Nine Months

The difference nine months can make.

September:  You've finally asked for a divorce and meant it.  You buy a dog at the local shelter to prove to your spouse that you really want a divorce.  In 12 years of marriage, it was the one thing he ever told you not to do.  You name the dog Shiva to symbolize the huge transformation that is occurring in your life--internally as well as externally.  Most people assume that since you work in a Hebrew school, you named it after the seven days of mourning that one sits after a death in the family and they tell you they are so sorry about how sad you are, and how appropriate to name the dog Shiva, but you're not sad--not really--I mean you are, but you've been sad for a long time so things can only improve from here, right?  You try to explain why the Hindu Lord of Destruction is actually a really positive thing.  About as many people "get it" as those who understand that the Death card in a tarot deck doesn't mean you're going to die.  You're okay with that.  You start yoga teacher training and you think you're going to be totally awesome.  You're a high school English teacher beginning a new school year.  You have two kids to find childcare for now because you're about to become a single mom.  You're stuck between being totally terrified and believing that you totally got this.  The dog eats one of your brand new Birkenstock sandals and tries to chew through a power cord, but you're convinced this is just a passing thing.

Shiva--Lord of Adho Mukha Svanasana stretches
and champion destroyer of shoes and Monster High dolls.

October:  Your soon-to-be-ex spouse finally moves out of the house.  You feel a huge surge of relief and liberation, but you aren't sure how to handle being alone.  You clean the house top to bottom and rearrange the bedroom furniture, throw out a lot of stuff, and make sage sticks to smudge the place.  When the kids leave for their weekends with their dad, you are desperate to fill the empty space, so you start going out on dates.  You find out rather quickly that the dating pool is, to say the least, frustrating and bleak, but sitting alone in an empty house... you can't take it.  At least when they are home, you don't have to worry about sleeping alone--because they are ALWAYS in your bed at night.  Your daughter tells you to find a rich man--someone who can take her to Kalahari.  You turn 39-years-old and celebrate over a quiet dinner with your children.  The dog starts eating the couch.  You try to fix something and realize your soon-to-be ex-spouse has pretty much taken every tool in the house.  You're listening to Counting Crows and John Mayer a lot.  Not exactly uplifting, you realize, but it is what it is.  One evening you go to bed to find two children, a dog, and a cat in it.  You decide to sleep in your daughter's bed instead.  You have no time to practice yoga and no money for a sitter.  You start to wonder how you're going to fit all of these requirements in for this whole yoga teacher training thing.

This used to be my bed.  Now it is community property.

November:  You find yourself making bad decisions because you are so completely and utterly out of your mind lonely.  You go to your monthly yoga teacher training weekend and it starts with a chakra tuning practice.  You bawl through most of it because it starts with the root chakra and in addition to struggling with your feelings about your mother's reaction to your divorce, you feel as if the ground is constantly quaking beneath your feet.  From there it's just all downhill until you're just a mass of pulp on the mat at the end.  You're supposed to be able to teach Surya Namaskar A and B by now, but you are so distracted by your personal life that you are getting nothing accomplished.  On the 19th, your final court date, you wake up, go to a yoga class, and find yourself so physically ill that you have to lay with your legs up the wall for the final 15 minutes of class.  Either you have the flu or this is the most shot your nerves have ever been.  Your head is throbbing as if Thor were smashing you in the skull with his hammer.  You don't regret it, but somehow you thought this day would be a lot happier. A few days later, while listening to John Mayer on the drive to work (because songs like Split Screen Sadness are suddenly getting constant play in your car CD player), you suddenly get this idea that you should see if your old college flame still has the same cell phone number that you got from his sister via Facebook 4 years earlier.  He does.  You tell him you're not married anymore.  He is very, very interested in this life event.  After planning a date with him, you freak out and decide that you aren't ready for the inevitable, which is that he is going to be very, very serious.  You are emotionally unstable and you know it.  You freak out and blow him off.  The dog eats more of the couch, a dozen freshly baked vegan pumpkin muffins, and your daughter's favorite stuffed animal that she's been carrying with her everywhere since she was three months old, but you love her anyway.   You have the most pathetic Thanksgiving ever, but your son brings in flowers from the garden to decorate the table because he is adorable and sweet, and after the kids go to bed you get sick again and have yourself a good cry.  You are pretty sure Christmas this year is going to totally suck.  You try not to think about it.  A secret friend leaves a gift card in your mailbox and another sends you one in the mail to help you buy Christmas gifts for the kids and you are overwhelmed by the kindness of friends.  You think maybe Christmas won't suck after all, but your parents have decided not to visit so your hope is dimly lit at best.

