Well folks, we’re still here. So much has happened since I last posted but I don’t have time to update just now. We’re making an au pair an offer shortly. I’m just putting Matt to bed and ensuring Google won’t delete my blog.
Saturday, September 19, 2020
Sunday, October 16, 2016
An amazing experience to not forget
As some of you know, Daniel recently auditioned for an elite, internationally touring boy choir.
Rhett and I had struggled with the decision as to whether it was right to even let him try for it. The statistical probability of being accepted was incredibly small, and even if he were offered the spot we weren’t sure we’d be willing to let him take it. (Boarding school, traveling without a parent, missing our baby, knowing he would surely miss us…)
But we decided not only to *let* him try but to actually *ask* him to do so. We believed it would provide him an opportunity for growth, practicing keeping an open mind and an open heart, which were high on our goals for Daniel’s “life” education in the year ahead. We told him we wanted him to prepare for the audition in earnest and to do his best, and that if he was offered a spot (which we considered completely unlikely) we would support whatever decision he wanted to make.
To an extent, he did prepare for that audition; sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes happily with the promise of marshmallow rewards or TV time. I'd give him a B- for effort, but he prepared. On the audition day Daniel was excited, but was filled with an intense, freaked out energy. It felt wrong. It felt wrong from the middle of the week leading up to the audition, really. Not wrong to go through with the experience, but it wasn’t going to be right for him to go to that school and join its choir. There were other cues that it wasn’t right such as that he didn’t engage with the other kids and seemed completely terrified the entire time we were on the campus.
The following day, we received an e-mail telling us that Daniel had not been offered a spot in the choir and that the reason was he hadn’t sung well. The e-mail detailed his myriad of deficits and I didn’t doubt them. The description was consistent with how he’d sounded to me in the preceding week.
The part of me that wanted him to have had a good experience and wanted him to feel good about that was sad, and I knew he would be disappointed. But I have to admit that a big part of me felt relieved by the content. It hadn’t felt like home to me there and although I knew it wasn’t about me and whether it felt like my home, I had a niggling feeling about it not being right. That he wouldn’t be happy.
I called Daniel in and told him that he wasn’t being offered a place in the choir and explained why; I even let him read the e-mail. I expected a few tears and a return to play. I thought that would be the end of it for good. I couldn’t have been more wrong. And the surprises were just beginning.
He did shed a few tears, but he didn't stay that way for long. Within a half an hour he wanted an action plan. He wanted to sing, he said. He wanted to go to boarding school and live in a dorm full of friends and take instrument lessons and get more flexible about food and travel and learn Ancient Greek. He insisted! And he begged me to look into other options where he could do this.
Rhett and I discussed it and we agreed that Daniel deserved the opportunity to integrate the lessons he had learned from the experience but I wasn’t going to provide any support that wasn’t absolutely essential for him being able to prepare on his own. I wouldn’t remind or reward or cajole. He could practice or not. He could prepare if he wanted to. And he did. He selected a new audition piece, learned to play the melody on the piano, insisted I track down accompaniment audio. And, of course, he bugged me about making sure he had additional auditions pinned down. (Yes, plural, because he wasn’t taking anything for granted.) And so I did. I reluctantly and with coaxing contacted the music department of St. Paul’s Cathedral - the most famous cathedral choir in the world - and Westminster Abbey. And I told them that my 8 year old wanted to audition.
Westminster asked a lot of questions and sent me things to fill out and return, then scheduled the audition (for early November). St. Paul’s, on the other hand, asked me to first bring him to London for the Chorister Experience Afternoon to see if he really wanted to audition. And I thought to myself “Really? I not only have to take him to London for the audition where they’ll surely end this for good but also for this other thing before hand?” We had both been under the weather that week and I wasn’t especially thrilled about leaving my jammies. But he wanted to go and we’d committed to supporting him in completing the lessons he was learning through this process. It was just one day. Besides, it might be fun. Right?
Yes, it was fun. Daniel was relaxed and happy from the first moment. He met kids and connected with them. He joyfully separated from me to go off for the kid part of the day. Meanwhile, I dutifully listened to the various people talk. They talked about the school and its philosophy, the choir and its achievements and prestige, the lifestyle, the parent involvement. I toured the boardinghouse and saw classes, heard from choristers who happened to be traveling in the halls we walked through, and enjoyed myself in a very passive way, like I was at a museum observing and learning about things which had nothing to do with my life. Only, there it was, a new and quite unwelcome but niggling feeling. A dialogue began within me. “It sounds perfect. It feels perfect.” “No, it’s in London.” “It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect."
And then the kids rejoined the parents and I saw him happy, relaxed, at home. I saw him sing with the choir. I saw a chorister make a goofy face at him in greeting and I saw him reciprocate with his own. I enjoyed sitting with him in Evensong and listening as the choir sang what just happened to be his very favorite anthem in the world. I saw his eyes grow wide, felt his body come to attention beside me, and could almost hear his heart rate speeding up. There was that voice again. "Is this his home?”
Daniel burst out of the audition affirming unequivocally that he wanted to audition for St. Paul’s as soon as he could, so I let them know and the audition was scheduled for yesterday. Most of me did still think that would be the end of St. Paul’s and Daniel might even decide that boarding choir schools must just not be his thing. But off we went, before the sun rose, to London.
When we arrived for the audition Daniel was instantly at home and comfortable with the auditioner (the Cathedral's Director of Music). They chatted for a bit, and then it was time to sing. The director lamented the fact that Daniel's song choice was too low but I could see that as soon as Daniel started singing he was pleased with Daniel's voice.
They then played a sort of game with the song, with the director playing the accompaniment at first but then dropping out and having Daniel sing most of it a cappella. The piano came back in at the end of the song and I could tell the purpose of the game was to test whether Daniel was still in tune. (He was.)
Next, the director asked Daniel to match several pitches as he played them on the piano. Daniel sang each note correctly, and I would have normally expected him to, but the notes came in such quick succession that Daniel was still singing the previous note as the next was played. Still, 100% were spot on.
Then the director played two notes simultaneously and asked Daniel to sing back both pitches separately, one after another. All were correct so the director added a third note to the chord, and again he pitched just fine.
Daniel was next directed to vocalize on arpeggios, singing not on a vowel but instead on a rolled R. They went so far up the keyboard; I honestly couldn't believe the sounds I was hearing come out of my own child. My shock grew more pronounced when the director then called Daniel over to the keyboard and asked him to try to find the top note he had just sung on the keyboard. He did. It was High C#. (My jaw nearly fell open. He sang a freaking HIGH C# on a ROLLED R!!!!)
The director then said to Daniel "I know you don't know anything about the piano but that doesn't matter. Can you sing an A for me?" Daniel looked bewildered. I was confused too. How was Daniel supposed to know what an A sounded like? They discussed this and the director said "well you mentioned your mum had labeled some keys. Did she label the A?" Daniel said "no, that's not one of the notes in Danny Boy and she only labeled the notes for Danny Boy."
The director said "Ah, okay, do you know what a D sounds like then?" Daniel sang a note. The director checked. Yep, he'd sung D. Then he asked "Can you sing me a G?" Daniel instantly sang a stab at a G - this time the one just below that High C#. The director checked and again he was right. They did another few. My jaw really did fall open. The director then explained to me (as if I hadn't figured this out) "I think he is developing perfect pitch."
The director then sat us both down and asked Daniel a lot of questions about himself, taking notes. He got Daniel talking about a book series he's working on with a trilogy inside it. He wanted a plot summary, which Daniel gave. He stopped Daniel periodically and asked him to define words that he'd used in his description, each time seeming astonished that Daniel could do so. He then had Daniel select at random a page from a book of Old English poetry and to read aloud from it. Daniel did this smoothly and correctly, and the director looked simply astounded.
As the final part of the audition he informed us that he is "very, very interested in Daniel," and he wanted to know if this was really what Daniel wanted, and whether both Daniel and his parents fully understood the commitment and responsibilities of being a part of "the most famous cathedral choir in the world."
Daniel enthusiastically affirmed that this is what he wants to do and I affirmed that he has our full support. So here we are, light years from where we began.
Daniel came out of his audition and interview feeling very pleased with the whole thing, incredibly excited, and he can NOT WAIT for the final step - a day at St. Paul's Cathedral School. For me, it's a bit more mixed. Mostly, my heart is exploding with pride at how much he has grown, how much the experience of the first audition inspired rather than defeated him, and I have so much joy as I see him finding joy doing the things that are right for him in the place that is right for him with the people who were right for him. And, of course, I'm more than a little shocked to find that the place and the people might not be where and whom I thought they would be when he's only 8 years old. But Daniel has never been typical and he's never developed along a traditional path; and he's never been more excited about anything.
It still may be that this was a short but intense and amazing formative experience for Daniel as he makes his way in the world. It may also be that this is the beginning of a longer and fuller chapter in our family's journey. Either way, we are so proud of his growth and maturity, and for the opportunity to develop in this way.
Rhett and I had struggled with the decision as to whether it was right to even let him try for it. The statistical probability of being accepted was incredibly small, and even if he were offered the spot we weren’t sure we’d be willing to let him take it. (Boarding school, traveling without a parent, missing our baby, knowing he would surely miss us…)
But we decided not only to *let* him try but to actually *ask* him to do so. We believed it would provide him an opportunity for growth, practicing keeping an open mind and an open heart, which were high on our goals for Daniel’s “life” education in the year ahead. We told him we wanted him to prepare for the audition in earnest and to do his best, and that if he was offered a spot (which we considered completely unlikely) we would support whatever decision he wanted to make.
To an extent, he did prepare for that audition; sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes happily with the promise of marshmallow rewards or TV time. I'd give him a B- for effort, but he prepared. On the audition day Daniel was excited, but was filled with an intense, freaked out energy. It felt wrong. It felt wrong from the middle of the week leading up to the audition, really. Not wrong to go through with the experience, but it wasn’t going to be right for him to go to that school and join its choir. There were other cues that it wasn’t right such as that he didn’t engage with the other kids and seemed completely terrified the entire time we were on the campus.
The following day, we received an e-mail telling us that Daniel had not been offered a spot in the choir and that the reason was he hadn’t sung well. The e-mail detailed his myriad of deficits and I didn’t doubt them. The description was consistent with how he’d sounded to me in the preceding week.
The part of me that wanted him to have had a good experience and wanted him to feel good about that was sad, and I knew he would be disappointed. But I have to admit that a big part of me felt relieved by the content. It hadn’t felt like home to me there and although I knew it wasn’t about me and whether it felt like my home, I had a niggling feeling about it not being right. That he wouldn’t be happy.
I called Daniel in and told him that he wasn’t being offered a place in the choir and explained why; I even let him read the e-mail. I expected a few tears and a return to play. I thought that would be the end of it for good. I couldn’t have been more wrong. And the surprises were just beginning.
He did shed a few tears, but he didn't stay that way for long. Within a half an hour he wanted an action plan. He wanted to sing, he said. He wanted to go to boarding school and live in a dorm full of friends and take instrument lessons and get more flexible about food and travel and learn Ancient Greek. He insisted! And he begged me to look into other options where he could do this.
Rhett and I discussed it and we agreed that Daniel deserved the opportunity to integrate the lessons he had learned from the experience but I wasn’t going to provide any support that wasn’t absolutely essential for him being able to prepare on his own. I wouldn’t remind or reward or cajole. He could practice or not. He could prepare if he wanted to. And he did. He selected a new audition piece, learned to play the melody on the piano, insisted I track down accompaniment audio. And, of course, he bugged me about making sure he had additional auditions pinned down. (Yes, plural, because he wasn’t taking anything for granted.) And so I did. I reluctantly and with coaxing contacted the music department of St. Paul’s Cathedral - the most famous cathedral choir in the world - and Westminster Abbey. And I told them that my 8 year old wanted to audition.
