Confessions of an Easter Egg Socialist

I don’t have OCD. Things I do that appear on the surface to be OCD are merely survival mechanisms. My kids will tell you I calculate the grocery bill in my head as I shop so as to be within pennies of the final total, tax included. This is not OCD. This is a mom on a budget. My kids will also tell you I have been unsuccessful at turning the laundry over into their capable hands, possibly due to OCD. Sure, turned up hems and wrinkles bug me, but the truth is, I secretly hope when people see my kids doing something embarrassing or unbecoming in public, those people will think, “What is wrong with those kids? Clearly it’s not their mother’s fault—look how clean and pressed their clothes are. That mother surely has it going on. Maybe it’s the dad.”

Having said my OCD piece, there is one little thing that has reared it’s ugly head every spring, and it has consumed me to the point where I spent hours behind closed doors doing it. I knew it had gotten worse over the years, so I kept the details of just how extreme to myself. After all, I’d avoided the OCD label for 18 years of child-rearing, and I wasn’t about to own it over one nasty compulsion that really only lasted one day a year anyway.

I’m proud to say that, without the aid of costly therapy, time consuming meditation, or even outside pressure from well-meaning loved ones who knew my dirty little secret, I have finally broken free, and I feel liberated. As it turns out, I didn’t have seasonally-induced OCD at all. I was an Easter Egg Socialist.

I didn’t grow up that way. I don’t even know exactly when it started, but I think it coincided with the time period that “IT’S NOT FAIR!” became the most commonly uttered phrase in our household. Then again, I’m willing to admit it’s entirely possible that, once I had kids, my subconscious realized I no longer had control over much of anything…except the Easter Egg Hunt. I compensated by developing and fine-tuning such an amazing formula for making everyone happy and keeping everything 100% fair for every child regardless of age, gender or ability, that I never once heard those stupid words, “IT’S NOT FAIR!” over an Easter egg hunt. With three girls and one boy (that’s FOUR kids, one with Aspergers) spaced two to three years apart, this is an accomplishment I was proud of.

Here’s what I did…

For the hunt each year, I would buy plastic eggs in four colors—one for each child. As the kids got older, I made it extra fun by assigning two colors to each child. If the eggs came in different sizes, I made sure I used equal numbers of each size egg in each color. I always purchased several different kinds of candy to fill the eggs—things like Sweet Tart bunnies, Hershey’s Kisses, M&Ms, etc. Some years I would also fill the eggs with money. Regardless of what I used to fill the eggs, it was always fair. Totally fair. I counted every piece of candy (even the M&Ms and Skittles) and divided them equally among each color egg. If a particular candy had more than one flavor (in the case of Skittles and Sweet Tarts), I further divided the candy equally by flavor. When it came to things like chocolate Kisses, it didn’t matter whether the wrapper was pink or blue, but I would divide them evenly by color anyway because I was not about to have a child melt down over getting all blue ones when they wanted all pink. If I filled eggs with money, not only would each child receive the same amount of money, but if I put ten dimes in a blue egg, I put ten dimes in a pink egg, and so forth—not ten dimes in one color egg and four quarters in another. I didn’t want to spend that holy day explaining that four quarters and ten dimes are equal, so I avoided to conflict before it could begin.

I know it sounds crazy, but truth be told, I enjoyed the good two hours of total peace every Easter Eve—just me, my plastic eggs, and my compulsion. Besides, I always ate the “odd” candy.

When Easter morning rolled around, hiding the plastic eggs was a breeze as long as my husband paid attention to which color belonged to each child. Part of the beauty of my plan was the ability to hide little kids’ eggs in plain site without the big kids being able to come along and snatch them up. We could reserve our more clever hiding techniques for the older kids’ eggs.

My kids became pros at the Easter egg hunt system in our home. The only snags came when other families visited at Easter and didn’t appreciate my instructional lecture on color assignment prior to the hunt. In those cases, there was always a poor listener who ended up with an odd colored egg in their basket. Fortunately, those children were easily called out and compelled to hand over the egg to its rightful owner. At the end of the hunt, each basket was filled equally to the brim with all one color egg per basket, and I thought it looked really nice.

