Category Archives: Family and Love

Speak easy

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Well, after our second visit to the speech pathologist, we left with the task of speaking to our dear boy in two-word phrases. And to build every one-word utterance he makes into a two-word, correctly articulated gem. When he says “car,” I say, “drive car” or “blue car” or “car goes.” You get the picture.

In addition to an articulation issue (most likely due to the long-term fluid in his ears), Cliff shows some signs of an expressive language disorder. It’s not a confirmed diagnosis, since we’re only two weeks into the process. But the Baby Whisperer gave me a heads up that there are some indicators.When someone sits back and starts a sentence with “I don’t want to scare you …” Be prepared.

I can honestly say, I’m not scared. I have faith we’ll do our part. Cliff will do his. The Baby Whisperer hers. And that God’s got us covered – all in his way and his time. I have a healthy and capable little guy. So the way I see it, all is right with the world.

Googling expressive language disorders is kind of a bust. I can’t find much of anything on the web but some generic, somewhat broad information. And nothing really led me to any support resources for parents or anything, either. They were mostly for sweet little one’s with more severe learning issues or disabilities. I came across a bunch of text books. But I’m not in the market for those. I like to read about challenges, protocols, processes and successes. So I guess I’ll share ours.

Hey there. What's up?

Cliff has a mountain-high (although occasionally difficult-to-understand) vocabulary but not so much the ability to put words together. This has nothing to do with his intellect – if you know how cunning our little dude is, that’s an easy confirmation. But it could have an impact on his ability to say what he’s thinking. Or when he’s older, write his thoughts, etc.

After some retrospective analysis, it is pretty evident to us that although he says many two-word phrases, none of them have been very unique. Standing by a light switch and saying “light on” is indeed expressive. He is turning the light on. But that’s pretty much been the scope of it. Light on, light off, coat on, coat off. All done.

You get the picture. Sure he says other phrases: I love you. Stop that. Thank you. You’re welcome. (He’s very polite.) Oh, and Poopy Head. But those might as well be single words to him.

This isn’t really atypical of being a little one in a large family. There are six people who respond to his single-word commands. We know what he wants. And frankly, he’s always been a kid who wants very little. He wants to be fed, climb on the furniture and play. He’s a pretty simple guy.

So, picture this: I sit down with the bigger kids and tell them the deal. I say this is what we’re going to do. And they oblige and are doing it. Everyone is doing it. Even his fabulous Montessori school teacher. Five-year-old Lillian has at times expressed some opposition to the process. (“Why isn’t he talking yet since you’re taking him to that lady?”) I’m not sure she’s a big fan of all the attention he’s getting. (Gee, wait until she finds out I’m spending the money I’ve been saving for her sibling-rivalry recovery therapy on his speech therapy.)

And now picture this: If you actually know us, you know there isn’t an unenthusiastic one in the bunch. If you dropped by our house these past few days, you might think we were a bunch of over-caffeinated cheerleaders on steroids or something. We’re – collectively – one huge, living and breathing exclamation point. (!)

Okay. Now take a moment to picture this: Yesterday morning, my little guy is standing in the bathroom, and he turns to me and asks, “Where’s Henry’s puppy?” I didn’t get it at first, so I stooped. He grabbed my face and slowly said it again. (His version of Henry is a tough word to understand between two others.) He was obviously thinking of the stuffed toy they were playing with the night before. You can be darn straight we found that puppy!

Ready to get down to business.

And after school yesterday, he said, “Where’s my work?”

He couldn’t see his  prized sewing work in front of him on the floor of the van. AND! As we were preparing to go outside he asked, “Where’s my other shoe?”

I know. Say it. He’s a genius. (A motherly winky goes right …. here.)

It’s not much. But only two and a half days into this – it’s a lot. Today he said he “Want to see the toys” that Henry was packing for game day at school.

At another occasion, when I just couldn’t understand him, he tried to very slowly repeat his words for my comprehension. Then he looked into my eyes and quietly sighed and muttered, “I don’t know.” That’s the part that makes my heart ache for him in this process. As a person who very rarely is at a loss for words, I can’t imagine having my thoughts against my will held captive in my head. (Even though, I’m quite sure there are many times my thoughts should’ve stayed quietly tucked in their cage.)

The joy in his reaction when we know what he was saying is really a motivator for all of us. I truly marvel at how a little brain works.

Time will tell what the fruits of this will be and how he will be able to express and process his own thoughts better. And he still has some pretty significant articulation issues to tackle. I know it’s not going to be easy, but at least we’re off to a really good start.