Westminster asked a lot of questions and sent me things to fill out and return, then scheduled the audition (for early November). St. Paul’s, on the other hand, asked me to first bring him to London for the Chorister Experience Afternoon to see if he really wanted to audition. And I thought to myself “Really? I not only have to take him to London for the audition where they’ll surely end this for good but also for this other thing before hand?” We had both been under the weather that week and I wasn’t especially thrilled about leaving my jammies. But he wanted to go and we’d committed to supporting him in completing the lessons he was learning through this process. It was just one day. Besides, it might be fun. Right?
Yes, it was fun. Daniel was relaxed and happy from the first moment. He met kids and connected with them. He joyfully separated from me to go off for the kid part of the day. Meanwhile, I dutifully listened to the various people talk. They talked about the school and its philosophy, the choir and its achievements and prestige, the lifestyle, the parent involvement. I toured the boardinghouse and saw classes, heard from choristers who happened to be traveling in the halls we walked through, and enjoyed myself in a very passive way, like I was at a museum observing and learning about things which had nothing to do with my life. Only, there it was, a new and quite unwelcome but niggling feeling. A dialogue began within me. “It sounds perfect. It feels perfect.” “No, it’s in London.” “It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect."
And then the kids rejoined the parents and I saw him happy, relaxed, at home. I saw him sing with the choir. I saw a chorister make a goofy face at him in greeting and I saw him reciprocate with his own. I enjoyed sitting with him in Evensong and listening as the choir sang what just happened to be his very favorite anthem in the world. I saw his eyes grow wide, felt his body come to attention beside me, and could almost hear his heart rate speeding up. There was that voice again. "Is this his home?”
Daniel burst out of the audition affirming unequivocally that he wanted to audition for St. Paul’s as soon as he could, so I let them know and the audition was scheduled for yesterday. Most of me did still think that would be the end of St. Paul’s and Daniel might even decide that boarding choir schools must just not be his thing. But off we went, before the sun rose, to London.
When we arrived for the audition Daniel was instantly at home and comfortable with the auditioner (the Cathedral's Director of Music). They chatted for a bit, and then it was time to sing. The director lamented the fact that Daniel's song choice was too low but I could see that as soon as Daniel started singing he was pleased with Daniel's voice.
They then played a sort of game with the song, with the director playing the accompaniment at first but then dropping out and having Daniel sing most of it a cappella. The piano came back in at the end of the song and I could tell the purpose of the game was to test whether Daniel was still in tune. (He was.)
Next, the director asked Daniel to match several pitches as he played them on the piano. Daniel sang each note correctly, and I would have normally expected him to, but the notes came in such quick succession that Daniel was still singing the previous note as the next was played. Still, 100% were spot on.
Then the director played two notes simultaneously and asked Daniel to sing back both pitches separately, one after another. All were correct so the director added a third note to the chord, and again he pitched just fine.
Daniel was next directed to vocalize on arpeggios, singing not on a vowel but instead on a rolled R. They went so far up the keyboard; I honestly couldn't believe the sounds I was hearing come out of my own child. My shock grew more pronounced when the director then called Daniel over to the keyboard and asked him to try to find the top note he had just sung on the keyboard. He did. It was High C#. (My jaw nearly fell open. He sang a freaking HIGH C# on a ROLLED R!!!!)
The director then said to Daniel "I know you don't know anything about the piano but that doesn't matter. Can you sing an A for me?" Daniel looked bewildered. I was confused too. How was Daniel supposed to know what an A sounded like? They discussed this and the director said "well you mentioned your mum had labeled some keys. Did she label the A?" Daniel said "no, that's not one of the notes in Danny Boy and she only labeled the notes for Danny Boy."
The director said "Ah, okay, do you know what a D sounds like then?" Daniel sang a note. The director checked. Yep, he'd sung D. Then he asked "Can you sing me a G?" Daniel instantly sang a stab at a G - this time the one just below that High C#. The director checked and again he was right. They did another few. My jaw really did fall open. The director then explained to me (as if I hadn't figured this out) "I think he is developing perfect pitch."
The director then sat us both down and asked Daniel a lot of questions about himself, taking notes. He got Daniel talking about a book series he's working on with a trilogy inside it. He wanted a plot summary, which Daniel gave. He stopped Daniel periodically and asked him to define words that he'd used in his description, each time seeming astonished that Daniel could do so. He then had Daniel select at random a page from a book of Old English poetry and to read aloud from it. Daniel did this smoothly and correctly, and the director looked simply astounded.
As the final part of the audition he informed us that he is "very, very interested in Daniel," and he wanted to know if this was really what Daniel wanted, and whether both Daniel and his parents fully understood the commitment and responsibilities of being a part of "the most famous cathedral choir in the world."
Daniel enthusiastically affirmed that this is what he wants to do and I affirmed that he has our full support. So here we are, light years from where we began.
Daniel came out of his audition and interview feeling very pleased with the whole thing, incredibly excited, and he can NOT WAIT for the final step - a day at St. Paul's Cathedral School. For me, it's a bit more mixed. Mostly, my heart is exploding with pride at how much he has grown, how much the experience of the first audition inspired rather than defeated him, and I have so much joy as I see him finding joy doing the things that are right for him in the place that is right for him with the people who were right for him. And, of course, I'm more than a little shocked to find that the place and the people might not be where and whom I thought they would be when he's only 8 years old. But Daniel has never been typical and he's never developed along a traditional path; and he's never been more excited about anything.
It still may be that this was a short but intense and amazing formative experience for Daniel as he makes his way in the world. It may also be that this is the beginning of a longer and fuller chapter in our family's journey. Either way, we are so proud of his growth and maturity, and for the opportunity to develop in this way.
An amazing experience to not forget
As some of you know, Daniel recently auditioned for an elite, internationally touring boy choir.
Rhett and I had struggled with the decision as to whether it was right to even let him try for it. The statistical probability of being accepted was incredibly small, and even if he were offered the spot we weren’t sure we’d be willing to let him take it. (Boarding school, traveling without a parent, missing our baby, knowing he would surely miss us…)
But we decided not only to *let* him try but to actually *ask* him to do so. We believed it would provide him an opportunity for growth, practicing keeping an open mind and an open heart, which were high on our goals for Daniel’s “life” education in the year ahead. We told him we wanted him to prepare for the audition in earnest and to do his best, and that if he was offered a spot (which we considered completely unlikely) we would support whatever decision he wanted to make.
To an extent, he did prepare for that audition; sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes happily with the promise of marshmallow rewards or TV time. I'd give him a B- for effort, but he prepared. On the audition day Daniel was excited, but was filled with an intense, freaked out energy. It felt wrong. It felt wrong from the middle of the week leading up to the audition, really. Not wrong to go through with the experience, but it wasn’t going to be right for him to go to that school and join its choir. There were other cues that it wasn’t right such as that he didn’t engage with the other kids and seemed completely terrified the entire time we were on the campus.
The following day, we received an e-mail telling us that Daniel had not been offered a spot in the choir and that the reason was he hadn’t sung well. The e-mail detailed his myriad of deficits and I didn’t doubt them. The description was consistent with how he’d sounded to me in the preceding week.
The part of me that wanted him to have had a good experience and wanted him to feel good about that was sad, and I knew he would be disappointed. But I have to admit that a big part of me felt relieved by the content. It hadn’t felt like home to me there and although I knew it wasn’t about me and whether it felt like my home, I had a niggling feeling about it not being right. That he wouldn’t be happy.
I called Daniel in and told him that he wasn’t being offered a place in the choir and explained why; I even let him read the e-mail. I expected a few tears and a return to play. I thought that would be the end of it for good. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
He did shed a few tears, but he didn't stay that way for long. Within a half an hour he wanted an action plan. He wanted to sing, he said. He wanted to go to boarding school and live in a dorm full of friends and take instrument lessons and get more flexible about food and travel and learn Ancient Greek. He insisted! And he begged me to look into other options where he could do this.
Rhett and I discussed it and we agreed that Daniel deserved the opportunity to integrate the lessons he had learned from the experience but I wasn’t going to provide any support that wasn’t absolutely essential for him being able to prepare on his own. I wouldn’t remind or reward or cajole. He could practice or not. He could prepare if he wanted to. And he did. He selected a new audition piece, learned to play the melody on the piano, insisted I track down accompaniment audio. And, of course, he bugged me about making sure he had additional auditions pinned down. (Yes, plural, because he wasn’t taking anything for granted.) And so I did. I reluctantly and with coaxing contacted the music department of St. Paul’s Cathedral - the most famous cathedral choir in the world - and Westminster Abbey. And I told them that my 8 year old wanted to audition.
Westminster asked a lot of questions and sent me things to fill out and return, then scheduled the audition (for early November). St. Paul’s, on the other hand, asked me to first bring him to London for the Chorister Experience Afternoon to see if he really wanted to audition. And I thought to myself “Really? I not only have to take him to London for the audition where they’ll surely end this for good but also for this other thing before hand?” We had both been under the weather that week and I wasn’t especially thrilled about leaving my jammies. But he wanted to go and we’d committed to supporting him in completing the lessons he was learning through this process. It was just one day. Besides, it might be fun. Right?
Yes, it was fun. Daniel was relaxed and happy from the first moment. He met kids and connected with them. He joyfully separated from me to go off for the kid part of the day. Meanwhile, I dutifully listened to the various people talk. They talked about the school and its philosophy, the choir and its achievements and prestige, the lifestyle, the parent involvement. I toured the boardinghouse and saw classes, heard from choristers who happened to be traveling in the halls we walked through, and enjoyed myself in a very passive way, like I was at a museum observing and learning about things which had nothing to do with my life. Only, there it was, a new and quite unwelcome but niggling feeling. A dialogue began within me. “It sounds perfect. It feels perfect.” “No, it’s in London.” “It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect."
And then the kids rejoined the parents and I saw him happy, relaxed, at home. I saw him sing with the choir. I saw a chorister make a goofy face at him in greeting and I saw him reciprocate with his own. I enjoyed sitting with him in Evensong and listening as the choir sang what just happened to be his very favorite anthem in the world. I saw his eyes grow wide, felt his body come to attention beside me, and could almost hear his heart rate speeding up. There was that voice again. "Is this his home?”
Daniel burst out of the audition affirming unequivocally that he wanted to audition for St. Paul’s as soon as he could, so I let them know and the audition was scheduled for yesterday. Most of me did still think that would be the end of St. Paul’s and Daniel might even decide that boarding choir schools must just not be his thing. But off we went, before the sun rose, to London.
When we arrived for the audition Daniel was instantly at home and comfortable with the auditioner (the Cathedral's Director of Music). They chatted for a bit, and then it was time to sing. The director lamented the fact that Daniel's song choice was too low but I could see that as soon as Daniel started singing he was pleased with Daniel's voice.
They then played a sort of game with the song, with the director playing the accompaniment at first but then dropping out and having Daniel sing most of it a cappella. The piano came back in at the end of the song and I could tell the purpose of the game was to test whether Daniel was still in tune. (He was.)
Next, the director asked Daniel to match several pitches as he played them on the piano. Daniel sang each note correctly, and I would have normally expected him to, but the notes came in such quick succession that Daniel was still singing the previous note as the next was played. Still, 100% were spot on.
Then the director played two notes simultaneously and asked Daniel to sing back both pitches separately, one after another. All were correct so the director added a third note to the chord, and again he pitched just fine.
Daniel was next directed to vocalize on arpeggios, singing not on a vowel but instead on a rolled R. They went so far up the keyboard; I honestly couldn't believe the sounds I was hearing come out of my own child. My shock grew more pronounced when the director then called Daniel over to the keyboard and asked him to try to find the top note he had just sung on the keyboard. He did. It was High C#. (My jaw nearly fell open. He sang a freaking HIGH C# on a ROLLED R!!!!)