No one ever complained. I was really proud of the peaceful hunt I’d orchestrated and the equally-distributed sugar-high it produced.

This year everything changed. When I sat down in the middle of my bedroom floor and dumped out all the plastic eggs I’d accumulated over the years (because I was too cheap to buy new ones), I counted the eggs for the very last time.

There was an odd number.

That was the moment I decided to end the madness. I ripped open my bags of candy and forced myself to quickly fill the eggs without counting a single piece of candy. I paused long enough to pop a few chocolates into my mouth, but not long enough to contemplate what I would tell the kids in the morning. With reckless abandon, I stuffed one orange egg with chocolates, and the next orange egg with mostly yellow sour bunnies. I refused to pay attention to how many of each color egg I filled or what I filled it with, and I purposely put the same kind of candy in small eggs that I put in large ones. I even went so far as to put tootsie rolls in only one egg. I wondered how that would go over!

Within minutes it was over. The eggs were filled, and I could have read a novel with the time I had left on my hands.

I hid the eggs myself the following morning and smiled at the fact that I had no idea if I was hiding a chocolate-filled egg in the hot sun. I contemplated whether my son would pick up any girl-colored eggs. I hid eggs higher than my youngest child could reach, knowing she was at a disadvantage, and I didn’t think twice about doing it. There was no method and no madness, and it was awesome.

When the kids lined up for the hunt, baskets in hand, Kennadi asked, “Okay, Mom, who gets what color?” I took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth. I announced that I’d denounced the OCD that I didn’t really have by hiding an odd number of eggs in all kinds of colors (did I mention my kids all know who the Easter Bunny is?)

The response?

High fives and cheering! WHAT?!? To be clear, I explained that it would be impossible for them to get an equal number of eggs. Not only did they not care, they were thrilled! My 11 year-old’s exact words were, “Now that’s just crazy!”

I was beginning to feel like all the thought and time and planning I’d done for over a decade in their behalf had gone entirely unappreciated as they bowled me over on their way out the back door.

I resisted the urge to point out any eggs that had been carelessly overlooked, but I was sure to praise the kids who found the “hard-to-find” eggs. Before long, the hunt was over, and the eggs were counted. As expected, no one got the same number of eggs, but, to my surprise, no one cared. Wait ‘til they figure out only one kid got tootsie rolls, I thought.

Less than two hours later, and without even opening all his eggs, Jordan traded his entire basket of loot to Kami so she’d do the Sunday dinner dishes. Good thing I didn’t waste any time filling his basket with fairness!

On the Monday following Easter, two of my girls told me they figured out there was only one egg with Tootsie Rolls. They also told me Kennadi hadn’t landed a single Sweet Tart egg, while Kami had managed to find nine. On the other hand, Kennadi seemed to have a nose for the chocolate-filled eggs because she’d found more than anyone. Unfortunately for her, I thought, the chocolate was mostly Cadbury, which I knew wasn’t her favorite. Knowing I was about to hear what I’d so craftily avoided every Easter for my entire parenting career, I braced myself, and settled in for a loving lecture on how life isn’t fair. I began by saying, “And how did that make you feel?”

Kennadi replied, “We thought it was AWESOME!” Awesome?!? What’s so awesome about one person getting all the good candy and another getting stuck with something they don’t like, I thought? What’s so awesome about only one person getting tootsie rolls, I wondered? I seriously couldn’t believe my ears. Furthermore, I couldn’t believe my problem-solving intervention skills were not being called upon to deal with this “injustice.”

It turns out the kids had developed their own system of trading and negotiating that was impressive. For the next several days I heard things like, “I’ll trade some sour bunnies for chocolate eggs,” and “I’ll give you two eggs if you’ll finish unloading the dishwasher for me.” As for Jordan, who had so easily forfeited his entire basket (which I later appreciated since he doesn’t need the extra sugar, anyway), he resorted to buying eggs from the girls at fair market value of $.50 each. I was fascinated by my kids’ ability to creatively negotiate with their eggs. Not once did I hear, “IT’S NOT FAIR!”