R.I.P. Hugs--both the old and the new, as the replacement got eaten as well.

December:  You discover that you have opened a can of worms with the old college flame, who seems to know that you are not in an emotional position to rekindle a relationship with him but isn't willing to give up so easily.  He starts sending you cryptic text messages in the form of poetry.  You show one to your friend during yoga teacher training.  She is perplexed.  She now knows him as "metaphor man."  You are not perplexed.  You know that the more serious a situation gets, the less direct he becomes.  You continue to blow him off, not because you want to, but because there is this complex and confusing history there that only you and he could possibly understand.  Your new John Mayer song is In Your Atmosphere because it explains perfectly how completely confused you are about the old college flame. You ask the friend who knows him as "metaphor man" what she thinks, but only after you give her a very abbreviated version of your history with him.  She tells you hey, why not give it a whirl?  You finally decide to try to connect with him again.  There's another snafu and you blow him off again, then you spend the entire weekend regretting your decision.    You go home with the kids for Christmas and when you get into town--where the old college flame still lives, and you don't--you call him and say hey, how about Christmas Eve lunch?  By Christmas Day he's telling you he still loves you and is spending the day with your family.  By the day after Christmas, he is proposing.  You are totally freaked out, but you're not afraid anymore.  The only thing you are afraid of is how completely freaking nuts everyone is going to think you are when they find out that you have been divorced for 2.3 minutes and you're already with this other guy.  You tell no one.  But you spend a lot of time wondering how to give people a short version of your history with the old college flame.  You realize there just isn't one.  Turns out it's the best Christmas ever.  You get your new social security card in the mail on December 30th because you had changed your married name back to your maiden surname--the only man you were willing to "belong to" was your father.  But now you realize that there is no point in changing your driver's license or anything else because you know that you're going to say "yes" to the old college flame's proposal and that he is going to want you to take his name, even though you have sworn that you will never, ever change your identity for a man ever again.  You still like John Mayer, but you decide that you need to choose a different song to remember the old college flame by because "Split Screen Sadness" no longer works.  He sends you this song and tells you it has always reminded him of you.  It makes you cry.  You decide on a new song.

Best Christmas Eve EVER!!

January:  You realize that turning away the old college flame back in 1999 was a pretty big mistake.  You shock everybody with this.  You hope that nobody thought that you were cheating on your husband or that you are crazy or that you are some kind of strumpet.  You try to hide it from the people at work, but though the wonders of Internet social networking, everyone knows in about 5.6 minutes.  You sell the old ring and buy your daughter a new My Little Pony toy, then use the rest to pay for another month of yoga teacher training.  

It's an aquamarine.  My daughter helped me pick it out.  

February:   Things are complicated because I just agreed to marry a guy who still lives 100 miles away from me.  We drive through some of the coldest, snowiest, most ridiculous weather in Ohio history in order to be with each other on weekends.  Having a weekend boyfriend is a drag and one weekend a month I can barely see him at all because of this yoga teacher training that is starting to, quite frankly, overwhelm the hell out of me, but when we are together, we look like this:

New haircut selfie!!!

March: I have no idea what the hell happened this month.  I think I was supposed to be doing a lot of yoga assisting and starting to teach classes and stuff.  I have no idea what I am doing, and I am supposed to be planning a wedding now.  There is some confusion over whether or not I am actually still sane.  I am still an English teacher somewhere in this mess and there are papers to grade and stuff like that.  March is just a blur.  A cold, snowy blur.  The dog has completely destroyed the couch and the old college flame, now fiancé, is allergic to her.  We still love her anyway.  My daughter asks my fiancé if she should call him "Dad."  He tells her to call him whatever she is comfortable calling him.  In the meantime, my son is just happy to talk about rocketry and watch Saturn V DVDs with him.  My son decides the fiancé needs to be introduced to The Lord of the Rings.  I start teaching yoga classes for my YTT requirements.  I land a gig teaching donation based yoga classes at a local studio--and the idea scares the crap out of me.  I am no longer sure that I am going to be totally awesome.  At the end of the month, I post this on Facebook:  

"My 9-year-old son (who is a 55-year-old man trapped in a 4th grader's body) told me the other day that it was a good thing that Gandalf the Grey fell into the chasm with the Balrog, for if that hadn't have happened, he'd have never become a White Wizard and had the all of the abilities needed to help the Fellowship destroy the Ring of Power. He said, 'So see, sometimes things happen and they seem bad, but really in the end they are good, because everything happens for a reason.'