We’ve found some nifty apps on the iPad that are really fun and useful for Cliff (only with parental interaction, of course.) I’ll have to share those, too. I want to share them with the Baby Whisperer first.

Speak now and forever hold a piece

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This has been an exciting few weeks.

Cliffy went on his first official speech therapy visit. And it was great. I’ll post more as we get into the process. But I know it’ll be fruitful. Just the little tidbit I learned at that one session has been helpful in my ability to interpret what he’s saying, so I can at least lessen some of his frustration and repeat things back to him correctly. Cool for sure. Brilliant woman — I’m calling her the Baby Whisperer.

Cliffy leaning on big brother.

And … we took Lillian to open house for first grade.I know. Yes. Already.

To my not-so-complete surprise, it was an experience fraught with anxiety for my sweet dumpling. Just a year ago I was wondering how she was going to function in this world because she’s always been such an über-imaginative child floating though her days. But since then, she has (rather precariously) tested the waters of reality. And I’m not so sure how well she likes it. This darn real world doesn’t seem to hold the same promise of her visions of pretend playmates, ponies, pink and princesses. That world brings her peace. This world? Not so much.

After a visit to the two first-grade classrooms in the school, we headed to the gym to check out the activities there. During our look around, Miss Blue Eyes looked up and me and informed me that we needed to go back up to the classrooms. She needed to meet the teachers again. And she needed to look around more. I could see her distress. It’s the same distress she has when she has trouble dressing her dolls, or Cliff destroys her carefully arranged menagerie. But — the big difference was — it was real. And I felt for her.

She led me back up the stairs. She walked in one classroom. Looked around. Then proceeded to the next. When we were there, she motioned to the books on the table in the front of the room. Without a word, her thumb went in her mouth, and she approached them. I stooped to her level, and we looked at the workbooks together. As a Montessori child, I think the workbooks looked daunting to her. I believe she was analyzing what was going to be expected of her. And — more importantly — whether she could even do it. I showed her some of the pages. We talked about them. She relaxed a little and announced she was ready to go. And we did.

At home while dressing for bed, she looked up at me — troubled — and asked (exact quote), “How did you determine I’m prepared for this?” I assured her she will be prepared. And school is about learning. And she’ll be fine. I’m not quite sure she bought any of it. But that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

Hanging on.

I can say that I feel her inner conflict in a way I’ve not experienced with the three before her. I wish I could just blow confidence at her like bubbles through a wand. Some landing on her, while she joyfully chases the rest. More so, I wish I could help her hold on for dear life to the amazing parts of her that have made her childhood to this point so completely mesmerizing.  When I look into her thoughtful eyes, I know it will be a different kind of difficult to watch as her sweet pieces of childhood slowly melt away.

She’s brought us all an undeniable gift — her ability to express her thoughts has granted remarkable insight into the fabulous workings of a little one’s mind. A very early talker, she did so much more than just tell us what she was doing — she shared with all of us what she was thinking and feeling. And boy, it’s been grand.

With Lil, when things don’t pan out exactly as she’s so carefully imagined, the turmoil begins. And the more that darn reality so rudely butts into her life, the more that darn turmoil triumphs. The hard part is, I know there’s not a lot about this world that pans out as we imagine. So sadly, lots of folks just stop imagining.

I hope I can help my dear daughter slowly become rooted to the ground while she continues to joyfully and colorfully bloom in the worlds she creates. I will also diligently pray that as she grows she will never actually be of this world but instead live uniquely, vibrantly and faithfully in it.

So that’s what’s ahead of me. Teaching my baby how to talk like a child and teaching my big girl how to hold on to every piece of childhood she can.

And nothing is impossible, with God.

Raising strong boys

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I am a mother who swore no guns. But that changed, and I ended up buying a five-year-old Henry a toy arsenal when I surrendered to the fact that my disdain for guns and violence was not his.

Here’s a shocker. Boys are different than girls. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Both of my boys came out of the womb making blow-up noises and shooting me with their fingers, bananas, toast, sticks, you name it. They also came out loving and cuddly and sweet. Loving and full-body slamming are not mutually exclusive.

Embrace their spirit. Channel it for good. Help them become the protectors and warriors they are meant to be.

This is a great piece by Msgr. Charles Pope. Watch the video.

My husband wants this caviar

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Or caveat. Whatever.

After reading my bag lady post, he told me I sound like I’m down-and-out or something.

I tried to explain to him that the underlying meaning of post was priorities.

