Conversations Like This

I enter the Playgroup classroom. The four-year old kids greet me. I approach them one by one in their seats and ask them about various things-- their new hair clip, their shoes, whether they're happy or sad. I approach a little boy named Apa. He usually doesn't respond to me. He purposefully drops his head and turns away from me whenever I try to talk to him. So I expect the same reaction. I begin to move on to the next kid when I heard him speak,

"We have a big house."

His voice was soft but clear. I turned my full attention back to him.

"Oh you do, Apa?" I prodded.  "Yes and we have a shwimming poo."

He was looking at me now, full eye contact, head no longer bowed.

"Wow! And do you know how to swim?" My eyes widened as I awaited his next reply.

"Yesh like this." Arms  poised in a freestyle stroke in the air.

"And we have a dog. Her name is Allie."

I smile and wait if he would share with me more things. He decides not to and smiles at me. I move on to the next kid. And we talk about how her father from the UK will buy her an Elsa dress from Frozen.

Everyday I do my rounds at the Preschool. I prod the kids and ask them questions. Most are silent, surprised that I ask them about nonsensical things, it may seem. Some come out of their shells and relay to me stories unending. The day ends. Another begins. And I make sure we will have many more conversations like this.

~~0~~

It is late afternoon. Garret and I just arrived from our walk in the neighborhood. Morgan sits quietly on the sofa. I sit next to him. And I tell him, "Mag istorya ta dong." (Let's talk, Morgan). He eats his bread sticks, his back towards me. I begin our "conversation". 

"When you woke up from your nap, Mama and Papa were just outside having coffee. Kuya Garret was playing in the living room. Nanay Lucy was toasting Kuya's bread. We didn't leave you alone. We were just outside the room." 

"Hmmmm," he says, his back still turned to me.

I continue,  "I love you. Don't cry anymore when you wake up and find yourself alone, okay?"

"Hmmmmm," he says again.

"You are my big boy. You are my good boy. I love you." 

I kiss the back of his head. He turns to me and smiles. He holds my cheek with his two hands and giggles. I hold him close and plant kisses all over his chubby face. He giggles some more. 

Garret sitting nearby looks at us. I ask him to join us. He willingly does. Morgan on my left him on my right. I put my arms around them and kiss their foreheads. 

After a short while Garret stands up and hums in perfect tune, "Mary had a little lamb..."

Morgan looks at me again, full eye contact and says, "Dee-ya". (Bea)

He hears me. He knows I love him. He understands many things. And we will have many more conversations like this.

~~0~~

My work in school, now that our sped center closed down, revolves primarily on assisting our preschool supervisor. One of the things I love the most about it is the innumerable things I learn from my interaction with the kids. Honesty for instance, their eyes lighting up when you say something that sparks their interest, and after this,  their learning coming in waves. But mostly, the conversations I have with the children are the most significant part of the day. It tells me how unafraid or afraid they are of expressing what is in their hearts and minds. It is where imagination, creativity and eventually critical thinking take root--to think outside the box, to tell stories that may be out of this world, stories that are borne out of their fearlessness, to share their individual truths no matter how nonsensical they may be without fear of reproach or ridicule.  I can only hope that when at home, their stories find a safe haven. I hope too that their questions and sharing not be met by, "You ask too many questions" or "Keep quiet" or an absentminded, "Yes, uh-huh," just to shut them up. And let's not get started with how smart phones, iPads, tablets, social media are replacing personal interactions.

Both my boys are on the autism spectrum. Language impairment is a significant part of our lives. We converse in sounds, songs, gestures, laughter. Almost instinctive really, I might say. So I take the work I do in school, interacting and learning with kids who are neurotypical / normal on a deeper, more personal level. Suffice it to say that I take joy in knowing parents like those of Apa and the little girl above take time to create a personal relationship with their child, creating an atmosphere where their child's curiosity is welcomed, questions embraced, imagination encouraged, simple conversations deeply appreciated. And all I can say to those who choose to be otherwise, "Open your eyes and see what you have. Your children are gifts from the Universe that are meant to be loved,  fully appreciated." 

 ~~0~~

Everyday I do my rounds at the Preschool. I prod the kids and ask them questions. Most are silent, surprised that I ask them about nonsensical things, it may seem. Some come out of their shells and relay to me stories unending. The day ends. Another begins. I make sure that there will be many more conversations like this.