I struggle a lot lately with why I made certain decisions in my life path; the struggle has led me through sadness, then anger, then regret, then indifference, then occasionally anger again...but then there are moments of clarity, moments of 'this is why I made that decision, and it gave me these amazing kids and it brought me to this point in my life, here in Lakewood, Ohio,' which in many ways was necessary for me to find our who I really am.

There is a principle in Hindu philosophy called Satsang, which, in a nutshell, can be interpreted to mean that we should associate with people who bring out the best in us--who encourage us to be our highest selves. Today I have had many reaffirmations of why I am here, now, in a Cleveland suburb, a place I never thought I would be. I am grateful today at how many friends I have accumulated here who have not only helped me when I was in a crisis--however big or small--or who have, in some way, helped to uplift me. There are so many of you. I am a very lucky woman.

It's hard to keep Shiva from destroying the couch when
my daughter keeps inviting her up there.

April:  Of course I am going to catch up on all that grading during Spring Break!  Except that my mother is in town staying with me and my cousin is getting married and  the fiancé's parents are back from Arizona for the summer it's Easter and all this other stuff.  I start to panic that I am never going to catch up on my day job.  You know, the one that pays the mortgage.  I have all of these yoga teacher training requirements to complete and I am falling behind.  On the other hand, my autistic son is on new medication and he is doing well in school for the first time in his life.  He is named student of the month.  I see the fiancés parents for the first time since, oh, I don't know, 1995??  My brother's newborn makes me decide I want to have another baby.  See why?

And I start cheating on my fiancé with old yoga men and Raymond Carver at night:

And I find this old photo of the car that I am about to, technically, become "half owner" of, which is super awesome but the truth is that 90% of the reason I love it--other than the fact that it is the Dukes of Hazzard car--is because it has been a labor of love for him since he was a teenager:

And I decide that I am going to help him restore this, even if it just means that I sit there and hand him tools....

....because I don't give a crap what we are doing as long as we are together.  

May:  This happens.  

2014 Jivasara Class--Real Yogis Huff Mint.

And when this happens, my fellow teacher trainees tell me that I am a different person.  That the person who arrived last September was broken and clearly trying to keep up the appearance of being strong.  That the person they know now is blissful, content, and confident.  I realize that somewhere in the middle of this blog, I switched from a non-personal second person point of view to a first person point of view, and although I wasn't conscious of it, I think it means something about my state of mind shift.  I am a few months away from marrying the man who I perhaps should have married in the first place, yet I am grateful that the path I took gave my my children.  I am grateful for everyone who helped me while I was on this journey.  I am grateful for the friends I didn't know I had and the ones who showed me just how much they value my friendship.  I am grateful to have a man who waited 15 years for me to come to my senses.  I am grateful for my yoga teachers and my fellow trainees, who supported me though some of the darkest times of my life.  I am just grateful in general.  Ananda--bliss.  I think I'll try to have another baby and I think that Ananda makes a good name for a girl.  The dog is no longer eating the furniture.  My kids sleep in their own beds again.  I am starting to learn to play nice with my ex-spouse, and even if I don't know how to forgive him yet, I recognize that, for my own benefit and for the benefit of our kids, I have to learn how.  I am teaching yoga.  I am smiling.  I am letting go and moving forward.  

Nine months--the gestation period of a human baby.  

Shiva has worked his magic.  

And that's the difference nine months can make.

Dear Daughter,

Here is what I will tell you when you ask.  Because you ask a lot of hard questions now, and I have to be prepared.

There are all these cliches about knowing when you have found "The One."   That he will literally make your heart feel swollen with happiness and gratitude.  That you'll feel more like yourself when you are with him than when you are without him.  That when he is not with you, there's something missing.  That you'll feel so close when he holds you that you'll be unable to determine where you end and he begins.  That as a unit, you will be greater than the sum of your parts. That you'll feel an inexplicable sense that something bound you to him even before you even met him.   That you will find yourself capable of forgiving things you once thought unforgivable.