So, as I reflect upon my experience this Easter, it seems I am a recovered Easter Egg Socialist. It’s crazy to think I spent so many years, in the name of fairness, being a control freak over people who didn’t want or need my kind of fair. Without realizing it, in trying to help the younger “less able” child, I’d actually held her back. When I let go of the control this year, my youngest and smallest out-performed everyone! The kids were more excited at the prospect of things NOT being fair than they’d ever been when they knew the outcome before the hunt ever started. I guess knowing that no matter how hard you work, at the end of the hunt, you’re going to end up with exactly what the next kid has, isn’t so much fun, even when the results are "totally fair" and yummy.

My kids taught me that it’s not about what’s inside the eggs, and it’s definitely not about fairness, or my idea of what's fair, anyway. It’s about running around finding eggs your way in a hunt that isn’t run by a control freak who thinks she’s doing you a favor. They taught me that it is way more fun and rewarding when your basket is filled with eggs of all colors, shapes and sizes, and when you can do whatever you want with those eggs.

Jordan, Paula, and the Holy Spirit

I wish my mind was capable of recalling every detail, every word, exactly as it happened because it was far more perfect in reality than in the re-telling. I know it’s tempting, when re-telling a story, to add embellishments that could render the story inaccurate. As “embellishment-like” as the things I’m about to share may sound, they actually happened. If anything, this is a grossly toned-down version of actual events.

I’m not entirely sure why our family was a good twenty minutes early for church for the first time in…ever (not an embellishment.) It’s possible we over-estimated the time it would take to detour and pick up Kennadi’s friend on our way. Suffice it to say, we were so early that there was ample parking and the ward that meets before us was still in sacrament meeting.

We were chatting and joking in the empty lobby when in walked Paula. She was easy to identify as a visitor because she, not-so-timidly, announced, “I’m here!” to no one in particular. As Jason made his missionary-instilled approach, she said, “I’m a visitor. The Holy Spirit led me here today. Where do I go?” I left this sharply-dressed black (I would later learn specifically, Creole) woman to the pros since I wasn’t quite sure yet what to make of her. What meeting was she here for? The 11:30? Was she meeting someone? The questions didn’t have a chance to move from my brain to my lips as I witnessed my personable husband, who everyone loves and thinks is pretty great, get denied by this woman. Rudely denied, to be honest. She looked Jason in the eye and said, “I don’t like you. I don’t want to talk to you.” She clearly wanted direction, but not from Jason, or the missionaries who approached her next, or pretty much anyone. Except me. She took my arm, told me I looked like a nice person and that she’d talk to me. It’s possible my eyes bugged out as if to say, “Me?" In the more-than-ample time we had, I did my best to explain what sacrament meeting was (she’d never attended an LDS meeting) as well as introduce the woman I came to know whose name was Paula to anyone who could better help her, including a member of the bishopric. She was not interested, so I was on my own.

I promised I would sit with Paula on the last row (the pew with the huge isle in front of it, with the curtains directly behind it.) Before we could make our way to our seats, and before anyone seemed to need to talk to me (Where were all my friends? Where were the people who usually have something to discuss with me?), Paula fixated on someone and said, “Who’s that? Are they all like him?” I turned to see a small group of men and a sixteen year-old boy, my son. I asked who she was referring to when she pointed out my son and said, “I want to talk to him.” I introduced her to Jordan. I didn’t know what to expect from this sudden interest from the out-spoken, slightly rude woman next to me. Had she seen Jordan do something unseemly? Would he, in his unpredictable Asperger way, say something to send this self-proclaimed visitor packing, never to return? Admittedly, both of those thoughts were less predominant in my mind than the relief I felt that I now had someone to “share” Paula with.

Jordan, Paula and I sat in the middle of that last pew. And something amazing began to unfold. Actually, it had already been unfolding unbeknownst to me. Time slowed down, the congregation was a muffled blur as it filed in around us, and I prayed for time to slow down more. I witnessed the incredible orchestration of my Heavenly Father. A tender mercy. The birth of a testimony.

