make lunch, use the bathroom, or aid another child in a self-care task, I had to endure heartbreaking wails.

Nicholas kept whimpering pathetically, “I want you, Mommy!” (translated: I want to sit on your lap.) Refer to my last.

Nicholas and Julianna bickered, took toys from and pushed each other, causing periodic eruptions of screaming.

I returned to the computer after, I don’t know, changing a diaper, to find a screen display completely rearranged and a mouse on its maximum sensitivity. The screen was just tiled like a triptych–not a big deal–the point was that Nicholas has been handling, moving and breaking everything in sight lately, and he had no reason to be messing with the computer at all. I yelled at him to JUST STOP TOUCHING THINGS, and he stuck his lower lip out and pouted (this kid’s got the guilt routine down, I’m telling you) and whimpered, “I get my twuck.”

“Yes, play with your truck,” I said, clutching the shredded remains of my composure around me like a too-small robe. He got down on all fours under the computer desk…and turned off the computer power strip.

I don’t exactly remember what came out of my mouth before I clamped my lips shut on it, but you might imagine it wasn’t pretty. Not…pretty…at…all. (Stop laughing! I need several months before I can laugh at this story!)

Deep breath, missy. In…..out….in…out.

At the end of this long, hard day, I wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Alex sat down to finish Return of the Jedi. This is a new thing for him, and he’s pursuing it with his usual enthusiasm, running headlong through all three of the oldies in the span of a week. But there are some pretty intense scenes in Jedi–you know, lightning bolt torture–and I needed to tell him when to hide his eyes. So I breezed back and forth from kitchen to office to living room, narrating to Alex what was happening (because let’s be honest, a lot of it’s still over his head).

And as I watched Luke battle his darker nature, as the twin Darths pushed his buttons and dismantled his hope one block at a time, maneuvering him into an emotional corner, I suddenly recognized myself: trying–trying so hard–not to lose it. Knowing the stakes: “Once you start, forever will it dominate your destiny” (what did we ever do for wisdom before Yoda?) Trying to be serene in the face of a repeated bombardment of frustration and desperation. To focus on the choice to love, instead of giving in to my own Dark Side.

Luke finally had enough; the lightsabers came out, and he began his journey toward Ultimate Bad Guy status. But then…then he recognized what was happening. He put the brakes on, threw the weapon away, decided he’d rather die the man he wanted to be than live as everything he’d fought against.

There’s a lesson in there for me. I haven’t worked it all out yet, but I think it has something to do with choosing, time and time again, to get up after I face plant along the Mommy Road.

Like I couldn’t have worked that out for myself. Right?

(Speaking of Star Wars…we just really need some Cello Wars today.)

Published in: on March 8, 2012 at 7:20 am  Comments (10)  
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Twenty-Seven Days

If you knew you only had twenty-seven days, how would you live life differently?

I spoke recently to a friend whose daughter gave birth to a child they knew was not going to live. Indeed, it was a miracle that the child was not stillborn. “People tiptoe around us,” she said. “They’re afraid to ask. But every day of her life was a blessing. She made a bigger impact on the world in twenty-seven days than a lot of people do in ninety years.”

What would you do differently if you knew you only had twenty-seven days?

I would order out every meal. Shower only occasionally. Sleep with the baby, and “safety” be hanged. I would touch her face and breathe in her scent and try hard not to blink. I would take a thousand pictures and not bother to check if they were in focus. I would drink deep of the holiness of the moment, and let joy and grief coexist, mingling and melding until the tears that spilled over couldn’t be classified as one or the other.

And when it was over, I’d worry about everything else.

You can’t live ordinary life with that kind of intensity. Other children need their parents; there are deadlines to be met, commitments to be honored, paychecks to be earned and bills to be paid.

But as I sit and type, the three-month-old on my lap looks up at me with bright charcoal eyes and gurgles and coos at the woman who is the center of his universe, his first experience of God, of perfect, unconditional love. And his nose crinkles, and his mouth opens into a huge smile I never can quite capture. And the world has to stop for this moment, because this moment–this one–will never come again. There will be others, but this one is passing away forever and I want to hold the beauty of it, not just in my memory, but in my very skin and bones and heart.

And that is one more lesson taught by a child I never met. A child who lived only twenty-seven days.

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Published in: on March 1, 2012 at 7:01 am  Comments (8)  
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Nicholas’s Transition

About a month ago, a friend stopped me after church and asked with a little smile, “So how’s life with four?”

I knew what she was asking: transition. “Actually,” I said, “it hasn’t been a big deal this time, as far as the kids go. Everybody’s handling it really well.” But even as she spoke, I recognized something I hadn’t processed until that moment: Nicholas’s increasing behavior problems. Maybe this has just been the grace period, I thought.