 ~~0~~

One afternoon in our home, I told Morgan, "Mag istorya ta dong..." where his replies were a quiet, "hmmmm" and an intent gaze only.

Seeing Garret, looking at us, I ask him to come sit with us him on my right. Morgan on my left. I put my arms around them and kiss their foreheads. 

After a short while Garret stands up and hums in perfect tune, "Mary had a little lamb..."

Morgan looks at me again, full eye contact and says, "Dee-ya". (Bea)

In not so many words or even none at all, I know in my heart they hear me, they know I love them, they understand many things.  And certainly, we will have many more conversations like this.

One Fine and Marvelous Day

He stands in a corner engrossed in his toys. Teddy bears in one table, picture cards in another. His toy ladle and cooking pot is lined up with his cars. He hums a tune. He holds his boat and flicks it. He is fascinated by his flicking. From afar the boat is already a blur. For him the same blur is his source of calm, order. It is his play. It is his world. 

I finish making his toast bread and wonder if I should continue my readings on mobility. I decide not to and pick up his basketball. I begin dribbling. He does not mind me. I call out to him, "Garret come, play with mama." He looks up briefly  then continues to flick his boat. I continue dribbling, and shoot the ball in the basket.  I prod him again. "Garret it's your turn." I vary the tone of my voice-- Sing-song. He gives in after a few moments, approaches me and I pass the ball to him. He catches it deftly and begins dribbling it immediately. We go back and forth, my turn, his turn. No smile at first then eventually a grin, him forgetting his toys and actually begin to enjoy playing with me. For thirty minutes we play ball non-stop. Laughter. Enjoyment resounds in his laughter. I laugh too. We laugh together. We are in each other's company, basking in one another's laugh. All sweaty, he gets his water bottle and rests. I rest too. But my heart is beating like that of drums emanating a festive symphony of gratitude and wonder at the miracle that just transpired. 

Not too long ago I wondered whether he will ever know me as his mama. Not too long ago I wondered whether he would know my love for him. Not too long ago I wondered whether he would ever reach out to me, acknowledge me. Not too long ago I wondered about many things. Today was the future I wondered about, that I so feared, that I was so uncertain of yesterday. 

And today, as I invited him to come enter my world, my son laughed and played with me. 

Today was one fine and marvelous day.

Enough

This is a photo of Garret doing a Farmer's Carry with a 10-pound kettlebell in each hand, for our functional movement exercises this afternoon. He started with a 7-pound kettlebell just barely a month ago. Now he can carry 3 pounds more in each hand. But what is more astonishing is how he responded to what I requested of him. I asked him to pick up the kettle bell one last time so I can take a good photo of him. Without hesitation, he picked up the kettlebell looked at the camera, stood still and after I clicked, he put down the kettlebell and went back to our room. 

"Come, Morgan. It's time to climb. And we'll hold on for five seconds, okay?" Morgan quietly and willingly approaches the wall, positions his hands and feet on the holds and held on for a solid five seconds. With no help from Mama. Morgan's understanding of the world has expanded clearly shown in the quickness and relevance of his responses. 

Since May this year, we've decided to take the personal reins of our two boys' education as our sped center has reached its final journey. And now more than ever, never have I been more fulfilled as a mother. This is not to say that it is easy. It never is. If any, the challenges become harder. But one thing is certain-- our joys AND ponderous moments are richer in meaning, realer, deeper in purpose. 

I remember the day Garret was first diagnosed. I broke down. Wept in the doctor's clinic. The barrage of questions came. How will we endure? How will we overcome?  There were no answers, only a certainty that the future arrives one day at a time. Today, I remember  this is how we decided to live our lives from then on, to do the best we can one day at a time. 

I reflect now too that in order for us to have arrived to this day, doing the best we can meant we gave value to the present moment, to value presence. To be with our boys in the real sense of the word. To eliminate what is not important, what does not add value to our lives. To focus on what does.

So when my vision of the road ahead blurs as it surely will now and then, I only have to remember how we have come to this place, this very moment-- Presence. When I am present, I am able to see with so much clarity how much Garret and Morgan have come so far. When I am present, I am able to know what they truly need. When I am present, I am reminded that what they need, what we need is what we have right now. When I am present, I know in my heart that what we have right now and what is in store for us in the days to come is and will always be enough.