With a remarkable calm, Paula looked Jordan in the eyes and, with earnest, told him the Holy Spirit had led her there that day to meet him. She said she was looking for someone (I wish I could remember the descriptive words she used) and Jordan was that person. She told Jordan he had greatness in him. She pointed to his head and said, “Not up here. That’s the devil’s playground.” Then put her hand on his chest and said, “In here. There’s something in here. You need to share what that is.” Jordan proceeded to tell Paula that, as a matter of fact, he was speaking in sacrament meeting that day. Paula’s eyes lit up, and the only way I can think to describe it is that she appeared to feel and act as though she knew she was in the presence of greatness. I don’t recall how many times she said, “The Holy Spirit led me here today”—one time going into as much detail as to describe how the Spirit told her which streets to turn on since she’d never been to our building, much less as LDS church, and didn’t know what she was looking for. There was no question in Jordan’s and Paula’s minds that the Holy Spirit had indeed led Paula there. There was no question in mine, either, and tears streamed down my face to prove it.

As Jordan and Paula shared their time, that no one else would ever appreciate, I experienced an entirely different moment, just between me and my Heavenly Father. It was a moment of sheer gratitude and love. A tender mercy for me. I have to pause Jordan and Paula’s story to share a little background of my own.

While getting ready for church that morning, Jason and I had spent close to an hour discussing Jordan. I’d been in tears, and we seemed to be getting nowhere. This was a very familiar scene behind our master bedroom doors. Without going into detail about Jordan’s history, suffice here to say that as his mother, I feel a desperate need to help him understand his worth. I’ve said it a million times in Jordan’s 16 years, and it has become my mission for Jordan to know he has greatness in him. I have never been able to adequately express these feelings to others, and I was failing to do so again that Sunday morning. It is more than a mother knowing her child has potential and wanting him to reach it. It is not a case of wanting a lazy teenager to get off the couch and make something of himself. I can’t even put my finger on what the “greatness” is other than to say that I know Jordan is here for a specific reason, it’s important, and it’s something only Jordan can do.

Up to now, Jordan’s life hasn’t exactly demonstrated this greatness I’ve always professed, other than giving us glimpses of quirky genius here and there. In fact, it would be accurate to say that Jordan’s life has included as much heartache, confusion, and sadness as it has hope, promise and happiness. My tears that Sunday morning in the bathroom were mostly because the feeling I’d had about Jordan for 16 years was beginning to dim, and I was scared. I knew I was the last person to have that feeling, and if I lost it, who would be Jordan’s champion? I cried to Jason, “My greatest fear is meeting Heavenly Father and having him show me Jordan’s mission that he’d been unable to fulfill because I’d failed to help him recognize his worth.” I’d left our bathroom discussion the way I’d started it—still desperate to somehow get Jordan to see the greatness within him.

As I enjoyed my own personal moment with the Spirit, Jordan and Paula wrapped up their conversation, and Jordan took his place on the stand. For a brief moment then, Paula fancied herself a psychic or something, turned to me, placed her hands firmly enough on mine that I couldn’t have broken free if I’d wanted to and said, “People will want to know him and what he has to say. Don’t try to shelter him from that. Do you understand?” I’m not sure of my response. I think I just nodded.

As the meeting began, I resumed my role as Paula’s tour guide and explained each part of what was happening—prayers, singing, the curtain opening up behind us for latecomers, why a woman with an accent was “preaching” from the pulpit. Paula didn’t seem to know how to whisper when she expressed her disdain for “you people” needing the words (hymnbooks) to sing praises. Paula was less than impressed with many things, and she let me know. I tried to reassure Paula that even though our meeting was probably quite different from other church meetings she may have attended, the Spirit was there, and she would feel it.

When the young men passing the sacrament lined up in front of us, Paula asked what they were doing there and told them they looked like they were ready to take her to jail. Huh? Needless to say, several members of the congregation turned around to find out who this irreverent woman was. Someone may have said something, I didn’t hear it, but Paula sharply told them to turn around and shut up.

I didn’t know at this point what to make of Paula. She’d made it abundantly clear that she needed and wanted to be there, but she didn’t seem to be getting much out of the meeting. Again, I put my arm around her, and I silently begged of the Spirit what I needed to do for Paula. I didn’t receive an answer of what to do, just the assurance that things would unfold as they should.