I always thought all of that was bullshit.  Now I know better.  Don't settle until you feel all of the above.  Satsang, above all.  Aim for the highest.

Love,

Momma

Be True and Be Free; or, "The Blog is Back."

I don't know why I started this blog.  It's never really had any particular theme or focus or purpose.  Mostly I just write every once in a while when something is really weighing heavily on my mind, and it's never anything that I can imagine is useful or important to anyone else.  But people tell me I should write a blog and my ego gets in the way and I suddenly think that what I have to say really is important, so every once in a while I write here.

And that's a lie.  Kind of.

The truth is that I have purged every poem and story I have ever written because I am afraid to look at them.  Because I am afraid that I suck as a writer and that nothing I have to say is really all that meaningful or eloquent.  Because I am afraid that my work will remind me of who I used to be and I am afraid that I won't like what I see.  Because when I was in my 20's I wrote a poem inspired by the Earthrise photo taken from the Apollo 8 on Christmas Eve, 1968, and I sent it out as a Christmas card and I didn't think anyone "got it."  You know, those kinds of insecurities.

Which brings me to Satya.

Last night I started "tattooing my house," as my boyfriend put it, with Sanskrit.  I decided to paint the Yamas and Niyamas on my walls.  The plan is to paint all ten of them, in Sanskrit, and beneath each, in English, describe their meanings in a short and sweet manner that can be understood by my children, who are 8 and 9-years-old.  I started with Ahimsa, non-violence, in the dining room.  Under it:  "Be kind."  Then Asteya, non-stealing, in the hallway:  "Give more, take less."  The kids started asking questions.  Score one for Mom.  Daughter is walking around the house saying, "Give more, take less."  Son is suggesting places for the next Yama I plan to paint:  Satya.  We decide on the living room.  I sketch it out and paint it, but I can't think of how to explain it in simple terms.

Satya. Truthfulness.  To say "Speak the truth" isn't enough.  Yes, we should speak honestly, but that doesn't quite cover it all.  I considered "Speak YOUR truth."  Be true to yourself, to your Self, to the essence of who you really are.  That was better, but doesn't quite encapsulate all that Satya means. Satya is Truth with a capital "T."  It's not just about not telling lies, or about hiding who you really are; it's about living a life of integrity in a world where there is an absoluteness of Truth.

How do you sum that up in a few words for a couple of grade school kids?

Swami Satchidananda wrote in his book on the Yoga Sutras that "The more we lead a life of honesty, the more we will see the results, and that will encourage us to be more honest.  With the establishment of honesty, the state of fearlessness comes.  One need not be afraid of anybody and can always lead an open life....So, first follow truth, and then truth will follow you."

It occurred to me that I had spent so many years of my life unable to speak, act, or be my Truth that it was no wonder I couldn't figure out how to explain it to my kids.

Take this blog, for instance.  I took it down in part because my ex-husband kept reading it and then commenting on it in some shape or form, often in a manner that indicated he was uncomfortable with something I had written.  I haven't really written about my divorce on this blog.  I have tried to refrain from speaking ill of my ex-husband on the Internet.

But this just needs to be said.  It needs to be said not because I am trying to bash my ex, but because I am compelled to be an example to those who are younger than me and/or who have yet to dive into the world of marriage.  IN CENSORING MYSELF VIA THIS BLOG, I WAS DOING EXACTLY WHAT I DID TO MYSELF FOR MY ENTIRE MARRIED LIFE.  I was allowing him, albeit indirectly, to dictate my truth.  Without assigning fault, let me just say that I spent one-third of my life in fear of expressing who I really am to my own husband. I wasn't being my Truth.  And that was--and residually, it remains--a problem.  A big one.

Okay, so this new paragraph is a tangent.  Not really.  But it will seem like one for a second.  When I was in college, I had this friend (really more than a friend, I had a crush on the boy for years, actually) who thought I was an amazing writer.  Frankly, I think he overstated how great my writing was, but regardless, he really dug my work.  So much so that, upon reconnecting with him after 14 years, I learned that he still has some of my writing. He kept it.  He wants to know things like, why don't I write anymore?  When did I stop?  Have I lost my marbles?  The answers:  I'm not that good at it anyway; I don't remember when I stopped; and No, I'd like to think I am pretty sane. (Okay he didn't really ask if I was crazy, but he has implied heavily that I have no clear concept of just how talented I really am.)