And right now, mine are not pulling an ensamble together to look good every day. Which actually is rather ironic, because when I graduated from high school, my mock election awards were “Miss Seventeen Magazine” and “Most likely to marry a politician.” Miss Seventeen not because I was a fashion victim per se, but I sure did like the trappings of fashion that fit in with my style. The other award I sort of took offense to. I remember pondering why wouldn’t it be “most likely to BE a politician”? I thought it was sexist. Maybe I still do. Funny from an all-girls school. Funnier still because when my daughter graduated from an all-girls school and not one student or teacher at the graduation spoke about the possibility of motherhood as a goal, I completely took offense to that. I’m just a mental (oxi)moron. But I digress.

Okay, so sure, I can pull it together. And I often do. I have to stand and sing in front of church full of folks on Sunday, and on those days, it is my priority to fix myself up. If I’m going out on the rare date night with my always pressed spouse, I pull it together for that, too. I like to look nice. I like clothes. And I love shoes. I really do. (I hear all the women reading this singing … “Hello! Who doesn’t?”)

BUT …. it’s just that I’d rather take what little time I do have and sit down and write about what a bag lady I am, instead of put on mascara or something. And if I put on the mascara instead, perhaps I’d have nothing to write about. AND I’d just wash the mascara down the drain at the end of the day anyway and not have a lot to show for it. But at least if I’m a bag lady, I get a story. And for me, that’s icing on the fish eggs.

So here's a picture of me. With my husband back in the 80s. When we won the Publishers Clearing house Sweepstakes.

Here’s your bag, lady.

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(Insert photo of me. If I had the nerve to actually take a photo of myself today.)

Today I ran into an old friend from high school. I noticed her at the other end of the counter at Starbucks just as the cashier was handing me a bag containing a delicious salted caramel square.

I was all smiles, happy to see her. We chit chatted about the stuff of life. The kind of stuff you can cover while waiting for a grande-non-fat-two-pump-with-whip mocha.

I spoke to her sunglass-covered eyes as she spoke to my progressive lens +2.5 magnified-wrinkled eyes. I’m not gonna lie. The thought that I should suck it up and buy some decent prescription sunglasses did cross my mind. But since I have to change my prescription yearly, that’s not likely to happen. She’s always a welcoming joy. She’s so down to earth. She too now has a son in college. Attending Harvard. She was a smart kid. He’s obviously a chip off the old block.

As I was leaving, I got a glimpse of my reflection in the door.

And I thought: I am not a chip off the old block.

I am a bag lady.

Seriously.

Coat missing a button (I’d like to say it just fell off), hot pink gloves, red plaid hat. Not a stitch of makeup. Nice. Walking to my dirty 11-year-old van that I’m going to drive until it falls apart (because I want to).

My parents would never be so disheveled. Ever. My mother would never consider leaving the house without makeup and her hair done. And she would never not match. If her coat was missing a button, she’d either sew it right on, or wear a different coat. And my dad. He’s pretty close to perfect. He’s no hairspray-using Jim Bob Duggar, but his hair is always in place. (He’s carried the same comb in his pocket since 1957.) And his car would never be dirty. Or old. (Unless of course it was a 1957 Chevy that’s covered and spotless in his garage.)

I had to chuckle. Although my parents have had great influence on my personality and my creativity, perhaps media has had an even deeper subconscious influence on me than I ever thought … at least on my sense of style. I was a one-person walking sociology project. Life imitating art. (Even though I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way around.) At least it’s art I love.

Mental floss

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I took Henry and Lillian to Henry Ford Museum last night. And let me say from the get go: We had a great time.

And now, for the rest of the story. (You have to say that like Paul Harvey.)

My day was madness. I got up and got busy so I could get some work done early in the morning. I was on my own with Cliff for the whole day, so my productivity bounced from writing, to feeding him, to his always successful yet ridiculously frequent potty breaks.

Before I could blink, it was time to pick up Lillian from school, then I rushed to get MC, stopped at Starbucks (because I HAD to), dropped off MC and Lil at home, then ran to get Henry from band. The plan was this: I’d get him, get home, shower, and then we’d go.

Guess what? Band ran 30 minutes long. That was my shower.

Who me? I don't know 'nuffin about no chocolate cake.

We raced home. To my dismay upon my arrival, I found Lillian dressed as a fairy princess and chocolate cake all over the kitchen floor. I guess I should be thankful that the reason for the mess was that Mary Claire was distracted from the moment-to-moment care of her siblings because she was practicing the piano. She was operating under the assumption that no screaming is good screaming. (An assumption–I confess–I too sometimes rely upon when they are 20 feet away and in earshot.)