Finally, after being able to pay very little attention to the meeting due to the energy it took to educate Paula to her satisfaction, it was Jordan’s turn to speak. This brought on a whole new set of anxious feelings because my unpredictable son was about to give a talk that he hadn’t allowed me to preview. A talk that the woman sitting next to me, who was not shy about expressing her feelings, was convinced the Holy Spirit had led her there to witness. Would Jordan embarrass me? Would his talk “deliver” for Paula? When will I ever learn to quit worrying and let the Spirit do his work?!?

As Jordan approached the stand, Paula and I simultaneously sat up straighter. Jordan proceeded with confidence, eloquence, and a little bit of humor to deliver a great message on love. I cringed just a little at Jordan’s sarcastic first example of showing love to his neighbors. He said, “When the rocks from the neighbor’s yard get pushed into the street, I show them love by going over and letting them know.” Most of our ward understands Jordan’s sense of humor, but would Paula? Fortunately, I didn’t waste much time wondering because Paula slapped her hand on my knee just then, made an “mmm mmm” sound and said (again, NOT in a whisper), “He tells it like it is!” Apparently Paula was getting what she came for, and I was settling into a proud, relaxed smile. That was my boy giving an amazing talk.

Near the end of his talk, as Jordan bore his testimony, he, and of course I, teared up. Jordan spoke about meeting Paula that morning. He shared what Paula had told him about being led by the Spirit, one street at a time, to be there that morning. Jordan explained how he knew it was the Spirit because Paula walked into our hard-to-find, somewhat hidden, building instead of the grand, hard-to-miss, Greek Orthodox church next door. His emotions deepened when he touched his chest and said, “The Spirit led her here today to meet me. To hear me.” I’ll never forget Jordan’s next words, “My testimony skyrocketed.” What a crowning moment! I wept. Jordan wept. Paula wept.

It was out of character for Jordan to cry, during a talk no less, and he said as much, “I don’t cry…”

The next words were…

From Paula! She jumped to her feet and, from the last pew (which was now the middle of a crowded room since the curtains had opened up) announced before the entire congregation, “It’s okay! I’ll cry for you!” I felt my eyes bug out of my head as I, once again and for the umpteenth time that morning, witnessed entirely too many thoughts and emotions.

Paula carried on as she announced her name and that what Jordan was saying was true—that she had been (say it with me now) “led by the Holy Spirit” there that day.

Will she stop talking? Should I stop her? I can’t hear Jordan. Will Jordan be rattled? What is everyone thinking? She’s still standing. Do people think Paula is my guest? Is the priesthood on the stand going to do something? Is anyone going to do something? My heart is going to jump out of my chest. My mouth is dry. Keep going, Jordan.

The thoughts just scrambled over each other inside my head when, all at once, I noticed the entire ward was acting as if this was a completely ordinary meeting. Jordan was carrying on with his talk as if Paula’s comments were part of the plan. The surrounding calm took hold on me, too, thankfully before the chaos in my mind started to show on my face, and I gently touched Paula’s elbow. It wasn’t immediate, but she finished her words and sat down. I put my arm around Paula I think to comfort her but maybe, just a small maybe, it was to hold her down.

Jordan continued his talk by sharing his feelings about President Hinkley’s example to him right up until he died—feelings and inspiration Jordan had felt that I was learning about for the first time. My heart was enlarging with pride at every word Jordan spoke. My ugly cry face was far beyond repair, and that was the furthest thing from my mind.

All too soon, Jordan closed his talk. No sooner did Jordan utter, “Amen” than Paula proudly rose to her feet, once again, with her own sustaining, “AMEN!” and a one-woman standing ovation. Because, for Paula, amen wasn’t adequate to describe her emotions, she made one last announcement to the congregation before sitting down, “That boy is an apostle!”

I could only imagine what everyone was thinking. Probably something like, “Sure glad I didn’t sleep in today. Of all the Sundays to miss, this definitely wasn’t it.”

The meeting continued on in what now felt a little anti-climactic, and Paula quietly (seriously, NOW she found her whispering voice) told me she needed to leave. I knew without question that is was okay because Paula had done and experienced that day what she’d come to do and experience. She asked for my phone number, and I gave her mine. With my head still spinning and my heart as full as it had been in a long time, I hugged Paula hard and thanked her for listening to the Holy Spirit. I told her it was a gift, that not everyone listened to it, and I was grateful to her because she did. With tears in her eyes, Paula hugged me back, thanked me, and reminded me one last time, lest I ever forget, that my son was filled with greatness. And she was gone.