The director then said to Daniel "I know you don't know anything about the piano but that doesn't matter. Can you sing an A for me?" Daniel looked bewildered. I was confused too. How was Daniel supposed to know what an A sounded like? They discussed this and the director said "well you mentioned your mum had labeled some keys. Did she label the A?" Daniel said "no, that's not one of the notes in Danny Boy and she only labeled the notes for Danny Boy."
The director said "Ah, okay, do you know what a D sounds like then?" Daniel sang a note. The director checked. Yep, he'd sung D. Then he asked "Can you sing me a G?" Daniel instantly sang a stab at a G - this time the one just below that High C#. The director checked and again he was right. They did another few. My jaw really did fall open. The director then explained to me (as if I hadn't figured this out) "I think he is developing perfect pitch."
The director then sat us both down and asked Daniel a lot of questions about himself, taking notes. He got Daniel talking about a book series he's working on with a trilogy inside it. He wanted a plot summary, which Daniel gave. He stopped Daniel periodically and asked him to define words that he'd used in his description, each time seeming astonished that Daniel could do so. He then had Daniel select at random a page from a book of Old English poetry and to read aloud from it. Daniel did this smoothly and correctly, and the director looked simply astounded.
As the final part of the audition he informed us that he is "very, very interested in Daniel," and he wanted to know if this was really what Daniel wanted, and whether both Daniel and his parents fully understood the commitment and responsibilities of being a part of "the most famous cathedral choir in the world."
Daniel enthusiastically affirmed that this is what he wants to do and I affirmed that he has our full support. So here we are, light years from where we began.
Daniel came out of his audition and interview feeling very pleased with the whole thing, incredibly excited, and he can NOT WAIT for the final step - a day at St. Paul's Cathedral School. For me, it's a bit more mixed. Mostly, my heart is exploding with pride at how much he has grown, how much the experience of the first audition inspired rather than defeated him, and I have so much joy as I see him finding joy doing the things that are right for him in the place that is right for him with the people who were right for him. And, of course, I'm more than a little shocked to find that the place and the people might not be where and whom I thought they would be when he's only 8 years old. But Daniel has never been typical and he's never developed along a traditional path; and he's never been more excited about anything.
It still may be that this was a short but intense and amazing formative experience for Daniel as he makes his way in the world. It may also be that this is the beginning of a longer and fuller chapter in our family's journey. Either way, we are so proud of his growth and maturity, and for the opportunity to develop in this way.
Rhett and I had struggled with the decision as to whether it was right to even let him try for it. The statistical probability of being accepted was incredibly small, and even if he were offered the spot we weren’t sure we’d be willing to let him take it. (Boarding school, traveling without a parent, missing our baby, knowing he would surely miss us…)
But we decided not only to *let* him try but to actually *ask* him to do so. We believed it would provide him an opportunity for growth, practicing keeping an open mind and an open heart, which were high on our goals for Daniel’s “life” education in the year ahead. We told him we wanted him to prepare for the audition in earnest and to do his best, and that if he was offered a spot (which we considered completely unlikely) we would support whatever decision he wanted to make.
To an extent, he did prepare for that audition; sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes happily with the promise of marshmallow rewards or TV time. I'd give him a B- for effort, but he prepared. On the audition day Daniel was excited, but was filled with an intense, freaked out energy. It felt wrong. It felt wrong from the middle of the week leading up to the audition, really. Not wrong to go through with the experience, but it wasn’t going to be right for him to go to that school and join its choir. There were other cues that it wasn’t right such as that he didn’t engage with the other kids and seemed completely terrified the entire time we were on the campus.
The following day, we received an e-mail telling us that Daniel had not been offered a spot in the choir and that the reason was he hadn’t sung well. The e-mail detailed his myriad of deficits and I didn’t doubt them. The description was consistent with how he’d sounded to me in the preceding week.
The part of me that wanted him to have had a good experience and wanted him to feel good about that was sad, and I knew he would be disappointed. But I have to admit that a big part of me felt relieved by the content. It hadn’t felt like home to me there and although I knew it wasn’t about me and whether it felt like my home, I had a niggling feeling about it not being right. That he wouldn’t be happy.
I called Daniel in and told him that he wasn’t being offered a place in the choir and explained why; I even let him read the e-mail. I expected a few tears and a return to play. I thought that would be the end of it for good. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
He did shed a few tears, but he didn't stay that way for long. Within a half an hour he wanted an action plan. He wanted to sing, he said. He wanted to go to boarding school and live in a dorm full of friends and take instrument lessons and get more flexible about food and travel and learn Ancient Greek. He insisted! And he begged me to look into other options where he could do this.
Rhett and I discussed it and we agreed that Daniel deserved the opportunity to integrate the lessons he had learned from the experience but I wasn’t going to provide any support that wasn’t absolutely essential for him being able to prepare on his own. I wouldn’t remind or reward or cajole. He could practice or not. He could prepare if he wanted to. And he did. He selected a new audition piece, learned to play the melody on the piano, insisted I track down accompaniment audio. And, of course, he bugged me about making sure he had additional auditions pinned down. (Yes, plural, because he wasn’t taking anything for granted.) And so I did. I reluctantly and with coaxing contacted the music department of St. Paul’s Cathedral - the most famous cathedral choir in the world - and Westminster Abbey. And I told them that my 8 year old wanted to audition.
Westminster asked a lot of questions and sent me things to fill out and return, then scheduled the audition (for early November). St. Paul’s, on the other hand, asked me to first bring him to London for the Chorister Experience Afternoon to see if he really wanted to audition. And I thought to myself “Really? I not only have to take him to London for the audition where they’ll surely end this for good but also for this other thing before hand?” We had both been under the weather that week and I wasn’t especially thrilled about leaving my jammies. But he wanted to go and we’d committed to supporting him in completing the lessons he was learning through this process. It was just one day. Besides, it might be fun. Right?
Yes, it was fun. Daniel was relaxed and happy from the first moment. He met kids and connected with them. He joyfully separated from me to go off for the kid part of the day. Meanwhile, I dutifully listened to the various people talk. They talked about the school and its philosophy, the choir and its achievements and prestige, the lifestyle, the parent involvement. I toured the boardinghouse and saw classes, heard from choristers who happened to be traveling in the halls we walked through, and enjoyed myself in a very passive way, like I was at a museum observing and learning about things which had nothing to do with my life. Only, there it was, a new and quite unwelcome but niggling feeling. A dialogue began within me. “It sounds perfect. It feels perfect.” “No, it’s in London.” “It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect."
And then the kids rejoined the parents and I saw him happy, relaxed, at home. I saw him sing with the choir. I saw a chorister make a goofy face at him in greeting and I saw him reciprocate with his own. I enjoyed sitting with him in Evensong and listening as the choir sang what just happened to be his very favorite anthem in the world. I saw his eyes grow wide, felt his body come to attention beside me, and could almost hear his heart rate speeding up. There was that voice again. "Is this his home?”
Daniel burst out of the audition affirming unequivocally that he wanted to audition for St. Paul’s as soon as he could, so I let them know and the audition was scheduled for yesterday. Most of me did still think that would be the end of St. Paul’s and Daniel might even decide that boarding choir schools must just not be his thing. But off we went, before the sun rose, to London.
When we arrived for the audition Daniel was instantly at home and comfortable with the auditioner (the Cathedral's Director of Music). They chatted for a bit, and then it was time to sing. The director lamented the fact that Daniel's song choice was too low but I could see that as soon as Daniel started singing he was pleased with Daniel's voice.
They then played a sort of game with the song, with the director playing the accompaniment at first but then dropping out and having Daniel sing most of it a cappella. The piano came back in at the end of the song and I could tell the purpose of the game was to test whether Daniel was still in tune. (He was.)
Next, the director asked Daniel to match several pitches as he played them on the piano. Daniel sang each note correctly, and I would have normally expected him to, but the notes came in such quick succession that Daniel was still singing the previous note as the next was played. Still, 100% were spot on.
Then the director played two notes simultaneously and asked Daniel to sing back both pitches separately, one after another. All were correct so the director added a third note to the chord, and again he pitched just fine.
Daniel was next directed to vocalize on arpeggios, singing not on a vowel but instead on a rolled R. They went so far up the keyboard; I honestly couldn't believe the sounds I was hearing come out of my own child. My shock grew more pronounced when the director then called Daniel over to the keyboard and asked him to try to find the top note he had just sung on the keyboard. He did. It was High C#. (My jaw nearly fell open. He sang a freaking HIGH C# on a ROLLED R!!!!)
The director then said to Daniel "I know you don't know anything about the piano but that doesn't matter. Can you sing an A for me?" Daniel looked bewildered. I was confused too. How was Daniel supposed to know what an A sounded like? They discussed this and the director said "well you mentioned your mum had labeled some keys. Did she label the A?" Daniel said "no, that's not one of the notes in Danny Boy and she only labeled the notes for Danny Boy."
The director said "Ah, okay, do you know what a D sounds like then?" Daniel sang a note. The director checked. Yep, he'd sung D. Then he asked "Can you sing me a G?" Daniel instantly sang a stab at a G - this time the one just below that High C#. The director checked and again he was right. They did another few. My jaw really did fall open. The director then explained to me (as if I hadn't figured this out) "I think he is developing perfect pitch."
The director then sat us both down and asked Daniel a lot of questions about himself, taking notes. He got Daniel talking about a book series he's working on with a trilogy inside it. He wanted a plot summary, which Daniel gave. He stopped Daniel periodically and asked him to define words that he'd used in his description, each time seeming astonished that Daniel could do so. He then had Daniel select at random a page from a book of Old English poetry and to read aloud from it. Daniel did this smoothly and correctly, and the director looked simply astounded.
As the final part of the audition he informed us that he is "very, very interested in Daniel," and he wanted to know if this was really what Daniel wanted, and whether both Daniel and his parents fully understood the commitment and responsibilities of being a part of "the most famous cathedral choir in the world."
Daniel enthusiastically affirmed that this is what he wants to do and I affirmed that he has our full support. So here we are, light years from where we began.
Daniel came out of his audition and interview feeling very pleased with the whole thing, incredibly excited, and he can NOT WAIT for the final step - a day at St. Paul's Cathedral School. For me, it's a bit more mixed. Mostly, my heart is exploding with pride at how much he has grown, how much the experience of the first audition inspired rather than defeated him, and I have so much joy as I see him finding joy doing the things that are right for him in the place that is right for him with the people who were right for him. And, of course, I'm more than a little shocked to find that the place and the people might not be where and whom I thought they would be when he's only 8 years old. But Daniel has never been typical and he's never developed along a traditional path; and he's never been more excited about anything.
It still may be that this was a short but intense and amazing formative experience for Daniel as he makes his way in the world. It may also be that this is the beginning of a longer and fuller chapter in our family's journey. Either way, we are so proud of his growth and maturity, and for the opportunity to develop in this way.
Discerning D's next steps.
As some of you know, Daniel recently auditioned for an elite, internationally touring boy choir.
Rhett and I had struggled with the decision as to whether it was right to even let him try for it. The statistical probability of being accepted was incredibly small, and even if he were offered the spot we weren’t sure we’d be willing to let him take it. (Boarding school, traveling without a parent, missing our baby, knowing he would surely miss us…)
But we decided not only to let him try but to ask him to do so. We believed it would provide him an opportunity for growth, practicing keeping an open mind and an open heart, which were high on our goals for Daniel’s “life” education in the year ahead. We told him we wanted him to prepare for the audition in earnest and to do his best, and that if he was offered a spot after that he did not have to go. We wanted him to consider it with an open mind and heart, and that if he got in (which we considered to be completely unlikely) we would support whatever decision he wanted to make.
