for a long time we called our three youngest, the three little pigs. i think that changed when one of them got bigger than we are. it was zoe and the three of them. that was the distinction because that was usually the equivalent parent ratio needed: one to one with zoe, and one to 3 with them. their introduction to life being unfair.
it was only the beginning.
now that zoe is off we get to do more one on one parenting with each of them- which is so good, so needed, so about time. we are getting to see them more clearly and hear them more loudly and part of that is because they finally have the space to allow themselves to be seen and heard after years of referencing themselves next to their eldest sister and her needs.
i think being the sibling of a child with special needs doesn't get as much credit as it deserves. more is asked of you- with out there really being a question. things are demanded- you have to learn to wait, to defer your needs (sometimes over and over), your responsibilities don't match your birth order but rather your ability. it's embarrassing sometimes. you have 'that sister'. and you see your parents as people with real limitations in ways that people whose parents don't have special needs kids, don't have to see. the glaze of childhood is removed sooner than it is for others. 'life' is hard and you know it early on.
my kids have the added benefit of having a sister with autism and being third culture kids. they have grown up most of their lives in africa but have recently been uprooted for 18 months to the USA because of their sister. last week my oldest 'little pig' started high school.
tonight his internal house was blown down by having to write 'the history of you' for his honors history class. he didn't want to do it. he struggled with how to start. his first sentence was "i spent 8 years in africa before arriving in the united states'. the assignment was to make a convincing argument about who you are. "i don't know who i am." there were tears and frustration as he vented about how hard life feels for him. how much he doesn't want to be here. how much he wants to be back in africa. how he can't ever be present in his life and doesn't feel like he can grow roots because he always feels like things are temporary and he is thinking about the next thing, and trying to prepare himself for the next place. he talked about his anxiety and how it can be consuming. he talked about how this whole time here has been a waste because we are just going to leave and it won't matter. he talked about how he worries about how he'll be received going back home- will his friends there have forgotten him. he feels like he doesn't belong anywhere. at some point along the way i said, "i know".
"no mom, you don't know."
and he's right. i don't. not really. not in the step in his skin kind of way. not in that 'i've walked in his shoes' kind of way. i don't. but my heart just broke for him. not in a rush in and fix it way, because i can't. just in a stand beside you and listen way, because i can.
when jude was a baby and i thought i might lose him, i gave him back to God kind of like hannah did with samuel, which is his first name anyway. in those months of waiting to see if he would be okay, i was given this supernatural peace and in that peace i was also given a strange gift of what i might describe as a healthy disentanglement. like an early awareness that he was his own. that he belonged to God. that he was really only entrusted to me for as long as i was lucky enough to have him.
i love him fiercely and i'd given him my kidney if he needed it, but i can't save him from a lot of life's traumas. but i will walk with him through them. i will give guidance as he writes his way through them too.
and that is what he did. he started to think of the stories that made up his story. the richness of them. and we talked about how many experiences he has had culturally, including the culture of autism. he began to get excited about thinking about how these things have shaped him and grown him into the amazing person that he is.
growing up is hard. full stop. i'm so deeply thankful for this season of focused attention on my younger ones who have been waiting so patiently for their turn on center stage.
it was only the beginning.
now that zoe is off we get to do more one on one parenting with each of them- which is so good, so needed, so about time. we are getting to see them more clearly and hear them more loudly and part of that is because they finally have the space to allow themselves to be seen and heard after years of referencing themselves next to their eldest sister and her needs.
i think being the sibling of a child with special needs doesn't get as much credit as it deserves. more is asked of you- with out there really being a question. things are demanded- you have to learn to wait, to defer your needs (sometimes over and over), your responsibilities don't match your birth order but rather your ability. it's embarrassing sometimes. you have 'that sister'. and you see your parents as people with real limitations in ways that people whose parents don't have special needs kids, don't have to see. the glaze of childhood is removed sooner than it is for others. 'life' is hard and you know it early on.
my kids have the added benefit of having a sister with autism and being third culture kids. they have grown up most of their lives in africa but have recently been uprooted for 18 months to the USA because of their sister. last week my oldest 'little pig' started high school.
tonight his internal house was blown down by having to write 'the history of you' for his honors history class. he didn't want to do it. he struggled with how to start. his first sentence was "i spent 8 years in africa before arriving in the united states'. the assignment was to make a convincing argument about who you are. "i don't know who i am." there were tears and frustration as he vented about how hard life feels for him. how much he doesn't want to be here. how much he wants to be back in africa. how he can't ever be present in his life and doesn't feel like he can grow roots because he always feels like things are temporary and he is thinking about the next thing, and trying to prepare himself for the next place. he talked about his anxiety and how it can be consuming. he talked about how this whole time here has been a waste because we are just going to leave and it won't matter. he talked about how he worries about how he'll be received going back home- will his friends there have forgotten him. he feels like he doesn't belong anywhere. at some point along the way i said, "i know".
"no mom, you don't know."
and he's right. i don't. not really. not in the step in his skin kind of way. not in that 'i've walked in his shoes' kind of way. i don't. but my heart just broke for him. not in a rush in and fix it way, because i can't. just in a stand beside you and listen way, because i can.
when jude was a baby and i thought i might lose him, i gave him back to God kind of like hannah did with samuel, which is his first name anyway. in those months of waiting to see if he would be okay, i was given this supernatural peace and in that peace i was also given a strange gift of what i might describe as a healthy disentanglement. like an early awareness that he was his own. that he belonged to God. that he was really only entrusted to me for as long as i was lucky enough to have him.
i love him fiercely and i'd given him my kidney if he needed it, but i can't save him from a lot of life's traumas. but i will walk with him through them. i will give guidance as he writes his way through them too.
and that is what he did. he started to think of the stories that made up his story. the richness of them. and we talked about how many experiences he has had culturally, including the culture of autism. he began to get excited about thinking about how these things have shaped him and grown him into the amazing person that he is.
growing up is hard. full stop. i'm so deeply thankful for this season of focused attention on my younger ones who have been waiting so patiently for their turn on center stage.