From My Journal

I decided to read some of my old journal entries in search of something worth posting. I found this one from a year and a half ago. I don't think I could have shared this at the time I wrote it. I feel compelled to share it now, though, because it's important for me to recognize how really good things are right now. Some days, things don't feel great, but they are light years ahead of where they have sometimes been.

I can't believe I am the only person who has felt the way I felt when I wrote the following in my journal. Perhaps in the sharing will come peace and hope and a feeling of not being so alone for some other mom out there.

August 12, 2009

Here I am in the middle of another sleepless night. I have more of those now than I do restful ones. I have more of them now than I did with any of my newborns. In fact, the only restful nights seem to come after a string of long, sleepless nights, when I am so physically and emotionally exhausted that the only thing left is to crash hard. All because another day has gone by where I have failed my son.

The idea that I cannot save Jordan is the heaviest burden I know. I cannot accept it. It makes me weary, and we are both suffering for it. I cannot accept that Heavenly Father sent Jordan to this eart to fail. All I ever wanted for Jordan was to be able to help him become the best Jordan he is capable of being. Sometimes I know for sure that "that" Jordan will be far greater than anything I could ever have imagined for him. Other times I despair "that" Jordan to be far less. I feel guilt for the second Jordan I imagine because if that is the Jordan he becomes, I will have failed him.
Every day ends with Jordan consuming my prayers. Every day starts with Jordan consuming my prayers. It is not enough. When I imagine Jordan's qualities belonging to another child, I have all the answers on how to raise him. When I am faced daily with Jordan and his unique challenges, I seem to forget everything I know to be right and good and effective for Jordan. Each night I lie in bed re-living the day, and I become consumed with my inability to reach Jordan and help him and love him in a way that he can truly feel. I vow to do better. I vow to be his best advocate. I vow to lead a better life so the Spirit can better guide me. When morning comes I am grateful for a new chance. Then, almost as soon as Jordan awakes, my resolve begins to crumble. I become a terrible mother who creates more experiences to re-live as I lie sleepless again.

I become more desperate each day because I am running out of time to fix all the terrible mothering mistakes I have made with Jordan and at the same time help him see his potential with eternal vision.

When I contemplate my time with Jordan on this earth, my thoughts are flooded with proud glimpses of genius, laughter at sheer quirky behavior, deeply sorrowful times of disappointment in Jordan as well as in myself, and angry moments I can never take back. I have one memory of complete and utter love so intense that I remember having this thought at the time, "Remember this moment because you will need this memory in the future." It was when Jordan was about two years old. He was lying next to me on my bed taking a nap. I looked over at his peaceful chubby face surrounded by a halo of sweaty blond curls, and I felt pure love. I took his dimply hand in mine, held it for as long as I could, and tried to imprint the details of the moment in my mind and heart. I long for that moment again, but I would settle for another one like it.

I have known for a long time that Jordan would seek the ever-illusive acceptance wherever he could find it, and I feared where those places would be. As much as I want him to feel that love and acceptance at home, I have failed miserably in helping him find it here. So, my fear grows. He has begun his quest for acceptance outside our home with devastating consequences so far. His search seems to grow and gain momentum like a snowball racing down a hill, gathering speed and debris as it becomes harder and faster and stronger. It's a snowball I can't stop--one that has become so large I cannot hold it back, much less mold it back into a little, magable, pure white, soft snowball again.

"We're Not Taking Him Back"

When Jordan was little, my parents often invited him to spend the night at their house just a couple blocks away. My mom had a special room decorated for her grandkids, and it was a special treat to watch movies, eat snacks, and just be with Grandma and Grandpa.

On one particular sleepover, my Dad awoke in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. This in and of itself was not unusual--he is a grandpa, after all. It was a little weird, though, that he decided to use the bathroom in the hallway instead of the master bath. On his way to the bathroom, he noticed a faint "glow" coming from under the specially-decorated-grandkid-room door. Upon opening the door to determine the source of the glow, my dad immediately noticed Jordan was not in bed, and there was a fire under the bed.

