The Extended Family Vacation- part one

This post is the first in a short series on taking our little RADish on an extended family vacation. A two day road trip, a large house full of kids, a dangerous ocean.... what could go wrong?



Next month we are heading to the beach. Me and the boys will be loading up the car and starting out on the longest car trip we have attempted since our youngest joined our family. Both boys have been campaigning heavily to fly, and they might be on to something. But we are going to drive it. A real family vacation, a road trip.

And when we get to the beach, we will find ourselves smack in the middle of my husband's large family. That's right, we are taking our chaos, trauma and behaviors to a large beach house and rolling out the circus for the family. I am seriously considering just packing beach towels and alcohol.

The list of things that we cannot do as a family of trauma has gotten smaller over the past three years. This summer we have gone strawberry picking. My husband took the boys to a loud, hot, crowded NASCAR race. We have been swimming in the crowded pool in our new neighborhood. We have accomplished longer car trips and not lost anyone at large playgrounds. We made it through a cousin's birthday party. We have rolled with the punches too- scrambling to find a full time summer sitter when my little RADish got himself kicked out of daycare and taking lots of deep breaths when behaviors ratchet up. But nothing we have managed to accomplish so far this summer will hold a candle to what we will face come the first week of August.

  The extended family vacation.

 

 

When I tell people that we are heading to the beach, five families, seven kids between the ages of two and eleven, with a high schooler and college kid thrown in to round out the mix, I get a smiling response. "Oh, that will be so much fun!". "What a wonderful opportunity!". And I agree. It should be fun. And it is a nice opportunity, in theory. These well meaning people? They have no idea.

 

After two days on the road we will emerge from the car, toys and books falling out as we open the doors. We will gather the trash- I'm thinking it will mainly be ripped pages of books and broken happy meal toys we will be filling that trash bag with- the garbage of the traumatized. A month of planning and preparing for those two days will still have us dragging ourselves out of the car, two exhausted parents, one cluelessly happy seven year and a sullen five year old with a settle to score.

 

We will then spend the next week in a state of hyper vigilance. While our relatives drink ice tea and spend time making memories, relaxing as their children play, we will be following our youngest son around, working hard to stay one step ahead of him. He will be smiling and happy and we will feel stupid as we keep a watchful eye over absolutely everything he does. We will drag him away from his cousins and his fun before something goes wrong, attempting to offer him sensory breaks, which he will refuse. We will flounder, unsure of our parenting skills on a good day, let alone with so many eyes upon us. We will question- should we let him go back and play? Should we force the break? Eventually my husband and I will let the frustration get the best of us and we will argue.

 

Another time we will forego the sensory break, letting our youngest son continue to play with his cousins. Someone will get hit, or something will get broken. "Boys will be boys", we will hear. "All kids act like that, you should have seen what my son did at his age!".

 

We will spend a lot of time alone, just the four of us, on this trip. It will be great, quality time, fun and maybe, just maybe, a little relaxing. This hiding will come with a price though. Even if it is not happening we will still feel judged. Relatives will try to include us. They will not understand that it is better for our little family to spend some time alone. That we are OK with this. We will feel as though we are letting someone down during most every moment of this trip. Spend too much time with the large group and we may not be doing what is best for our son. Keep him secluded and we may be helping his anxiety, but also appear as though we have something to hide. I am exhausted just thinking about it, and it is still a month away!

 

And then there is the parenting style that we have adopted. So far in this life of ours we have adopted two kids, a puppy, two guinea pigs, a fish or two,  and about a million parenting styles. Parenting a child of trauma with attachment issues  requires a specific set of skills that we are just beginning to learn. Skills that are not in the arsenal of main stream parents. Techniques that find us not punishing as others might think we should. "Why are they letting him get away with that?". Why indeed.