He did prepare for that audition; sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes happily with the promise of marshmallow rewards or TV time. But he prepared. On the audition day D was excited, but in an intense, kind of freaked out energy. It felt wrong from the start of the day. From the middle of the week leading up to the audition, really. Not wrong for him to go through with the experience, but like it wasn’t going to be right for him to go to that school and join its choir. There were other cues that it wasn’t right such as that he didn’t engage with the other kids and seemed completely terrified the entire time we were on the campus.
The following day, we received an e-mail telling us that Daniel had not been offered a spot in the choir and that the reason was he hadn’t sung well. The e-mail detailed his many failings and I didn’t doubt them. The description with consistent with how he’d sounded to me in the preceding week.
The part of me that wanted him to have had a good experience and wanted him to feel good about that was sad for him, and I knew at an ego level he would be disappointed. But I have to admit that a big part of me felt relieved by the content. It hadn’t felt like home to me there and although I knew it wasn’t about me and whether it felt like my home, I had a niggling feeling about it not being right. That he wouldn’t be happy.
I called Daniel in and told him that he wasn’t being offered a place in the choir and explained why; I even let him read the e-mail. I expected a few tears and a return to play. I thought that would be the end of it for good. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Daniel did shed a few tears and he was upset, but he very quickly wanted an action plan. He wanted to sing, he said. He wanted to go to boarding school and live in a dorm full of friends and take instrument lessons and get more flexible about food and travel and learn ancient greek. He insisted! And he begged me to look into other options where he could do this.
Rhett and I discussed it and we agreed that Daniel deserved the opportunity to integrate the lessons he had learned from his first audition experience but I wasn’t going to provide any support that wasn’t absolutely essential for him being able to prepare on his own. I wouldn’t remind or reward or cajole. He could practice or not. He could prepare if he wanted to. And he did. He selected a new audition piece, learned to play the melody on the piano, insisted I track down accompaniment audio so he could practice with what he’d hear in his next audition. And, of course, he bugged me about making sure he had additional auditions (yes, plural, because he wasn’t taking anything for granted) pinned down.
And so I did. I reluctantly and with coaxing contacted the music department of St. Paul’s Cathedral - the most famous cathedral choir in the world - and Westminster Abbey. And I told them that my 8 year old wanted to audition.
Westminster asked a lot of questions and sent me things to fill out and return, then scheduled the audition (for early November). St. Paul’s, on the other hand, asked me to first bring him to London for the Chorister Experience Afternoon to see if he really wanted to audition. And I thought to myself “Really? I not only have to take him to London for the audition where they’ll surely end this for good but also for this other thing before hand?” We both had a cold that week and I wasn’t especially thrilled about leaving my jammies. But he wanted to go and we’d committed to supporting D in completing the lessons he was learning through this process. It was just one day. Besides, it might be fun. Right?
Yes, it was fun. D was relaxed and happy from the first moment. He met kids and connected with them. He joyfully separated from me to go off for the kid part of the day. Meanwhile, I dutifully listened to the various people talk. They talked about the school and its philosophy, the choir and its prestige, the lifestyle, the parent involvement. I toured the boardinghouse and saw classes, heard from choristers who happened to be traveling in the halls we walked through, and enjoyed myself in a very passive way. Like I was at a museum observing and learning about things which had nothing to do with my life. Only, a new niggling feeling started to happen. Dialogue began within me. “It sounds perfect. It feels perfect.” “No, it’s in London.” “It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect.” “No, surely not.”
And then the kids rejoined the parents and I saw him happy, relaxed, at home. I saw him sing with the choir. I saw a chorister make a goofy face at him in greeting and I saw him reciprocate with his own. I enjoyed sitting with him in Evensong and listening as the choir sang what just happened to be his very favorite anthem in the world. I saw his eyes get wide and could almost feel his heart rate speeding up. “Is this his home?”
Daniel affirmed unequivocally that he most definitely wanted to audition for St. Paul’s, so I let them know and the audition was scheduled for yesterday. Most of me thought that would be the end of St. Paul’s and D might even decide that boarding choir schools must just not be the thing for him. But off we went, before the sun rose, to London.
When we arrived for the audition he was instantly at home and comfortable with the auditioner (aka the Director of Music - DOM)
First off, the issue of accompaniment came up because the sheet music had printed out looking crazy and wasn't going to work. But it turned out the DoM had a copy in the office and transposed it to D's key, groaning about how it was sooooo low and lamenting my foolish parenting, but in a light way. Then he played along as D sang it and I could see on his face that he was pleased with D's voice.
Then he had D do a sort of game with the song, playing the accompaniment at first but then dropping out and having D sing most of it a cappella but then came back in at the end to test whether he was still in tune. (He was.)
Next, he asked D to match several pitches as he played them on the piano. D got each one right, and I would have expected him to but the DoM was playing them in such quick succession that D was still singing the previous note as the DoM played the next one. Still, 100% were spot on. Then he played two notes simultaneously and asked D to sing back both pitches. One after another D sang them; all were correct. He was more sure of the notes than I was. And then the DoM added a third note to the chord to see if he could do it with three notes. Again, no problem.
Then the DoM had D vocalize on arpeggios, singing not on a vowel but instead on a rolled R. They went so far up the keyboard; I honestly couldn't believe the sounds I was hearing come out of my own child.
D was standing opposite the piano for all of this so he couldn't see the keys, and he called D over to the keyboard and started doing even more things that weren't expected parts of the audition (according to the handout we were given). He asked D to see if he could pick out what note he had just sung on the keyboard. He did. It was High C#. (My jaw nearly fell open. He sang a freaking HIGH C# on a ROLLED R!!!!)
Then the DoM said "I know you don't know anything about the piano but that doesn't matter. Can you sing an A for me?" D looked bewildered. I was confused too. How was D supposed to know what an A sounded like? They discussed this and the DOM said "well you mentioned your mom had labeled some keys. Did she label the A?" D said "no, that's not one of the notes in Danny Boy and she only labeled the notes for Danny Boy."
The DOM said "Ah, okay, do you know what a D sounds like?" D sang a note. The DOM checked. Yup. D. Then he asked "Can you sing me a G?" D instantly sang a stab at a G - this time the one just below that High C#. The DoM checked and he was right. They did another few. My jaw really did fall open. The DoM then explained to me (like I hadn't figured this out) "I think he is developing perfect pitch."
Then he showed D how wrong it was for him to be singing his piece down so low. He showed him what he'd demonstrated he was capable of singing and where his voice sounded most beautiful, and then where Danny Boy had been focused. He said "Your voice doesn't belong down here. It belongs up here.”
Then he sat us both down and asked D a lot of questions about himself, taking notes. He got D talking about a book series he's decided to write (his own story - not scripted; hallelujah) with a trilogy inside it. He wanted a plot summary, which D gave. He interrupted and asked questions which D answered without being annoyed by the interruptions. He asked D if he knew the definition of "trilogy" since he'd used it. D answered "it's a group of three." The director looked amazed.
He then had D select at random a page from a book. It opened to medieval poetry. He asked D to read aloud, which D did smoothly. He pointed to a word and asked him if he could read that. He immediately said "manifest." The DoM again looked amazed. (I really didn't think that was amazing at the time, but now I do for a completely different reason than I think the DoM did.)
Then he sat us down and wanted to discuss with great seriousness whether D understood the commitment and responsibilities of being a part of "the most famous cathedral choir in the world." He and D discussed that in real depth and D continually affirmed that yes, he really wants this. Then the DoM asked me how I thought D would do boarding; I said I was certain he'd do fine. Then the DoM asked D to go to another room so the adults could talk privately. D opened his book and he didn't return to interrupt (a major wow!).
The DoM said he's "very, very interested in D" and wanted to know not only would Daniel thrive, but would I be okay with my baby living away? He said he wanted D to come back for the final step of the audition and as soon as possible.
For the final step, we are to drop D off at the Cathedral School at the beginning of a school day and he'll have school type activities with the other students, he'll also have academic tests administered, and then he'll repeat the audition he already did for a few other people such as the singing teacher. This could happen this week or might be after the half term holiday, so in three weeks.
D came out of his audition and interview feeling very pleased with the whole thing, incredibly excited, and he can NOT WAIT for the final step - a day at St. Paul's Cathedral School. For me, it's a bit more mixed. Mostly, my heart is exploding with pride at how much he has grown, how much the experience of the first audition inspired rather than defeated him, and I have so much joy as I see him finding joy doing the things that are right for him in the place that is right for him with the people who were right for him. And, of course, I'm more than a little shocked to find that the place and the people might not be where and whom I thought they would be when he's only 8 years old. But D has never been typical and he's never developed along a traditional path; and he's never been more excited about anything.
It still may be that this was a short but intense and amazing formative experience for D as he makes his way in the world. It may also be that this is the beginning of a longer and fuller chapter in our family's journey. Either way, we are so proud of his growth and maturity, and for the opportunity to develop in this way.
Discerning D's next steps.
As some of you know, Daniel recently auditioned for an elite, internationally touring boy choir.
Rhett and I had struggled with the decision as to whether it was right to even let him try for it. The statistical probability of being accepted was incredibly small, and even if he were offered the spot we weren’t sure we’d be willing to let him take it. (Boarding school, traveling without a parent, missing our baby, knowing he would surely miss us…)
But we decided not only to let him try but to ask him to do so. We believed it would provide him an opportunity for growth, practicing keeping an open mind and an open heart, which were high on our goals for Daniel’s “life” education in the year ahead. We told him we wanted him to prepare for the audition in earnest and to do his best, and that if he was offered a spot after that he did not have to go. We wanted him to consider it with an open mind and heart, and that if he got in (which we considered to be completely unlikely) we would support whatever decision he wanted to make.
He did prepare for that audition; sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes happily with the promise of marshmallow rewards or TV time. But he prepared. On the audition day D was excited, but in an intense, kind of freaked out energy. It felt wrong from the start of the day. From the middle of the week leading up to the audition, really. Not wrong for him to go through with the experience, but like it wasn’t going to be right for him to go to that school and join its choir. There were other cues that it wasn’t right such as that he didn’t engage with the other kids and seemed completely terrified the entire time we were on the campus.
The following day, we received an e-mail telling us that Daniel had not been offered a spot in the choir and that the reason was he hadn’t sung well. The e-mail detailed his many failings and I didn’t doubt them. The description with consistent with how he’d sounded to me in the preceding week.
The part of me that wanted him to have had a good experience and wanted him to feel good about that was sad for him, and I knew at an ego level he would be disappointed. But I have to admit that a big part of me felt relieved by the content. It hadn’t felt like home to me there and although I knew it wasn’t about me and whether it felt like my home, I had a niggling feeling about it not being right. That he wouldn’t be happy.
I called Daniel in and told him that he wasn’t being offered a place in the choir and explained why; I even let him read the e-mail. I expected a few tears and a return to play. I thought that would be the end of it for good. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Daniel did shed a few tears and he was upset, but he very quickly wanted an action plan. He wanted to sing, he said. He wanted to go to boarding school and live in a dorm full of friends and take instrument lessons and get more flexible about food and travel and learn ancient greek. He insisted! And he begged me to look into other options where he could do this.
Rhett and I discussed it and we agreed that Daniel deserved the opportunity to integrate the lessons he had learned from his first audition experience but I wasn’t going to provide any support that wasn’t absolutely essential for him being able to prepare on his own. I wouldn’t remind or reward or cajole. He could practice or not. He could prepare if he wanted to. And he did. He selected a new audition piece, learned to play the melody on the piano, insisted I track down accompaniment audio so he could practice with what he’d hear in his next audition. And, of course, he bugged me about making sure he had additional auditions (yes, plural, because he wasn’t taking anything for granted) pinned down.