After "lights out" Jordan had decided to read himself to sleep under the bed.

With the lamp for light.

But the lampshade didn't fit under the bed, so Jordan had removed the lampshade.

Though a significant hole had been burned all the way through the carpet, pad, and subfloor, miraculously, Jordan and the bed both remained intact. Jordan never even woke up.

As I recounted this amazing story of survival over dinner with my married siblings later that week, I pointed out each detail that led to the blessing of Jordan's survival:

• Dad had needed to go to the bathroom when he did and not any later


• Dad decided to use the hallway bathroom that was farther away than his own


• In his sleepy state, Dad had noticed the glow from under the bedroom door


• Jordan hadn't been burned

I went on and on about how our little Jordan must have a mission here on this earth to still be with us. I even saved the light bulb as a gentle reminder of the precious gift that is Jordan's life...

Then my oldest brother added his two cents and snapped us all back to reality.

His only comment was, "The Lord and angels were up there saying, 'Oh no you don't! You promised to take this kid, and we're not taking him back!'"

It's nice to know Jordan has angels.

School Shenanigans--the keyboard

In eleven years of schooling, we have come to know Jordan's teachers, principals, admistrators, school office staff, school counselors--you name it--quite intimately. I think it was 5th grade when when Jordan happily hopped in the car after his first day back at school and proudly announced, "I haven't been called down to the principal's office yet this year!"

His big sister just rolled her eyes and said, "What about this morning?"

I felt just as deflated as Jordan was his shoulders sunk and he replied, "Oh yeah. I forgot."

So we began taking it in stride that we were on speed-dial for nearly every adult in Jordan's schooling career, but I still cringe every time the school phone number shows up on caller id.

This school shenanigans story doesn't take us as far back as elementary school. This happened just last year--ninth grade.

It was a Wednesday, I think, because I had been thinking how far we'd made it in a week without any calls from school, when the phone rang. I looked at caller id, and paused, wondering if I should pretend not to be home. I went ahead and answered in my cheerful, pretending-this-was-going-to-be-a-good-call-voice. It was Dean Diane. I could tell by her voice she felt more badly for me than for herself that she probably called me more than her own mother. We went ahead with the formalities of setting up yet another RPC (required parent conference).

What was it this time?

Keyboard shenanigans!

Jordan had entertained himself in computers by re-arranging letters on the keyboard!

Dean Diane assured me that Jordan had not done anything TOO horrible, but, since he'd "messed with" school property and could have caused damage, she had to bring it to my attention. She was pleased, it seemed, that Jordan hadn't spelled any bad words with his key arrangement.

I wasn't really questioning Diane, but I figured Jordan hadn't openly and eagerly admitted guilt, so I went ahead and asked, "How do you know it was Jordan?"

With a sweet, knowing smile, she replied, "Jordan re-arranged the keys to spell his own name."

I didn't ask if there were any other Jordans at the school.

The Best Advice I Never Got

If I could give any advice to a parent of an Aspergers child, it would be this:

There isn't a professional out there who knows your child better than you. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for getting all the help and tips and advice professionals have to offer! At the end of the day, though, you are left to filter through everything and basically figure out what does and doesn't work. The truth is, unless you have lived 24/7 with an Aspergers person, and regardless of degree or expertise, you just don't "know."

I'll never forget the words of advice from a school district "professional" just before kindergarten. Part way into Jordan's second year of preschool I was asked by a teacher with 20 years experience to take Jordan home and not bring him back. I was told Jordan "refused to follow rules, clearly didn't want to learn, and was intent on destroying things." I bundled Jordan up, apologized lamely, and went to my car and cried. I wish I'd had more courage to stand up to that teacher! Instead, I promptly contacted the school district where Jordan would be entering kindergarten in the fall, and arranged for the testing that the ancient preschool teacher had recommended.

I couldn't really explain to the district tester what I was doing in his office--only that my son was different and I was worried about his ability to succeed in kindergarten given that he'd been kicked out of preschool. I was overwhelmed with this child I didn't understand and who wasn't doing anything "normally."