 

 

So why are we going? Why spend a week of precious vacation time, time we need to reserve for doctor's appointments, therapy intensives, self care? With two kids, one with a cleft palate and one with attachment issues, we are booked solid with appointments, all requiring one of us to take time off work. Why drive for two days, amid fighting, while dodging shoes and toys thrown at us from the backseat? Why spend a week in hyper vigilant mode, attempting to anticipate our youngest son's next move? Why take our circus on the road to the beach, adding an ocean of dangerous water to our live circus show?

 

I'll tell you why. Because my oldest son deserves to spend time with his extended family, and he radiates sadness if we don't do things as a family. Because my youngest son loves to play in the sand, and is just beginning to enjoy swimming. Because despite how hard this will be it is a great opportunity to show him, once again, what a family is. How a family feels.  How a family acts. Because I will experience moments of absolute joy as I play in the sand with my son, or as I watch him have a sweet moment with his aunt. Because at the end of the day I hope to be able to tally up more good moments than bad.  Because I am not going to make excuses for my son. I will explain reasons but not give excuses. Because he has a right to share these experiences with his family. Because this is who we are, and there is no reason we can't do this. I might be crazy and over optimistic, but I really think we can do this. Bring on the sun!

 

 

Stay tuned for more posts in the "Extended Family Beach Vacation" series. Topics to include sharing details of our story with family, preparing my RADish for our road trip, and taking essential oils on the road. 

I want to be like them when I grow up!

Over the past few weeks my sweet husband and I have been working on completing admission paperwork to the Attachment and Bonding Center of Ohio. This extensive process has us creating narratives of our entire journey with our persevering preschooler. Starting at the beginning, in that dated hotel room in Russia, we began to lay out every step. Every step forward, every step backwards, every misstep.

These narratives include mainly our concerns and issues, and very little of our successes. Which we have done purposely, because we know our little guy needs help and we want him to get it. We know our entire family needs help. Despite our leaps and bounds we still have a long way to go.

And so we have been remembering the chaos, the sad, the am I the only parent who feels this way questions. Not fun, for sure. But because of this forced trip down memory lane we have also found ourselves pointing out how far we have all come since those fateful days in that musty Russian hotel room. And I do mean how far we have all come, because this journey does not just belong to our youngest son. We have all been on the rocky road, sometimes together, sometimes standing alone.

My sweet husband keeps saying things like, "Remember that next time Alex flips out."

And I do remember. This weekend alone my sweet baby worked through so many of his issues and emerged triumphant on Sunday evening. He did manage to get himself, his brother, and his grandparents thrown out of a childrens' museum, but really, that is nothing for my little guy.

He handled a busy weekend - a large Easter egg hunt filled with bustling children, competition, and, of course, candy. Attendance at a church he is unfamiliar with and where he spent time in both the sanctuary and the childrens' area.  Again, more bustling children, which is one of his triggers. He cheered his older brother on at the first Spring flag football game of the season. He spent two nights with his grandparents, without his usual bedtime rituals. He was an amazing Sensory and Trauma success! And yes, I am ignoring the Great Childrens' Museum Incident of 2014. His misdeed occurred during free play with other children, one of his biggest triggers. My sweet husband and I learned that lesson the hard way, and now so have the in-laws.

Late last week my persevering preschooler and I were reading a book that his bus aide gave him. (I know, right? What a sweet woman this aide is!) The main character in this book was a blanket, and the story was about how the little boy was never going to leave the blanket. Just like Mommy will never leave Alex. After we read the book my young son asked why he didn't have a blanket. Now before you get all upset that my sweet little baby doesn't have a blanket, let me put your mind at ease. He does have blankets. LOTS of blankets. But he really doesn't have a small one that can travel with him. He did, but he never used them, and now Lord only knows where they are. Still packed in a box, probably. But now, now he wants a blanket. "Like my brother's", he tells me.

His brother overheard this request. "He can have one of my Brown's blankets, because I have two." Wow. Just WOW.