And so I did. I reluctantly and with coaxing contacted the music department of St. Paul’s Cathedral - the most famous cathedral choir in the world - and Westminster Abbey. And I told them that my 8 year old wanted to audition.
Westminster asked a lot of questions and sent me things to fill out and return, then scheduled the audition (for early November). St. Paul’s, on the other hand, asked me to first bring him to London for the Chorister Experience Afternoon to see if he really wanted to audition. And I thought to myself “Really? I not only have to take him to London for the audition where they’ll surely end this for good but also for this other thing before hand?” We both had a cold that week and I wasn’t especially thrilled about leaving my jammies. But he wanted to go and we’d committed to supporting D in completing the lessons he was learning through this process. It was just one day. Besides, it might be fun. Right?
Yes, it was fun. D was relaxed and happy from the first moment. He met kids and connected with them. He joyfully separated from me to go off for the kid part of the day. Meanwhile, I dutifully listened to the various people talk. They talked about the school and its philosophy, the choir and its prestige, the lifestyle, the parent involvement. I toured the boardinghouse and saw classes, heard from choristers who happened to be traveling in the halls we walked through, and enjoyed myself in a very passive way. Like I was at a museum observing and learning about things which had nothing to do with my life. Only, a new niggling feeling started to happen. Dialogue began within me. “It sounds perfect. It feels perfect.” “No, it’s in London.” “It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect.” “No, surely not.”
And then the kids rejoined the parents and I saw him happy, relaxed, at home. I saw him sing with the choir. I saw a chorister make a goofy face at him in greeting and I saw him reciprocate with his own. I enjoyed sitting with him in Evensong and listening as the choir sang what just happened to be his very favorite anthem in the world. I saw his eyes get wide and could almost feel his heart rate speeding up. “Is this his home?”
Daniel affirmed unequivocally that he most definitely wanted to audition for St. Paul’s, so I let them know and the audition was scheduled for yesterday. Most of me thought that would be the end of St. Paul’s and D might even decide that boarding choir schools must just not be the thing for him. But off we went, before the sun rose, to London.
When we arrived for the audition he was instantly at home and comfortable with the auditioner (aka the Director of Music - DOM)
First off, the issue of accompaniment came up because the sheet music had printed out looking crazy and wasn't going to work. But it turned out the DoM had a copy in the office and transposed it to D's key, groaning about how it was sooooo low and lamenting my foolish parenting, but in a light way. Then he played along as D sang it and I could see on his face that he was pleased with D's voice.
Then he had D do a sort of game with the song, playing the accompaniment at first but then dropping out and having D sing most of it a cappella but then came back in at the end to test whether he was still in tune. (He was.)
Next, he asked D to match several pitches as he played them on the piano. D got each one right, and I would have expected him to but the DoM was playing them in such quick succession that D was still singing the previous note as the DoM played the next one. Still, 100% were spot on. Then he played two notes simultaneously and asked D to sing back both pitches. One after another D sang them; all were correct. He was more sure of the notes than I was. And then the DoM added a third note to the chord to see if he could do it with three notes. Again, no problem.
Then the DoM had D vocalize on arpeggios, singing not on a vowel but instead on a rolled R. They went so far up the keyboard; I honestly couldn't believe the sounds I was hearing come out of my own child.
D was standing opposite the piano for all of this so he couldn't see the keys, and he called D over to the keyboard and started doing even more things that weren't expected parts of the audition (according to the handout we were given). He asked D to see if he could pick out what note he had just sung on the keyboard. He did. It was High C#. (My jaw nearly fell open. He sang a freaking HIGH C# on a ROLLED R!!!!)
Then the DoM said "I know you don't know anything about the piano but that doesn't matter. Can you sing an A for me?" D looked bewildered. I was confused too. How was D supposed to know what an A sounded like? They discussed this and the DOM said "well you mentioned your mom had labeled some keys. Did she label the A?" D said "no, that's not one of the notes in Danny Boy and she only labeled the notes for Danny Boy."
The DOM said "Ah, okay, do you know what a D sounds like?" D sang a note. The DOM checked. Yup. D. Then he asked "Can you sing me a G?" D instantly sang a stab at a G - this time the one just below that High C#. The DoM checked and he was right. They did another few. My jaw really did fall open. The DoM then explained to me (like I hadn't figured this out) "I think he is developing perfect pitch."
Then he showed D how wrong it was for him to be singing his piece down so low. He showed him what he'd demonstrated he was capable of singing and where his voice sounded most beautiful, and then where Danny Boy had been focused. He said "Your voice doesn't belong down here. It belongs up here.”
Then he sat us both down and asked D a lot of questions about himself, taking notes. He got D talking about a book series he's decided to write (his own story - not scripted; hallelujah) with a trilogy inside it. He wanted a plot summary, which D gave. He interrupted and asked questions which D answered without being annoyed by the interruptions. He asked D if he knew the definition of "trilogy" since he'd used it. D answered "it's a group of three." The director looked amazed.
He then had D select at random a page from a book. It opened to medieval poetry. He asked D to read aloud, which D did smoothly. He pointed to a word and asked him if he could read that. He immediately said "manifest." The DoM again looked amazed. (I really didn't think that was amazing at the time, but now I do for a completely different reason than I think the DoM did.)
Then he sat us down and wanted to discuss with great seriousness whether D understood the commitment and responsibilities of being a part of "the most famous cathedral choir in the world." He and D discussed that in real depth and D continually affirmed that yes, he really wants this. Then the DoM asked me how I thought D would do boarding; I said I was certain he'd do fine. Then the DoM asked D to go to another room so the adults could talk privately. D opened his book and he didn't return to interrupt (a major wow!).
The DoM said he's "very, very interested in D" and wanted to know not only would Daniel thrive, but would I be okay with my baby living away? He said he wanted D to come back for the final step of the audition and as soon as possible.
For the final step, we are to drop D off at the Cathedral School at the beginning of a school day and he'll have school type activities with the other students, he'll also have academic tests administered, and then he'll repeat the audition he already did for a few other people such as the singing teacher. This could happen this week or might be after the half term holiday, so in three weeks.
D came out of his audition and interview feeling very pleased with the whole thing, incredibly excited, and he can NOT WAIT for the final step - a day at St. Paul's Cathedral School. For me, it's a bit more mixed. Mostly, my heart is exploding with pride at how much he has grown, how much the experience of the first audition inspired rather than defeated him, and I have so much joy as I see him finding joy doing the things that are right for him in the place that is right for him with the people who were right for him. And, of course, I'm more than a little shocked to find that the place and the people might not be where and whom I thought they would be when he's only 8 years old. But D has never been typical and he's never developed along a traditional path; and he's never been more excited about anything.
It still may be that this was a short but intense and amazing formative experience for D as he makes his way in the world. It may also be that this is the beginning of a longer and fuller chapter in our family's journey. Either way, we are so proud of his growth and maturity, and for the opportunity to develop in this way.
Discerning D's next steps.
Blog
As some of you know, Daniel recently auditioned for an elite, internationally touring boy choir.
Rhett and I had struggled with the decision as to whether it was right to even let him try for it. The statistical probability of being accepted was incredibly small, and even if he were offered the spot we weren’t sure we’d be willing to let him take it. (Boarding school, traveling without a parent, missing our baby, knowing he would surely miss us…)
But we decided not only to let him try but to ask him to do so. We believed it would provide him an opportunity for growth, practicing keeping an open mind and an open heart, which were high on our goals for Daniel’s “life” education in the year ahead. We told him we wanted him to prepare for the audition in earnest and to do his best, and that if he was offered a spot after that he did not have to go. We wanted him to consider it with an open mind and heart, and that if he got in (which we considered to be completely unlikely) we would support whatever decision he wanted to make.
He did prepare for that audition; sometimes happily, sometimes grudgingly, sometimes happily with the promise of marshmallow rewards or TV time. But he prepared. On the audition day D was excited, but in an intense, kind of freaked out energy. It felt wrong from the start of the day. From the middle of the week leading up to the audition, really. Not wrong for him to go through with the experience, but like it wasn’t going to be right for him to go to that school and join its choir. There were other cues that it wasn’t right such as that he didn’t engage with the other kids and seemed completely terrified the entire time we were on the campus.
The following day, we received an e-mail telling us that Daniel had not been offered a spot in the choir and that the reason was he hadn’t sung well. The e-mail detailed his many failings and I didn’t doubt them. The description with consistent with how he’d sounded to me in the preceding week.
The part of me that wanted him to have had a good experience and wanted him to feel good about that was sad for him, and I knew at an ego level he would be disappointed. But I have to admit that a big part of me felt relieved by the content. It hadn’t felt like home to me there and although I knew it wasn’t about me and whether it felt like my home, I had a niggling feeling about it not being right. That he wouldn’t be happy.
I called Daniel in and told him that he wasn’t being offered a place in the choir and explained why; I even let him read the e-mail. I expected a few tears and a return to play. I thought that would be the end of it for good. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Daniel did shed a few tears and he was upset, but he very quickly wanted an action plan. He wanted to sing, he said. He wanted to go to boarding school and live in a dorm full of friends and take instrument lessons and get more flexible about food and travel and learn ancient greek. He insisted! And he begged me to look into other options where he could do this.
Rhett and I discussed it and we agreed that Daniel deserved the opportunity to integrate the lessons he had learned from his first audition experience but I wasn’t going to provide any support that wasn’t absolutely essential for him being able to prepare on his own. I wouldn’t remind or reward or cajole. He could practice or not. He could prepare if he wanted to. And he did. He selected a new audition piece, learned to play the melody on the piano, insisted I track down accompaniment audio so he could practice with what he’d hear in his next audition. And, of course, he bugged me about making sure he had additional auditions (yes, plural, because he wasn’t taking anything for granted) pinned down.
And so I did. I reluctantly and with coaxing contacted the music department of St. Paul’s Cathedral - the most famous cathedral choir in the world - and Westminster Abbey. And I told them that my 8 year old wanted to audition.
Westminster asked a lot of questions and sent me things to fill out and return, then scheduled the audition (for early November). St. Paul’s, on the other hand, asked me to first bring him to London for the Chorister Experience Afternoon to see if he really wanted to audition. And I thought to myself “Really? I not only have to take him to London for the audition where they’ll surely end this for good but also for this other thing before hand?” We both had a cold that week and I wasn’t especially thrilled about leaving my jammies. But he wanted to go and we’d committed to supporting D in completing the lessons he was learning through this process. It was just one day. Besides, it might be fun. Right?
Yes, it was fun. D was relaxed and happy from the first moment. He met kids and connected with them. He joyfully separated from me to go off for the kid part of the day. Meanwhile, I dutifully listened to the various people talk. They talked about the school and its philosophy, the choir and its prestige, the lifestyle, the parent involvement. I toured the boardinghouse and saw classes, heard from choristers who happened to be traveling in the halls we walked through, and enjoyed myself in a very passive way. Like I was at a museum observing and learning about things which had nothing to do with my life. Only, a new niggling feeling started to happen. Dialogue began within me. “It sounds perfect. It feels perfect.” “No, it’s in London.” “It doesn’t matter. It’s perfect.” “No, surely not.”
And then the kids rejoined the parents and I saw him happy, relaxed, at home. I saw him sing with the choir. I saw a chorister make a goofy face at him in greeting and I saw him reciprocate with his own. I enjoyed sitting with him in Evensong and listening as the choir sang what just happened to be his very favorite anthem in the world. I saw his eyes get wide and could almost feel his heart rate speeding up. “Is this his home?”
Daniel affirmed unequivocally that he most definitely wanted to audition for St. Paul’s, so I let them know and the audition was scheduled for yesterday. Most of me thought that would be the end of St. Paul’s and D might even decide that boarding choir schools must just not be the thing for him. But off we went, before the sun rose, to London.