I had to regroup. Time was not on my side.

For a split second I thought, “Oh forget it. It’ll just be Henry and me.” Then Lillian asked me when we were going. Drat that mind like a steel trap.

She picked out clothing. All of which needed to be ironed. And we were out of time. I put a long sweater on her and told her that she could not take it off at the museum. (Because it would expose the completely wrinkled shirt she pulled out of the bottom of her drawer. I was taking pictures for the blog and didn’t want her to LOOK as disheveled as I felt.) She successfully (amazingly on the first pick) chose tights that matched her outfit, and she willingly put on normal shoes (e.g., not Crocs, sparkly red shoes that would have clashed with the hot pink tights or bubblegum pink patent leather cowboy boots that are painfully too small).

I swept up some of the cake, and barked for MC to get the rest. In the mean time, Cliff sprinkled the floor with his cranberry juice by shaking it out of the lid of a sippy cup. Perhaps he thought the cake on the floor was dry. Or lonely.

I found a hat to cover my hopeless hair, put on some lipstick, ordered Henry to change his shirt (for the third time) and had to ask Mary Claire to tie my scarf. Because I’m challenged that way.

We got in the van and were off. I was worried we’d miss Santa’s entrance, but our timing looked good.

On the road, Lillian informed me that she had brought mittens that she would like me to put on once we reached the museum. I informed her that it wasn’t cold enough for mittens, and the walk would be short. So for the next 20-minutes she pretty much threatened that she would not exit the vehicle without the mittens. Well, that, and she interjected that for lunch I hadn’t put enough mayo on her sandwich, and her grapes had been wet. But her tirade mostly circled back to the mittens.

You can't always get what you want. And hey, look! It's when the chocolate cake saw better days.

Once we found a spot and started to unload, I saw that the mittens she brought were the thick play-outside-in-the-snow kind of mittens. And I knew there was no Buddy the Elfing way I was going to satisfactorily be able to wiggle those five-year-old thumbs into those ridiculous mittens.

She stood at the van door and declared first that she wasn’t coming, then that I had ruined everything, and finally, that she was going to freeze. I grabbed all 33 pounds of her and carried her to the sidewalk and set her down. To the tune of her continued complaints, we began our brisk (and short) walk to the museum, Then Henry said, “Come on Lillian. We don’t want to miss Santa’s arrival.”

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Wait. Santa’s going to be here?” Some may recall that Lillian is not ever going to be president of the Santa fan club. “I. Am. Not. Sitting. On. His. Lap.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured her that she didn’t have to.

Amazingly, she stopped crying and picked up the pace.

We got in the museum and found a perfect spot. I reminded Henry that he needed to always hold Lil’s hand, and I weaseled my way up front so I could get some good photos of Santa. And I did.

This would have been a great shot. If not for that kid's HEAD. Oy.

Once the jolly dude exited the cool antique electric car he was chauffeured in, I took my place back by the kids. Lillian grabbed hold of my leg, her blue eyes focused on my face:  “I am not sitting on his lap in this environment.”

Now, I don’t have a clue if she even knows what environment means, but that was definitely a winning use of language for a munchkin her size. I assured her again that she was in the clear. She relaxed, and we had an absolutely lovely time. The pressure was off, and we enjoyed all the sights and the sounds of the museum. The kids and I were thoroughly impressed by the Ann Arbor Boys Choir, and we enjoyed visiting with other families as we waited in lines for this and that.

A great moment. A great time.

The only other conflict of the night occurred when Lillian began writing a letter to Santa. She told Henry she was asking for a doll. An Indian doll. Then she proceeded to say that Christopher Columbus was not correct when he called North American’s Indians. Henry tried to explain to her that the term was Native Americans. He told her Columbus thought he landed in the West Indies, so that’s why he called them Indians. She didn’t buy it and muttered, “Christopher Columbus lied.”

After a little coaxing, she got back to business, finished her letter and happily mailed it. As I filled out a slip for a drawing to win some Greenfield Village pottery, the lady behind the table asked Lil what she wanted for Christmas. Lillian said, “A doll. An Indian Doll.” Then she started to share her views on Columbus’ faulty naming; fortunately it was lost on the lady and bystanders as I escorted her over to the cider and donuts.