The short version is that Jordan tested above average in every area, and I was sent home with these haunting words that remain tattooed on my heart to this day, "There is nothing wrong with your son. You just need to take him home and love him more."

Yet another excellent opportunity to smack some not-so-well-meaning "professional" missed!

Funny how more than ten years down the road, thousands of dollars spent, too many medications and special diets tried, every wacky technique implemented, several parenting classes and seminars attended, countless harsh and angry words that I can't take back screamed at the top of my lungs, no less than 25 books read on the subject, and heaps of guilt piled like hot, stinky manure upon my shoulders, I have come full circle. Yep, Jordan is different, but there is indeed nothing wrong. "Wrong" is the wrong word. I don't exactly know what the right word is to describe Jordan, but I know for sure nothing is "wrong."

Rocket Safety #101

When Jordan was about 8 or 9 he came home from school with a rocket he'd made in science class. It was just a harmless little thing made from a film canister and alka selzer.

Being the fully supportive family that we are, everyone gathered on the driveway to watch Jordan "launch" his rocket. Jordan carefully placed the miniature rocket in the middle of the driveway while we all stood far enough away (for safety sake, of course) that we could barely even see the rocket.

We waited...

and waited...

and waited...

Jordan assured us that the rocket worked perfectly when his teacher demonstrated it, so we continued to wait.

Just as Jordan knelt down to inspect the malfunctioning rocket, darn if the thing didn't launch right then--smack into his forehead!

Again, being the fully supportive family that we are, we all witheld our laughter for at least 3 1/2 seconds--almost enough time to determine that the rocket hadn't hit anything vital, like an eye.

Lesson learned.

NOT!

Less than 24 hours after Jordan's first near-death experience (as death relates to rockets, anyway, since we'd lost count on actual near-death experiences), Jordan came home from his after-school science program with a REAL rocket. It was so exciting because this thing was, like, 2 feet tall, with a launching pad and all! The launching mechanism required one of those huge square batteries, so it was clear this no alka-selzer rocket wanna-be.

Sadly, the weather wasn't going to cooperate with us that day, so I explained to Jordan that we would all go to the park as soon as the rain let up. I really wanted Jordan to have a good rocket experience after the previous day's mishap, be we would have to wait, and I would have to look at his sad little face for a good 24 hours at least.

or NOT...

At the time, we had a basement that was equipped with a full commercial bakery. My sister and I had a huge bakery order to fill and were knee-deep in gift baskets when my four supposedly homework-doing children started screaming unintelligabley as they scrambled over one another in a ball of arms and legs down to the basement. Being that all four kids were seemingly on the same team in this case and more panicked than crying, I figured it was something worth looking into. Just as I hurled myself over the shaking kid-mass in the stairwell and began fast-walking (after all, kids can get worked up over little things, so I didn't feel the need to run,) every smoke detector in the house began shrieking all at once. I stepped it up and started taking stairs two at a time.

I was greeted at the top of the stairs by a smoke-filled kitchen. The kids were still a screaming, jumbled, hugging mess several steps behind me and no help whatsoever as I attempted to discern where the smoke was coming from. Oddly, there didn't seem to be any accompanying fire.

As the cloud began to dissipate and the smoke-detector shrill continued, a small, charred, wooden block emerged smack dab in the center of my gorgeous wood floor. This blackened thing looked mysteriously like the rocket launcher Jordan had brought home only 20 minutes before. Yet there was no rocket resting proudly upon it.

I slowly (very slowly since I feared the worst and wasn't entirely ready to face it)scanned from what I now knew to be that stupid launcher all the way up to my 18 ft. ceiling. There, majestically embedded in my kitchen ceiling was Jordan's rocket!

By this time, and with tears streaming down his face, Jordan had worked his skinny little shirtless body between my warm body and my arm. I could feel his chest thumping at what seemed to be double the pace of my own racing heart, and all I could do was hug him tightly. I couldn't even speak, let alone get mad.

Don't get me wrong, it's more in my nature to get mad and yell THEN check for broken bones, etc. This time was different. I just stood there in awe--awe that there was a rocket in my ceiling, awe that Jordan's face hadn't been blown off, awe that Jordan had escaped death.

again.