When we arrived for the audition he was instantly at home and comfortable with the auditioner (aka the Director of Music - DOM)
First off, the issue of accompaniment came up because the sheet music had printed out looking crazy and wasn't going to work. But it turned out the DoM had a copy in the office and transposed it to D's key, groaning about how it was sooooo low and lamenting my foolish parenting, but in a light way. Then he played along as D sang it and I could see on his face that he was pleased with D's voice.
Then he had D do a sort of game with the song, playing the accompaniment at first but then dropping out and having D sing most of it a cappella but then came back in at the end to test whether he was still in tune. (He was.)
Next, he asked D to match several pitches as he played them on the piano. D got each one right, and I would have expected him to but the DoM was playing them in such quick succession that D was still singing the previous note as the DoM played the next one. Still, 100% were spot on. Then he played two notes simultaneously and asked D to sing back both pitches. One after another D sang them; all were correct. He was more sure of the notes than I was. And then the DoM added a third note to the chord to see if he could do it with three notes. Again, no problem.
Then the DoM had D vocalize on arpeggios, singing not on a vowel but instead on a rolled R. They went so far up the keyboard; I honestly couldn't believe the sounds I was hearing come out of my own child.
D was standing opposite the piano for all of this so he couldn't see the keys, and he called D over to the keyboard and started doing even more things that weren't expected parts of the audition (according to the handout we were given). He asked D to see if he could pick out what note he had just sung on the keyboard. He did. It was High C#. (My jaw nearly fell open. He sang a freaking HIGH C# on a ROLLED R!!!!)
Then the DoM said "I know you don't know anything about the piano but that doesn't matter. Can you sing an A for me?" D looked bewildered. I was confused too. How was D supposed to know what an A sounded like? They discussed this and the DOM said "well you mentioned your mom had labeled some keys. Did she label the A?" D said "no, that's not one of the notes in Danny Boy and she only labeled the notes for Danny Boy."
The DOM said "Ah, okay, do you know what a D sounds like?" D sang a note. The DOM checked. Yup. D. Then he asked "Can you sing me a G?" D instantly sang a stab at a G - this time the one just below that High C#. The DoM checked and he was right. They did another few. My jaw really did fall open. The DoM then explained to me (like I hadn't figured this out) "I think he is developing perfect pitch."
Then he showed D how wrong it was for him to be singing his piece down so low. He showed him what he'd demonstrated he was capable of singing and where his voice sounded most beautiful, and then where Danny Boy had been focused. He said "Your voice doesn't belong down here. It belongs up here.”
Then he sat us both down and asked D a lot of questions about himself, taking notes. He got D talking about a book series he's decided to write (his own story - not scripted; hallelujah) with a trilogy inside it. He wanted a plot summary, which D gave. He interrupted and asked questions which D answered without being annoyed by the interruptions. He asked D if he knew the definition of "trilogy" since he'd used it. D answered "it's a group of three." The director looked amazed.
He then had D select at random a page from a book. It opened to medieval poetry. He asked D to read aloud, which D did smoothly. He pointed to a word and asked him if he could read that. He immediately said "manifest." The DoM again looked amazed. (I really didn't think that was amazing at the time, but now I do for a completely different reason than I think the DoM did.)
Then he sat us down and wanted to discuss with great seriousness whether D understood the commitment and responsibilities of being a part of "the most famous cathedral choir in the world." He and D discussed that in real depth and D continually affirmed that yes, he really wants this. Then the DoM asked me how I thought D would do boarding; I said I was certain he'd do fine. Then the DoM asked D to go to another room so the adults could talk privately. D opened his book and he didn't return to interrupt (a major wow!).
The DoM said he's "very, very interested in D" and wanted to know not only would Daniel thrive, but would I be okay with my baby living away? He said he wanted D to come back for the final step of the audition and as soon as possible.
For the final step, we are to drop D off at the Cathedral School at the beginning of a school day and he'll have school type activities with the other students, he'll also have academic tests administered, and then he'll repeat the audition he already did for a few other people such as the singing teacher. This could happen this week or might be after the half term holiday, so in three weeks.
D came out of his audition and interview feeling very pleased with the whole thing, incredibly excited, and he can NOT WAIT for the final step - a day at St. Paul's Cathedral School. For me, it's a bit more mixed. Mostly, my heart is exploding with pride at how much he has grown, how much the experience of the first audition inspired rather than defeated him, and I have so much joy as I see him finding joy doing the things that are right for him in the place that is right for him with the people who were right for him. And, of course, I'm more than a little shocked to find that the place and the people might not be where and whom I thought they would be when he's only 8 years old. But D has never been typical and he's never developed along a traditional path; and he's never been more excited about anything.
It still may be that this was a short but intense and amazing formative experience for D as he makes his way in the world. It may also be that this is the beginning of a longer and fuller chapter in our family's journey. Either way, we are so proud of his growth and maturity, and for the opportunity to develop in this way.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Reflecting on the life and legacy of Milburn D. Gibbs
Celebration of Life Ceremony
17 June 2016 11AM
Reflecting on the life and legacy of Milburn D. Gibbs
by Rhett Brown
I love Milburn Gibbs. Today I remember with you all the ways he enriched life. I feel sadness over his physical separation but I have hope and joy in his ongoing invisible connection to us through a deeper spiritual reality. I often thought of Milburn as a man who had one foot in this world and one foot in the spiritual world. And for this reason, he was a miracle worker. Good things happened to those he loved. I'll bet we could go around the room and tell story after story of the miracles he worked in our lives. So I will do my part.
I first met Milburn Gibbs in the late summer of 2009. My family and I had recently moved to Siler, having purchased the Ruth Smith house. I happened upon Milburn at Mina Bina's Cafe in Siler City. He approached me with refreshing warmth, offered me a handshake, and a greeting "Gibbs is my name, what's yours." And then he disarmed me with an uncommon skill that I came to love about him. He asked how I was doing and listened intently to my answer. This was the first of countless times that he graced me with the gift of listening.
I'll bet there are many here today that have similar experiences with Milburn. He spent his adult life asking questions, listening closely to the answers, and telling the stories of the people with whom he talked. This is his legacy as a father, spouse, mentor, businessman, author, and journalist. His articles for the Long Beach Press Telegraph, Liberty News and Chatham News and his book chronicling a history of the Staley School beautifully tell the stories of those he interviewed. His poetry lovingly showcased the best qualities of those he loved. Over the time I knew him, he shared stories of his world travels, experiences with his daughters and grandchildren, and with his beloved Lala. All of us are here today because he helped us tell our stories. We are a testimony to the miracles he worked in our lives.
I specifically recall a time in which Milburn asked me questions that helped to manifest the next chapter of my life story. He was taking a writing class at the NC Arts Incubator with the Chatham County Poet Laureate. Milburn asked to interview me for one of his assignments. One question in that interview invited me to consider advice I would offer to a Class of 2012 graduating high school senior. I pondered that question and reflected that if I were a senior graduating from high school then, that I would join the military, and allow the armed services to train and educate me for life. At 37 years old, I took my own advice. I made this step because Milburn asked the right question at the right time and supported the manifestation of this chapter in my life. I spent countless evenings at his home, writing drafts of my military application, scanning and emailing documents for references, communicating with my recruiter and future leadership. There is a direct link between the current blessings of my life and my relationship with Milburn Gibbs. Only God knows how my life would have unfolded had I not known him and for that reason, he is one of the most important men I've ever known.
There is not enough time to tell of all the miracles he worked in my life: from inviting me to Earth Visions, introducing me to new friends in Liberty and Siler, encouraging my mental, physical and spiritual fitness, sharing insights about music, literature, politics, and sports over coffee and pie. He encouraged my growth a professional and challenged me to set goals and seek to accomplish them. There are so many ways, so many occasions on which he was like a father to me, a grandfather to my oldest son, a seer and medicine man in my life. For this, I will always be grateful.
Milburn was not an overtly religious man but he was a deep person, a man of the arts, a man of nature, of deep spiritual insight and keen cosmic awareness. He was a man of service, a lover of his community- a true Chatham County sage and a North Carolina treasure. However, some of you may know that Milburn was connected to the Quaker tradition, the Society of Friends. His relationship with this spiritual community makes a lot of sense to me. In this spiritual path, God is known as an indwelling light burning brightly in silence and stillness. It is in stillness and silence that the stories of faith and hope are made manifest in believers such that persons were known to ""quake" from the internal movement of the Spirit during extended times of silence. If you've ever shared silence with Milburn as I did, if he ever asked you a question, if he ever gave you encouragement, then you know that it came from a deep place within him. His words were just for you and on so many occasions, his words were a direct statement from God, a healing moment, a manifesting miracle.
In the spirit of the Quaker tradition, I invite us all to take a moment of silence and reflect on the ways that our lives were touched by Milburn Gibbs. Please join me in silence now.
Please pray with me.
Indwelling Spirit, Blazing Light, Stillness and Silence sought by the sages--thank you for the life of Milburn Gibbs your servant. Thank you for all that he was to each of us. Thank you that he is with us today. Thank you Milburn for being a divine icon, a person through whom miracles manifest. May you dwell forever in light, stillness and peace! Milburn, please continue to be a miracle worker in our lives and let us be your legacy. May we show reverence and honor for others. When we ask others how they are, help us to truly listen, and may the words we speak offer hope and encouragement. Let us be miracle workers. Let it be today and always. Amen.
17 June 2016 11AM
Reflecting on the life and legacy of Milburn D. Gibbs
by Rhett Brown
I love Milburn Gibbs. Today I remember with you all the ways he enriched life. I feel sadness over his physical separation but I have hope and joy in his ongoing invisible connection to us through a deeper spiritual reality. I often thought of Milburn as a man who had one foot in this world and one foot in the spiritual world. And for this reason, he was a miracle worker. Good things happened to those he loved. I'll bet we could go around the room and tell story after story of the miracles he worked in our lives. So I will do my part.
I first met Milburn Gibbs in the late summer of 2009. My family and I had recently moved to Siler, having purchased the Ruth Smith house. I happened upon Milburn at Mina Bina's Cafe in Siler City. He approached me with refreshing warmth, offered me a handshake, and a greeting "Gibbs is my name, what's yours." And then he disarmed me with an uncommon skill that I came to love about him. He asked how I was doing and listened intently to my answer. This was the first of countless times that he graced me with the gift of listening.
I'll bet there are many here today that have similar experiences with Milburn. He spent his adult life asking questions, listening closely to the answers, and telling the stories of the people with whom he talked. This is his legacy as a father, spouse, mentor, businessman, author, and journalist. His articles for the Long Beach Press Telegraph, Liberty News and Chatham News and his book chronicling a history of the Staley School beautifully tell the stories of those he interviewed. His poetry lovingly showcased the best qualities of those he loved. Over the time I knew him, he shared stories of his world travels, experiences with his daughters and grandchildren, and with his beloved Lala. All of us are here today because he helped us tell our stories. We are a testimony to the miracles he worked in our lives.
I specifically recall a time in which Milburn asked me questions that helped to manifest the next chapter of my life story. He was taking a writing class at the NC Arts Incubator with the Chatham County Poet Laureate. Milburn asked to interview me for one of his assignments. One question in that interview invited me to consider advice I would offer to a Class of 2012 graduating high school senior. I pondered that question and reflected that if I were a senior graduating from high school then, that I would join the military, and allow the armed services to train and educate me for life. At 37 years old, I took my own advice. I made this step because Milburn asked the right question at the right time and supported the manifestation of this chapter in my life. I spent countless evenings at his home, writing drafts of my military application, scanning and emailing documents for references, communicating with my recruiter and future leadership. There is a direct link between the current blessings of my life and my relationship with Milburn Gibbs. Only God knows how my life would have unfolded had I not known him and for that reason, he is one of the most important men I've ever known.