So tonight, as I am struggling to find a simple way to define Satya for my children, I have this epiphany:  I stopped writing when I met my ex-husband.  Just like everything else I stopped doing, and saying, and being, and believing.  All those things that made me who I was without him--all those things I forgot, those things that were the essence of my inner Truth--I just gave them up.  Willingly.  And in doing so, I lost who I was.  I lost the freedom to just be me.

Wait--I think I got something.

"Truth is freedom."  No.  Too Orwellian.

"The truth will set you free."  No.  Too cliché.

"Be true; be free."

And there it is.

The moral of the story and the reason I am compelled to tell it:  Marry the person who sees your Truth, loves your Truth, and knows that your Truth is amazing even when you don't believe it yourself.  Marry the guy who "gets it." Only then can you be free to love yourself and, in turn, love him back.

The blog is back.

It's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing

“After all, what is happiness? Love, they tell me. But love doesn't bring and never has brought happiness. On the contrary, it's a constant state of anxiety, a battlefield; it's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing. Real love is composed of ecstasy and agony.”
― Paulo Coelho

 

 

Okay, Paulo.  I read your book The Alchemist and it has lots of nice nuggets of wisdom it in.  Nothing about it wowed me, but everyone else seems to like it and the critics think you're pretty ingenious.  So I read your thoughts on happiness, Paulo, and I feel pretty much the same way--a combination of, "Yes, Paulo, I do believe you are right" with a touch of "But I'm not sure that you really have it as figured out as you think you do."

 

And isn't that the case with all of us.

 

I come upon your quotation tonight, Paulo, with a heart heavily weighing my decision to take my son to the doctor in the morning to have him medicated.  This is an idea I have struggled with for many years, and a path that I have longed to avoid.  After all, hasn't yoga replaced my own need for anti-depressants, anti-anxiety meds, and sleeping pills?  Haven't I come to understand peace through meditation?  Through new friends and growing relationships?  Though learning that I have the ability to pick myself up, dust myself off, and face another day--even if it has to be on my own?

 

Then again, Paulo, there are those old habits that don't die hard.  There's the sugar.  And then there's the bottle of Jose Cuervo sitting up there on the shelf--the one I've had for six months, the one that I don't open often, just tempting me to mix it up with some limones y limas y azucar and find felicidad at the bottom of a glass.  I think that's called self-medicating.  I think maybe I haven't come as far as I think I have; but the difference between then and now is that this time I won't beat myself up over it.

 

So back to my son, because certainly this is not about me.  Is it?  I am not completely certain.  On the one hand, I think, "Wow, I am a shitty mom" (all about me).  I could work more with him at home, teach the boy more about breathing exercises and help him practice more yoga, make more visual aides and daily schedules and scrape up the money for more therapy, OT, SLP, ABA, all the alphabet soup.  I could have found a way to send him to that autism program at St. Adlebert School this year--I could have found a way to get him to school in Berea even though I live and work in opposite directions--I could have done that if I would have just tried harder, right? 

 

On the other had, this isn't about me.  It's about my son.  Am I medicating him so that my life will be easier, or am I medicating him so that his life will be more peaceful and productive?

 

Listen, Paulo.  I can't friggin' do everything.  I am not superwoman.  I can't even get a decent dinner on the table half the time anymore.  One would think that tacos and grilled cheese would eventually get old with the kids, but thank God they don't.  And I have to work.  Someone has to pay the mortgage.  And I have to clean the house sometimes, too.  I don't have time to worry about everything I have to worry about.

 

I think maybe you're right. Maybe love is just a constant state of anxiety, worrying, will my son's growing anxiety and aggression land him in jail one day?  Will he ever be able to hold a job?  Will be even graduate high school?  Will he live in my basement for the rest of his life? 

 

Am I too soft on him?  Do I give him too much power?  Do I not empower him enough?  Do I allow him to control me?  Do I try too hard to control him?  Do I yell at him too much?  Do I make things better or worse?  Does he know that I just want him to be, you know, "normal"?  Do I want him to be "normal"? 

 

You're right, Paulo.  Sometimes it's agony.  I have spent many a day and night wondering why I am such a shitty mom for this child.  Why on earth would his soul choose me?  What can I really do for him except stand by feeling helpless?  And what is he supposed to be teaching me?