The conversation ended and the boys went to Grandma's for the weekend. Frankly, I forgot about this simple request. But my smart seven year old didn't forget. This morning my oldest son showed up in the living room much earlier than needed, trailing his pillow, stuffed animals, and two Brown's blankets.  I watched as he handed one over to his little brother. "Are you sure?", I whispered to my brave son. "I have two. And he wants one."

There was a time when my oldest son would never had dreamed of sharing any of his precious belongings, especially not with his demanding and confusing little brother. There was  a time when his younger brother's antics would make him angry and frustrated. There was a time when he couldn't see the positive changes in his growing brother.

So we still have little to no eye contact. We still have stilted conversations and lots of melt downs. We still have refusal to learn, well, anything from me. We still have oh so many issues. But we also have more smiles from our youngest than blank stares. More joy. More participation in family. More understanding. And more brotherly love. My boys, they are right on track. They are getting it right. And I am in awe of them. I want to be like them when I grow up!

The Ups Give Me Energy

Last night the Wilkison clan all rolled into the tiny toddler's new preschool for a fundraiser carnival night. And I say "rolled" because that is how I feel we travel, everywhere. Loud. Always in motion. My boys are like bowling balls just rolling around, not a care about who, or what, they might knock over. We do so many things for the super six year old- the three year old hangs out at church while his big brother attends the weekly kids programming. He tags along to the swim lessons, the flag football games, the school art shows. (Which we attended last evening as well.) The life of a younger brother, right?

So when we have the opportunity to celebrate the tiny toddler, we go for it. And while our evening, true to form, eventually melted down into a puddle of tears and defiance, for a short time we did just that. Watching my  little man walk around his school, knowing where everything is, showing us his room- was priceless. And so worth the chaos of too  many tired parents crowded into the small school hallways, too many wired little ones hopping up and down, too many heavy winter coats that had to be carried because children just can't seem to do this for themselves. We took the fundraiser up on it's cheap food and fed our boys dinner for $4.00. We sat in the tiny cafeteria/gym while the boys ate their hot dogs and pizza and I watched in amazement as my tiny toddler got excited about a boy sitting three tables over. He mumbled something about going to hug this boy, climbed down off the bench seat and ran over to his new friend. I quickly followed, trying to remind him that "Not everyone likes hugs- please ask first!" The other boy's mother looked startled as my little guy ran straight into her son. Her son looked a tad startled too and for a brief moment I thought, "Oh my God, he doesn't know this kid!" But we sorted it out. Somewhat. The other boy, who looked older than mine, may, or may not, be in the tiny toddler's class. He may, or may not, actually know the tiny toddler- he did seem to recognize him, but he wasn't talking. But my heart perked up a little- my tiny toddler might have a friend!

I watched as the preschool staff that know my little guy waved to him and gave him high fives. While there was still some indifference over showing me his classroom there was also a glimmer of light. The tiny toddler attends this school four afternoons a week, riding a school bus to get there from daycare. Every evening I ask him what he did in school, and every evening he tells me that he didn't go to school. Or that he didn't ride the bus. Last week he told me that he walked all the way there, in the road.  He tells me his teacher is never there. He simply refuses to say a word about this school.

Parenting this child is like being forced to ride a roller coaster every minute of every day. At his school, watching him smile at teachers and wanting to hug other kids who he may, or may not know- I was at the top of the roller coaster, screaming with joy, laughing and having fun. But just like every roller coaster ride, even though I was momentarily thrilled, there was the thought of the scary moments that could be just ahead always lurking in my mind. The moment when he takes his shoes off and throws them at his brother's head in the backseat of the car. The moment when he repeatedly unbuckles his brother's seat belt as we are hurtling down the highway. The moment when his eyes are angry, or, worse yet, empty. And just like every other day, last night we made it through the scary part of the roller coaster ride and put a sleepy tiny toddler into his bed, peacefully. We don't always make it to bedtime peacefully, and often bedtime is a trigger for my little guy, but even on those nights we wake up in the morning with the scary behind us, at least for a while.