There is not enough time to tell of all the miracles he worked in my life: from inviting me to Earth Visions, introducing me to new friends in Liberty and Siler, encouraging my mental, physical and spiritual fitness, sharing insights about music, literature, politics, and sports over coffee and pie. He encouraged my growth a professional and challenged me to set goals and seek to accomplish them. There are so many ways, so many occasions on which he was like a father to me, a grandfather to my oldest son, a seer and medicine man in my life. For this, I will always be grateful.
Milburn was not an overtly religious man but he was a deep person, a man of the arts, a man of nature, of deep spiritual insight and keen cosmic awareness. He was a man of service, a lover of his community- a true Chatham County sage and a North Carolina treasure. However, some of you may know that Milburn was connected to the Quaker tradition, the Society of Friends. His relationship with this spiritual community makes a lot of sense to me. In this spiritual path, God is known as an indwelling light burning brightly in silence and stillness. It is in stillness and silence that the stories of faith and hope are made manifest in believers such that persons were known to ""quake" from the internal movement of the Spirit during extended times of silence. If you've ever shared silence with Milburn as I did, if he ever asked you a question, if he ever gave you encouragement, then you know that it came from a deep place within him. His words were just for you and on so many occasions, his words were a direct statement from God, a healing moment, a manifesting miracle.
In the spirit of the Quaker tradition, I invite us all to take a moment of silence and reflect on the ways that our lives were touched by Milburn Gibbs. Please join me in silence now.
Please pray with me.
Indwelling Spirit, Blazing Light, Stillness and Silence sought by the sages--thank you for the life of Milburn Gibbs your servant. Thank you for all that he was to each of us. Thank you that he is with us today. Thank you Milburn for being a divine icon, a person through whom miracles manifest. May you dwell forever in light, stillness and peace! Milburn, please continue to be a miracle worker in our lives and let us be your legacy. May we show reverence and honor for others. When we ask others how they are, help us to truly listen, and may the words we speak offer hope and encouragement. Let us be miracle workers. Let it be today and always. Amen.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Intro to my processing book
Sometimes I'm looking for this bit of writing I did what feels like a bazillion years ago and have trouble finding it. I'm posting it here so I can find it more easily in the future...
In the years following Daniel's diagnosis I read everything I could get my hands on with regard to anything that might apply to Daniel, especially that which was written about autism. A ton of it was very helpful but even that which helped us also hurt us because it assumed unquestionable the notion that autism was bad; a disease to be cured and eradicated. That bothered me so much I decided I wanted to offer another voice. The year after his dx, I wrote this introduction to a book that hasn't come to be and quite likely never will, but the essence is here, and I think it's worthy of keeping in mind for parents in the weeks and months following their child's diagnosis. For what it's worth, I share it here...
Introduction...
Throughout history, there have been many children born with profound exceptionalities and these exceptionalities are evident so young that it becomes very hard to know when to "parent," "teach," "guide," or "discipline,” and when to "observe," "learn," and "revel." My son is such a person, and he has taught me much, far beyond the sorts of lessons one expects a child to teach a parent.
As an example, one Sunday when Daniel was three, after a disastrous (and quite unsuccessful) day of intensive potty-training, Daniel climbed down off of a ladder where he'd spent most of the day gazing at the sky. He took me by the shoulders, stared deeply and intensely into my eyes and with equal depth and intensity spoke in a voice suddenly much older than his usual three year old timbre, and said 'Just wait for the sky to come, Mama. It will be here soon.' Then he climbed back up onto his ladder, looked back out the window, and said 'Escucha, escucha.' (Listen, listen)."
I shivered. Then I did a bit of research and I learned that words like the ones Daniel spoke at that moment have been found in the texts of the wisdom traditions for thousands of years. In every tradition, the meaning is simple and profound. Somehow, someday, Heaven and Earth will merge together and all will be one, and all will be well.
Daniel has been diagnosed with Autism. As of this writing, Autism affects more than 1 of every 50 children, and 1 in every 31 boys, and its prevalence is growing. According to one leading autism science and advocacy organization, “Autism is the fastest-growing serious developmental disability in the U.S.” It's clear that nearly everyone effected thinks of Autism as nothing more than tragedy. This is where this book will differ from the overwhelming majority of what exists to date in the literature on raising children with autism. Diagnosis is intended to serve only positive purposes, but in fact, it is very often violent and diminishing, extracting from a person all the specialness and gifts that they have to offer the world. In Parenting Christ: Waiting For the Sky to Come, I neither sugar-coat the reality of raising a child with Autism, nor do I pretend that I would change who my son is. Instead, I share my experiences of parenting Daniel.
Whether readers are parents, relatives, caregivers, or professionals loving and serving children with autism, or whether the reader is an adult or adolescent with the diagnosis, readers are invited to consider the people they love with Autism in a way they likely have not before. This book is given the title it is not because I believe my son to be a Messiah, but because he is profoundly exceptional in the way that so many children are. We, as individuals and as a society frequently misunderstand these children, especially when they are still too young to teach us what we need to know in a language we can understand. This book is the product of my efforts to understand. I share it publicly especially for other parents who at some level already understand that their child's sometimes disabling exceptionalities are still something more than disability; for the neighbors, friends, and relatives who seek to better understand someone with an autism spectrum diagnosis; for the professionals who love these children more for who they are than for who they can be made to be; and for every person with autism, from infancy through adulthood, who needs to hear that all that is intrinsically who you are is right, good, intended, and whole.
In the years following Daniel's diagnosis I read everything I could get my hands on with regard to anything that might apply to Daniel, especially that which was written about autism. A ton of it was very helpful but even that which helped us also hurt us because it assumed unquestionable the notion that autism was bad; a disease to be cured and eradicated. That bothered me so much I decided I wanted to offer another voice. The year after his dx, I wrote this introduction to a book that hasn't come to be and quite likely never will, but the essence is here, and I think it's worthy of keeping in mind for parents in the weeks and months following their child's diagnosis. For what it's worth, I share it here...
Introduction...
Throughout history, there have been many children born with profound exceptionalities and these exceptionalities are evident so young that it becomes very hard to know when to "parent," "teach," "guide," or "discipline,” and when to "observe," "learn," and "revel." My son is such a person, and he has taught me much, far beyond the sorts of lessons one expects a child to teach a parent.
As an example, one Sunday when Daniel was three, after a disastrous (and quite unsuccessful) day of intensive potty-training, Daniel climbed down off of a ladder where he'd spent most of the day gazing at the sky. He took me by the shoulders, stared deeply and intensely into my eyes and with equal depth and intensity spoke in a voice suddenly much older than his usual three year old timbre, and said 'Just wait for the sky to come, Mama. It will be here soon.' Then he climbed back up onto his ladder, looked back out the window, and said 'Escucha, escucha.' (Listen, listen)."
I shivered. Then I did a bit of research and I learned that words like the ones Daniel spoke at that moment have been found in the texts of the wisdom traditions for thousands of years. In every tradition, the meaning is simple and profound. Somehow, someday, Heaven and Earth will merge together and all will be one, and all will be well.
Daniel has been diagnosed with Autism. As of this writing, Autism affects more than 1 of every 50 children, and 1 in every 31 boys, and its prevalence is growing. According to one leading autism science and advocacy organization, “Autism is the fastest-growing serious developmental disability in the U.S.” It's clear that nearly everyone effected thinks of Autism as nothing more than tragedy. This is where this book will differ from the overwhelming majority of what exists to date in the literature on raising children with autism. Diagnosis is intended to serve only positive purposes, but in fact, it is very often violent and diminishing, extracting from a person all the specialness and gifts that they have to offer the world. In Parenting Christ: Waiting For the Sky to Come, I neither sugar-coat the reality of raising a child with Autism, nor do I pretend that I would change who my son is. Instead, I share my experiences of parenting Daniel.
Whether readers are parents, relatives, caregivers, or professionals loving and serving children with autism, or whether the reader is an adult or adolescent with the diagnosis, readers are invited to consider the people they love with Autism in a way they likely have not before. This book is given the title it is not because I believe my son to be a Messiah, but because he is profoundly exceptional in the way that so many children are. We, as individuals and as a society frequently misunderstand these children, especially when they are still too young to teach us what we need to know in a language we can understand. This book is the product of my efforts to understand. I share it publicly especially for other parents who at some level already understand that their child's sometimes disabling exceptionalities are still something more than disability; for the neighbors, friends, and relatives who seek to better understand someone with an autism spectrum diagnosis; for the professionals who love these children more for who they are than for who they can be made to be; and for every person with autism, from infancy through adulthood, who needs to hear that all that is intrinsically who you are is right, good, intended, and whole.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
A joyful mama's thoughts on early assessments and interventions
Reflecting on Matthew's well-child appointment on Monday... Matthew's pediatrician granted months ago my requests for referrals for speech and occupational therapies, as he is in "the gray area" for speech and fine motor milestones; but she admitted Monday that unless parents strongly advocate for this, she NEVER refers babies and toddlers for developmental evaluations/interventions under 18-24 months. She considers the assessment of "need" under these ages to be too subjective and that interventionists "can't really do much" to facilitate progress until kids are older. (I haven't minded this about her because I'm like a hawk with my kids' development, and even though she thinks I'm silly, she does grant my referral requests.)
Anyway, this is a very common phenomenon amongst pediatricians and I think it's dreadful. I don't understand why our society has assigned assessment and monitoring of little ones' early childhood development to a group of (albeit well-meaning and otherwise quite knowledgeable) professionals whose training simply does not devote any meaningful time or attention to either milestone quality or timing, or to what achievements are possible when interventions begin as soon as delays are identified, ideally under 12 months. I'm sincerely bewildered by the "wait and see if it fixes itself" attitude. I asked the provider why she doesn't refer sooner and whether she fears any sort of harm if referrals are made more promptly and she answered, "no, I certainly don't think any harm can come from it. Extra stimulation is never a bad thing. I just don't think it's really necessary."
Professionals who obtain licenses to practice medicine ought to be able to think logically, and ordinarily medical providers are quite linear and logical. I appreciate this about them. This position, so typical amongst pediatricians, is just not logical. The thought seems to go that "a serious problem might be developing which could be completely averted with intervention now, but since maybe there isn't, let's just ignore it and let the problem grow bigger and bigger until it reaches a severity and level of entrenchment that it might require many more years of therapies and treatment or even never be correctable." Yeah... No. Not when it's my baby's future on the line.
This is not an apathy issue. This provider is extremely hard working; sometimes researching issues and tracking down journal articles, sending them to me after appointments. This is not an intelligence issue. She is quick, insightful, and highly observant. And as I noted above, this is not just this particular doctor. We went through 7 pediatricians in 3.5 years with my older son before one of them looked at the massive number of skill deficits and unachieved or poorly achieved developmental milestones and muttered under her breath, "Maybe Aspergers? But probably not. You could get an evaluation of you really want to."
This is an issue of assigning the wrong job to the wrong person. We do not ask our accountants to diagnose/treat our cars and we should not ask our doctors to diagnose/treat developmental differences.
There is a reason that there are billions of federal dollars allocated each year for developmental interventions with kids under two. It's because those interventions work. Those dollars stop at age three because by three efforts shift from fixing the problem to coping with it. It is very, very, very troubling to me that we have entrusted the medical profession with oversight of infant and toddler development, yet have either seriously miseducated or failed to educate them about what angst can be averted with interventions in the first three years of life.
Now, while my son's pediatrician didn't say this, I suspect that other than not realizing what is possible with early intervention, the reason providers don't advise interventions when delays first present is that they don't want to worry parents. God knows parents worry enough as it is. But parents worry a lot more about what pediatricians don't say than what they do, and there is absolutely no need for an intervention referral to cause anxiety. To the extent that it does, it's only because our society makes such "a thing" about it. It's not a thing; it's not a big deal at all. Is the kid perfectly fine? Probably. Would the kid have caught up at some point? Likely. Will life be easier and more pleasant for everyone if little things get corrected while they're little? Absolutely. This is not different than a vaccine. Prevent problems. Just prevent them.