 

But the ecstasy... when he gets out of the car in the morning during school drop off an tells me he loves me... when he hugs me good night... when he rambles on with his scientific trivia about jellyfish that asexually reproduce and how the rapid cell reproduction caused by animal growth hormones could give humans cancer if they eat meat... when he sleepwalks into my bedroom and snuggles up beside me... when he is the center of my entire universe, which is really pretty much always....

 

How can I medicate a child who has his passion?  How can I not medicate a child who has his passion?

 

I am stuck between a rock and a hard place, Paulo.  And I am tired of fighting these endless battles.  So medication it is. 

 



To My Son

Dear Son,

Always make a big deal of her birthday, your wedding anniversary, and every holiday on the calendar up to and including Valentine’s Day.  She needs to know that these days are special to you, too. And yes, she wanted a present; don't be an idiot.  And don't tell her to go pick one out for herself.

Always go to bed at the same time as she does.

With that said, not every touch needs to be sexual.  In fact, if every time she touches you you expect it to turn into something sexual, you run the risk that she will stop touching you.  Sometimes a woman just wants to sit close to you on the couch. 

No matter how strong she is, she will eventually break.  When that time comes, your job is to hold her and tell her everything is going to work out even if you are scared to death that it isn’t. Because sometimes it just isn’t about you.  In fact, a lot of times it just isn't about you.  Check your ego. 

Always acknowledge that you hear her.  Let me repeat that:  Always acknowledge that you hear her.

Your time is not more important than her time.  Ever.

If she likes to dance, take her dancing.  I don't care if you don't like to dance.  You should have thought about that before you married her.

You didn't "do the laundry for her" and you don't need to point out every time you run the dishwasher.  Those are your chores, too.  Just do them and shut up about it.  Yes, she notices.  The reason she isn't impressed is because it's not 1950 anymore; you're just expected to do these things now.

Eat what she cooks even if you don’t like it.  She worked her ass off to get that dinner in front of you.  I don't care how weird it looks or how different it is than the cooking you grew up with.  (That said, your mother is a pretty damn good cook.)

There’s no one you need to impress.  If she is no longer impressed, maybe you were trying too hard to be impressive.

BE TRUTH.  BE YOU.  Never lie or cover anything up, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.  If you do, she will never fully trust you again no matter what you do to try to make up for it.  And if she doesn't like your truth, then find someone who does.

It is my job to be your mother; it is her job to be your wife.  Be her partner, not her child. (Side note: If you're smart, you will always take her side when I am pissed at her; I guarantee that I will be pissed at her eventually. I promise to remember that I said this.)

Always be kind, even when you are angry.  Consciously choosing to use hurtful words--or to engage in hurtful actions--will only create wounds in the relationship that will never fully heal.  And saying you're sorry later isn't a panacea for deliberate cruelty.  Anger and violence are never the answer.  For anything.

Your relationships with your family will be affected deeply by any existential crisis you have about your own identity, your social status, and your place in this world in general.  Remembering that you are part of a greater whole and that all of your thoughts and actions will have ripple effects on your relationships will help keep your existential crisis from becoming the wrecking ball that sends her packing.  If you're in this together and not just for yourself, you will have much greater success.  And "being in this together" doesn't mean she supports all of your needs while you "find yourself"; it means you are in it TOGETHER.

Listen.

Breathe.

Be present--not just in body, but in mind and spirit as well.

I am sure I will think of more later and you know me, little man--you know I'll tell you what I'm thinking when it comes to me.  In the meantime, son, just be aware that every word you say, every thought you have, and every action you take affects everyone and everything around you.  You'll thank me later--and so will your wife.

Love,

Mom

 

Autism Awareness: A non-eloquent rambling because I had too long to think while scraping paint

Those of you who know me know very well that my son is 9 and has high functioning autism. He has all kinds of trouble in school because of his behavior, but he loves to learn and he loves science. And he is wicked smart.  So this summer we signed him up for a week long day camp at the science center where we live. Usually when we sign him up for classes there and at the Museum of Natural History he has no issues and everything runs smoothly, but today when I went to pick him up after the first day of camp his counselor expressed all kinds of concerns. Apparently he had a few meltdowns today and they didn't know how to deal with it. E.g. he lost a game and he got upset, another kid bumped into him and he got upset, stuff we are used to. But they also accused him of throwing food at lunch, which is not him at all and he had no idea what I was talking about when I mentioned it, and if there is one thing he doesn't do it's lie (I'm not sure he can, actually), so I wonder if someone made that up.  I know a lot of people claim their kids would never lie, but my son, he really doesn't; he will avoid replying if he doesn't want to tell the truth, but he will never flat out fib.