As if determined to prove that point, Nicholas spiraled downward into clinginess, acting out, bossiness and refusal to do any “big boy” stuff…overnight. The child who had been proud of his ability to dress himself, wash himself, and brush his teeth suddenly needed everything done for him. He took to repeating sentences and observations over and over…and over…and over. He began demanding to sit on my lap and snuggle, regardless of what else was going on–i.e., even if the baby was nursing. He started dropping whatever he was doing and screeching “I want that!” if someone picked up a toy he’d abandoned. (Or hadn’t noticed until they picked it up.) And he started wetting himself again.

The interesting thing about all this is that it is completely unrelated to his feelings for the baby. Everyone in this house adores Baby Michael unreservedly. The kids even think it’s funny when he cries, and when I come home from grocery shopping or meetings, Nicholas comes running and shrieks, “Da baby is home! Da baby is home!” Not Mommy–the baby. The trouble is not resentment, but insecurity.

Recognizing that his place in the world has been usurped, I have tried to be patient with him, to give him that physical and mental reassurance as much as I can. I vaguely remember Alex going through a similar process when Julianna came along. Not so much with Julianna when Nicholas came along, but then, raising Julianna is another ball game entirely, with entirely different problems to solve.

So I take time to draw him onto my lap and hold him at the computer or on the couch, or whenever he asks…if I can. The problem is, I have to make the boundaries clear. One day we had a pitched battle over the rocking chair in the basement. Michael was freaking out, demanding to nurse while I was trying to teach a voice lesson, so I’d put my student on the “away” side and was working with her on Italian pronunciation while I used the rocker as a footstool to help position Michael for nursing. As soon as Nicholas saw I was splitting my attention between two people, neither of them him, he just had to have the rocker.

Later that afternoon, another friend and mother of four advised that I find something that really means something to him–like a big boy glass–and tie that privilege to him doing what he’s supposed to be doing. At first, I didn’t think it would work, but then he unexpectedly developed an affinity for using the same plates and glass glasses that Alex gets to use. So we’ve been using that lately, and following through on “big boy glass” vs. “little boy glass.” And I tell him he’s the chewiest of my children…which is the truth; his proportion of soft skin to baby fat is absolutely perfect. And I can only pray for patience while he searches for his new stride as a middle child instead of the baby of the family.

(Note: any lack of clarity in this post, I must add, is due to Nicholas putting a hand on my shoulder and speaking loudly into my ear while I write. Just to illustrate the point.)

Published in: on February 23, 2012 at 8:38 am  Comments (6)  
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Glamourazzi!

I am a mother of boys by nature, so it’s a good thing that my only girl is half-wildebeest. But even so, I know how to make my boys’ hearts sing, and I often feel perplexed by the puzzle of how to connect with Julianna.

But last night? Last night, we rocked.

We’ve been connected with the Children’s Miracle Network for a couple of years now–Julianna’s picture adorns one of those canisters at Wal Mart, and she had her face on a poster at a golf tournament last summer. And of course, we’ve been on the radiothon (and will be again in two weeks). Last night, CMN hosted a “Glamourazzi” event (sponsored by a local radio station–here are their pictures), where the little ones got to have hair styled, nails painted and faces made up. Knowing Julianna, I decided we’d better keep it simple–a hair styling was likely to be traumatic enough.

But I was wrong. She was made for this.

We walked into the room, and before I even had my coat off and the baby carrier on the floor, she was off and running, her charm meter turned up to 110%. She hopped up into a chair and waved at me as the stylist went to work.

(shouting and signing “Ba-ba!”, her word for ”mommy”)

Banana curls!

This girl has a love affair with mirrors. She stole this from the stylist and carried around for half an hour until I managed to distract her with ice cream.

Another woman managed to corner her on the floor and put some lip gloss and blush on. The nails took a little more convincing. I had to have mine done, but then she was all about it. Of course, it took her five minutes of lining up the bottles before she decided on a color. :)

 Isn’t she just beautiful? Of course, her gorgeous curls were wild and scraggly by the time we made it to choir practice an hour later, but nonetheless…

And at this point I would like to draw attention to Mommy. I had my usual day–trying to stuff too much in, lessons, writing, cooking dinner, taking care of kids’ needs…the Glamourazzi was not on my mind until an hour before we had to leave, and by then there was no Mommy primping to be done. But, it transpired, they had plenty of people and time, so they invited the moms to join in. And Julianna was well-distracted by chocolate custard, which she was smearing all over her pretty face in the presence of one of the Q106 people, who thought it was the cutest thing ever. So I sat down in the hair stylist’s chair. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“I don’t care,” I said. “Just do something. Whatever.”

“Have you ever had your hair straightened?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said. “But I’ve been wondering what it would look like.”

Are you ready? I looked in the mirror and saw…

Deanna Troi

No, seriously…

I know, you think I’m nuts, but when I looked in the mirror I thought, “Who is that, Deanna Troi? Weird. Oh wait–that’s me!”

I made quite the sensation walking into choir practice, let me assure you. But by the time we got home, the front locks were already frizzing back into curls. You can’t keep a good curly-head down. :)

Published in: on February 16, 2012 at 8:29 am  Comments (18)  
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