We found a spot on the floor near the gorgeous and huge tree and had a little donut picnic. I tried to take some photos of the kids with the whole tree behind them. So picture this, I’m practically lying on the floor of the museum, and my hat keeps popping off, exposing my oh-so-luxurious seriously in-need-a-styling hair. (Note to self: Don’t wear that stupid hat when trying to take pictures. It annoyed me all night. It’s too big for my pinhead anyway.)

This one is actually pretty decent.

I’m surprised that I captured one semi-satisfactory photo, since Henry had a “duh” look on his face in most, and Lillian kept make gang-type poses. Why? I have no idea. The cider and donuts were great, though. Especially since—at that moment—I realized that dinner had completely escaped me.

When we left, there was skipping involved. And lots and lots of smiling. We had an awesome time. Once we got in the van, Henry (much to my dismay) brought up the Columbus thing, and I can’t say he won any points in the debate. Telling Lillian that there was no GPS in 1492 didn’t really seal the argument for her, and he pretty much gave up after she shouted, “Christopher Columbus was a LIAR!”

As we were getting close to home, Henry announced that when he’s older, he’d like to work at The Henry Ford. I agreed that he might just like to do that. Helen and Mary Claire have expressed the same sentiment, and Helen’s going to audition to sing during the summer. He said, “I’m either going to work at The Henry Ford or  be a dentist.”

If you know Henry’s history with dentistry, that’s one of the most perplexing declarations I’d ever heard from him.

“What? You want to be a dentist?” I asked for clarification.

“Yes. I want to have an office. Mental Dental.”

“What?” I wasn’t’ sure if I heard him. He was in a third-row seat in the van.

He repeated. Mental Dental.

I asked again. The answer was the same: Mental Dental.

I said, “Henry, what are you talking about?”

“You know, Mental Dental. Like the office we go to.”

“Henry. The office is called Gentle Dental.” I corrected him, trying to keep it together.

“Ohhhh. I thought it was for mental cases like me, who don’t want to go to the dentist. That’s the kind of kids I want to be a dentist for.”

I should note, we did go to Gentle Dental, but had to change to find a pediatric dentist who could to treat Henry, who is (I am happy to report) a recovering lunatic at the dentist.

When we finally got home, after hitting a fast food drive-thru for a healthy evening dinner, it was 9 p.m., and Richard was on a business call. Mary Claire was reading Clifford to Clifford. He cheerfully padded out of his room to greet us, then willingly went back to bed, as long as I followed for a nightly serenade of Gentle Woman and the “baby” song.

It’s all in a day’s work.

It sounds crazy. I know. But I wouldn’t have it any other wonderful way.

I will admit, though, I could use a little mental floss  … the vodka flavored kind.

Where's Waldo? Can you find the craziest Hass child? (Hint: It's a tie.)

When you’re down and troubled

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This morning I was reading Simcha Fisher at NCRegister. And I responded with this comment:

I hug my kids when they are hurt. But I also wait to see if they are actually hurt. They know my m.o. since often their response even through tears is “I’m okay.” They know I’m there for them, but want to be strong for me. I’ve parented with the hope that they can assess the situation themselves first. If they can. That said, I’m pretty keen on recognizing within a few seconds what kind of response from me is needed. And sometimes, coddling little boo-boos is the cure even if the bruise is one of embarrassment, hurt pride or being frightened instead of physically injured. But true loving occurs not as I rush to their aid or to their (at times over-) reaction to injury, but the solid loving that I give them all the rest of the time. Caring for the needs they don’t even know they have. Offering love and affection when they ask for it, when then don’t, and even when they tell you they don’t really want it at all. That’s the kind of undeserved, unearned love we get from God.

It got me thinking, I hope and pray that’s the kind of loving we can do our best to give everyone. In very simple terms, I’m pretty sure that’s the crux of the “love one another, as I have loved you” bit. And I know how I feel when I am called to love people who very specifically don’t want my love. But that’s when your loving is about Christ and them. And not about you. At all. I’m pretty sure that’s an element of the “emptying ourselves” bit.

Once again. God knows what’s going on. Happy All Saints Day. Prayers of thanksgiving for those saints known and unknown. Truly inspiring.

A nice story

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I wanted to share this story. No matter the number of children, we all have our shortcomings and our failings. I know I certainly do.

I choose joy. And sometimes joy is my mind’s second choice, because there are moments I’d rather choose misery (which is occasionally a comfortable place to wallow).  Also, since this website is actually named for the five eternal souls that I don’t have the privilege to raise here on earth, I never cease to count my blessings for those five who walk this planet and call me mom.