Anyway, they kept saying they needed more strategies to deal with him because they "wanted him to be able to stay," thus implying to me that they were going to kick him out of the camp. They also suggested that he needed an aide (I assume me or his father) for the field trip, which is Thursday when they go to Cedar Point Amusement Park--it's an amusement park science camp--which is probably the least of their worries because he will be fine at CP. He loves the movement, and he feels secure when he is strapped into the rides. I told them that financially I don't know how that would work (at nearly $60 for one adult ticket!), but that I would come back in the morning and have some more suggestions for them after I talked with Gavin and figured out what happened from his perspective.

He tells me it was too loud and that he was not comfortable because he doesn't know anybody and now he doesn't want to go back, but he knows they won't refund our money and he doesn't want to waste it. I am kind of upset because the more I think about all this, the more it feels discriminatory. I know they have a behavior agreement for the kids, but Gavin is not trying to be "bad"--he is trying really hard and he wants very badly to be the model of good behavior. He is very hard on himself when he loses control. I know they can do whatever they want because there's no law saying they have to service a child's special needs, but still. Also, the counselor for his group said she studied special ed, so I would think she might have more sympathy, but like I said, it sounded like they are threatening to kick him out. She should see this as an opportunity to learn what she's going to be dealing with for the rest of her career as a teacher. 

So we stuffed his backpack with half of the items in his sensory box and now I get to sit down and write a list of suggestions that could end up being a mile long for all I know.  One of the hardest things about dealing with my son's autism is that what works this afternoon may not work tomorrow morning.  Sometimes it's a crap shoot.  That's why I spend so many hours holding my breath, hoping that he will catch the next baseball that comes to him or be able to jump off that diving board without freaking out or that he will be able to get out in a game of tag without majorly tweaking.  You just never know.  

We had to scrape up a lot of money for this and I just wanted him to have a good time and enjoy himself in an educational setting for a change. So I don't know how exactly I should approach them in the morning. But moreover, I am very frustrated and sad because I can foresee his quirks causing people to discriminate against him for the rest of his life.  It truly breaks my heart to have had this sudden new awareness about Autism.  

Enter the Yoga Rock Star

The yoga zone is a place of non-judgment, which is why I thought this post over for about 11 hours before ultimately deciding to go ahead and write it.  The truth is that 99% of the time spent on my mat is spent focusing on no one else but myself.  I don't notice or care what anyone else is doing.  But when one chooses to make a spectacle of one's self, well, it's hard not to notice.  And people, seriously--being noticed on your mat is not what this is all about.

Enter the Yoga Rock Star.

Now mind you, I love yoga, and I love rock stars, but what I have a very hard time stomaching is a Yoga Rock Star.  First and foremost, in my experience the Yoga Rock Star is always a male.  I have no doubt there are females of the type out there as well, but I haven't encountered them.  The Yoga Rock Star is the guy who, as you are laying on your back waiting for class to begin, sets up next to you and decides to do--you know, just as a little warm up--a freaking headstand.

Really?  You warm up with a headstand?  Who does that?

Someone who cares more about looking cool on his mat than he does about anything else, most likely.

I get very, very distracted when some Yoga Rock Star sets up next to me with his fancy Lululemon or Manduka mat, strips off his shirt, and starts showing off.  This one time I was next to a guy who felt the need to kick off into a handstand after every. single. downwardfacingdog.  (And if you've ever been in a vinyasa yoga class, you know there are a lot of downward facing dog poses.)  It is distracting, Yoga Dude!  Please stop!

Listen, folks.  Friends don't let friends be Yoga Rock Stars. And the chicks don't think you're sweet just because you are rockin' it out and dripping sweat all over your mat while the rest of us are just trying to hold a tree pose.  Your rapid movements in my peripheral vision are keeping me from holding my drishti.  No one is here to impress anyone, okay?  Okay.

This is a yogi who also happens to be a rock star.  You are not Adam Levine.  Please stop.