There used to be a time when it seemed as though the roller coaster only went one way. As though there was no opportunity for those thrilling, happy screaming moments. Now my roller coaster gives me the ups and the downs. The downs are horrendous. The downs threaten to tear apart the family. The downs push seeds of doubt into my mind and push my husband and I apart. The downs make me worry about my tiny toddler's future, about my whole family's future. The downs leave me with bruises from being kicked, colds from being spit on, and dirty clothes from thrown food. But now we have the ups sometimes. The ups give me hope. The ups bring tears to my eyes as I watch in amazement at whatever new task or emotion my tiny toddler is mastering. The ups make me see his future in a slightly brighter light. The ups give me the energy I need to live through the downs.

Last night, for a short time, was a huge up. And it's those little moments that make parenting this goofy, classic rock music loving child so worth it.

China and Russia were trying to take us down

When I think about last night I smile. Not when I think about bedtime. Not when I remember the tiny toddler angry in his crib, kicking the already broken side rail. Not when I try to figure out why he went from happy guy to angry baby in the blink of an eye. But before that, at dinner time, awesome.

I remember when my tiny toddler wouldn't even come to the dinner table. Then he would show up in his chair but refuse to participate in anything meal related. He would scream, on purpose, during the prayer. He would lunge across the table trying to grab things from his brother. He would throw his food on the floor. And, sometimes, he still does.

But last night, when I asked who wanted to say the prayer, fully expecting my little guy to remain silent and my super six year old to step up, his hand shot up in the air. My tiny toddler wanted to say the prayer? Alrighty then. He clasped his hands, fingers laced together. He brought them over his head and started singing. "God made rainbows, God made rainbows, sunshine too, sunshine too." He brought his still clasped hands down under his chin. "Now we say our blessing, now we say our blessing. Amen. Amen." Every word was clear. Every word was respectful. He wasn't shouting the words or purposefully being loud. He was praying. I turned from watching my young son and locked eyes with my sweet husband across the table. Both of us had tears in our eyes. A 20 second prayer. A moment of quiet in the loudness that is our lives. A glimpse at a calmer future.

After the super six year old was finished eating and the tiny toddler was done staring at his "oatmilk", (this is how he says "oatmeal" and it is his new go to food. He doesn't really eat it, but he wants it and he likes stirring the brown sugar into the bowl of steaming oatmeal.), the boys left the table. I asked them to please go upstairs and play, something they usually do not like to do without me. This time, off they went. A few moments later I heard footsteps on the stairs. Giggling. Whispers. I could tell that the super six year was in command. Orders were whispered in the dark of the dining room. I jumped as loud pops sounded behind my kitchen chair and then I heard clatters as the suction darts fell to the floor. We were being shot at!

Suddenly a dart flew through the air over my sweet husband's head and stuck to the red and brown checked wallpaper. Then a dart hit my husband in the head. He got up from the table and staggered over to the sofa in the living room, falling over, dead. Much to the delight of the boys. I sat at the table, laughing along with them. My sweet boys. They were using their imaginations. They were playing together. They were working as a team to take us down. They were on a spy mission and they played their spy game for a long time.  Together. China and Russia were trying to take us down.

When I am carrying the tiny toddler like a football under my arm out of daycare because he won't walk. When I am turning up the radio to drown out his screaming and when I am dodging projectiles being thrown at me from the backseat because I forgot to remove his shoes when we first got in the car. When I am angry and frustrated and think I can't do this a moment longer, I will remember last night. I will remember how I felt when I heard my tiny toddler singing the meal time prayer, his voice strong and clear. I will remember his smile when he got through the whole prayer. I will remember how happy everyone was when they boys were on their spy mission. Sometimes it seems as though the mountain is insurmountable, but last night the hope was strong.