Our family is committed to normalizing early intervention to the extent that we are able. In fact, we decided before we started trying for Matthew that we would have any future children's development evaluated periodically by experts in that field, and that we would welcome any interventions offered with joyful hearts. It's not dramatic or shameful or scary or even all that interesting. It's just proactive parenting.
Since we met our then only hoped-for baby, we find that we have a gross motor baby. He loves exploring the world and is busy doing that. I really think his energy is just devoted to that exploration and that he's less interested in learning to talk or practice fine motor tasks. He is bright eyed and happy, socially engaged, advanced in social and emotional milestones. I'm 1000% certain he's not on the spectrum (though it would be fine it he were) and I'm entirely certain he'll talk and do fine motor stuff when he feels like it. At the moment he just doesn't. That said, because he's interested in gross motor exploration and isn't doing some things that most babies his age are, he qualifies for some playtime sessions with some really fun grown ups that he loves and love him back. That's all it feels like to him, anyway. So why would anyone not embrace that for a child? I really don't know. After all, "extra stimulation is never a bad thing," and isn't it better to fix little stuff while it's little?
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Daniel's Birthday Letter - Age 7
Daniel's birthday letter - age 7
Dear Daniel,
I wish you a belated happy seventh birthday!
I'm not so much astounded by the number of your age at this point. I think I'm getting used to the passage of time. But as I pause to reflect on the year that you were six, I am astounded, nonetheless. I am astounded by how much growing up you did in this last year and how much progress you have made in such a short period of time.
You've grown, changed, and progressed so quickly in this year that it's been difficult to keep up. And we have been so incredibly busy! You've had ABA therapy 3-5 days per week. First it was with a DTT therapist, but I concluded she was harmful and fired her. We switched to a NET therapist, Miss Nicole, whom we all adore. You've also had OT thrice and speech twice a week, and somewhat frequent other miscellaneous appointments. Your sensory processing has improved exponentially; your flexibility is within normal limits; stereotypic behaviors are only evident on very rare occasions and to people who know you extremely well who also know a ton about such things. In fact, over the last six months or so, it has become the consensus amongst your teachers, therapists, and other relevant providers that if you were assessed today, you would not meet criteria for Autism. Whether it is gone forever or merely in remission for a time, or whether your other stuff just looked for all the world like ASD, we don't know. For now, it doesn't matter; and it's neither good nor bad. It's also not a crystal ball, so as much as your Type-A mama always wants to tell the future, I can't speculate meaningfully on what is to come.
What I can reflect on meaningfully is this moment and the past. At the moment, we are thriving. Your dad loves his work, spending time with our family, and is training for a 50 mile race in June. I am loving life as a SAHM, lack of sleep, very busy schedule and all. And you are Super Daniel! (You gave yourself that name for playtime not so long ago, and I'm stealing it because it's the perfect description). You are every bit the perfect, whole, unique, wild, wonderful, powerful, intense, adorable person that I wrote to on the day that we received the terrifying diagnosis, only MORE so. You are still opinionated, sometimes shy, prone to anxiety, and fond of predictable routines, only LESS so. (Except the opinionated part. That hasn't changed.) You are humorous and serious, spiritual and embodied, cerebral and emotional. You are "grow[ing] up to yourself." And you blow me away!
We have reached this moment in our lives by acknowledging our challenges, seeking information on and help with the areas where each of us has struggled, celebrating successes, learning from mistakes, extending grace to ourselves and to one another when we blow it, and leaning deep and hard into our faith. I look forward to continuing to do lots and lots and lots more of all those things!
It's hard to believe that such a full year could contain more than I've already described. But, indeed, it has! The year was filled with great big milestones. You learned all sorts of things, developed new strengths and skills, had play dates without us, had your first sleepover, endured your fifth move, and finally got that sibling you'd been begging for. You are an amazing big brother to Baby Matthew. Before he was born, you made a series of videos intended to teach him life skills; you hold him, feed him, read and talk to him, and you're remarkably patient about having to share your parents' time and attention.
You make friends even more easily than in recent years and have your second crush. (You and Lydia broke up in the most adorable seen that her parents or I have ever witnessed, and these days it's all about Raelea)! You continue to like math but say that you were "born to read." In the last several months, your ability to read has skyrocketed and you've been reading voraciously all sorts of different things. For a few months your great lit love was Harry Potter. You also love the Magic Treehouse series and you tolerate the non-fiction fact trackers that go with them.
Thanks to your new found flexibility, you are being introduced to new things that delight you all the time. New book series, movies, games, activities, restaurants, and people. Among this year's discoveries are bowling, swimming, making your own movies on the computer, maps and navigation, and chess. And you're begging for archery classes.
This year my prayer for you and invitation to you are similar but not identical to last year's. I invite you to continue to stretch and grow; to risk and try and sometimes fail; to love and trust and dream, and try to fly. And also, I affirm the charge that you seem to have taken upon yourself. In an incredible way you are emerging. Continue to emerge, magnificent son. You've got this.
Love,
Mom
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
My Autism Awareness Month rant for 2014 ;-)
So, it's Autism Awareness Month, and I'm all for awareness. While people are being extra aware this month, I'd like to ask that people be aware not just of the difficulties and problematic aspects of autism, but also of the fact that autistic people are people. Unique, wonderful, precious people. As worthy of honoring for all that they are as any other person. Moreover, I think it's important to make clear that eliminating autism isn't everyone's goal. It's not even the most widely-held goal of the people whose votes count the most (in my opinion). And what I want those of you who know and love me to know is that it's not my goal.
I'm all for providing loving, nurturing, supportive, empowering therapy to all people who struggle with anything, including Autism. Heck, our family gave up everything to do just that. I do believe in ameliorating challenges and difficulties, and always, always, always laying for all people, including Autistic people, a foundation for joy (and adult independence). When my son was given this diagnosis, it was made more than clear that we were supposed to be sad. So, we were. We were supposed to be scared. So, we were. I'm not saying there's not room for grief and anxiety. There is. Of course there is. Parents grieve stuff. Parents worry. But the constant barrage of symptom-talk and minimizing, pathologizing, and ignoring the things I love most about the coolest child I've ever met (I know, I'm biased) makes me flipping mad.
Until recently, Daniel had a highly educated, highly experienced, and incredibly pompous and negative "therapist" who seemed hell-bent on forming my child in her own image. I didn't fire her because of her intentions (those sorts of people are too common to be completely avoided). I fired her because it was working. I heard my child becoming a parrot in the living room, echoing back to her useless and bizarrely inaccurate/incomplete answers to even dumber questions. I saw his spirit caving in. I hated myself for subjecting him to it; all the while wondering if it was still "in his best interest." Answer: NO!
Before the diagnosis day when everyone in the room seemed so darned focused on getting me to see how scared I ought to be, that question would have seemed like a no brainer. But fear makes people hesitant as much as it makes us impulsive, and I wasn't sure whether that time I was at risk of being too hesitant or too impulsive. In the end, I was neither. When I told her that she wouldn’t be allowed to work with him anymore, her response was haughty, righteous, and cold. Tragic really. But without a second thought, I filled with play, joy, and laughter the hours she was trying (with a really weird version of good intentions) to use to break my kid. The results have been really good. He's doing wonderfully well in school, gaining new skills and strengths by the minute, we can go to church in age-appropriate peace, and he is so very, very, very happy! I am too. I did replace that "therapist" with someone amazing. She's a therapist according to our insurance company, which pays for her; but really, she's a highly qualified playmate, mentor, and a big-time Daniel-fan. She loves him. She's not afraid to say it. She loves him for all that he is, and only wants (as I do) to equip him well to pursue his own passions and dreams.
So as we are all being aware this month, I hope that we will focus our attention on love, kindness, and respect for people with autism. Before we talk about autism, let's talk about personhood. Let's open our minds and our hearts. Let's love. Let's respect. And let's remember that the reason other people aren't like us is because they aren't us. Let's teach our children to cope in the world that they live in, to respect others, to be responsible, to be moral, and to be kind. And with whatever energy we have left (and whether your kids are on the spectrum or not, there's not much left), let's get a hobby.
I'm all for providing loving, nurturing, supportive, empowering therapy to all people who struggle with anything, including Autism. Heck, our family gave up everything to do just that. I do believe in ameliorating challenges and difficulties, and always, always, always laying for all people, including Autistic people, a foundation for joy (and adult independence). When my son was given this diagnosis, it was made more than clear that we were supposed to be sad. So, we were. We were supposed to be scared. So, we were. I'm not saying there's not room for grief and anxiety. There is. Of course there is. Parents grieve stuff. Parents worry. But the constant barrage of symptom-talk and minimizing, pathologizing, and ignoring the things I love most about the coolest child I've ever met (I know, I'm biased) makes me flipping mad.
Until recently, Daniel had a highly educated, highly experienced, and incredibly pompous and negative "therapist" who seemed hell-bent on forming my child in her own image. I didn't fire her because of her intentions (those sorts of people are too common to be completely avoided). I fired her because it was working. I heard my child becoming a parrot in the living room, echoing back to her useless and bizarrely inaccurate/incomplete answers to even dumber questions. I saw his spirit caving in. I hated myself for subjecting him to it; all the while wondering if it was still "in his best interest." Answer: NO!
Before the diagnosis day when everyone in the room seemed so darned focused on getting me to see how scared I ought to be, that question would have seemed like a no brainer. But fear makes people hesitant as much as it makes us impulsive, and I wasn't sure whether that time I was at risk of being too hesitant or too impulsive. In the end, I was neither. When I told her that she wouldn’t be allowed to work with him anymore, her response was haughty, righteous, and cold. Tragic really. But without a second thought, I filled with play, joy, and laughter the hours she was trying (with a really weird version of good intentions) to use to break my kid. The results have been really good. He's doing wonderfully well in school, gaining new skills and strengths by the minute, we can go to church in age-appropriate peace, and he is so very, very, very happy! I am too. I did replace that "therapist" with someone amazing. She's a therapist according to our insurance company, which pays for her; but really, she's a highly qualified playmate, mentor, and a big-time Daniel-fan. She loves him. She's not afraid to say it. She loves him for all that he is, and only wants (as I do) to equip him well to pursue his own passions and dreams.
So as we are all being aware this month, I hope that we will focus our attention on love, kindness, and respect for people with autism. Before we talk about autism, let's talk about personhood. Let's open our minds and our hearts. Let's love. Let's respect. And let's remember that the reason other people aren't like us is because they aren't us. Let's teach our children to cope in the world that they live in, to respect others, to be responsible, to be moral, and to be kind. And with whatever energy we have left (and whether your kids are on the spectrum or not, there's not much left), let's get a hobby.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
1/8/15
Neat observation from D this morning - i think it provides insight into how his brain takes in the world. I also think maybe next year he should do an ABA science project. He was explaining to me events from the backseat of the car when we were on our way to school.
"Matthew dropped his bottle so I got it for him. He saw it coming so he started fussing quieter and quieter until it got to his mouth."
Tiny moment, yes, but the events he described happened in such a short time that one would almost have to have experienced them in slow motion in order to pick up on M's observation and the decreasing decibel level.
Monday, January 5, 2015
1/4/15
So I will not forget it... I'm feeling really proud of D for making a really good choice, and helping me to repair a parenting goof-up.
A while back I let D watch the first three Harry Potter movies, fast forwarding through the scary parts at first, then eventually letting him watch those during the day, with the lights on, pausing frequently to check-in, and only with me sitting next to him. He then started asking to watch the fourth movie, which I consider too scary for him; so I explained that the fourth book is too scary and told him to instead try to read the first book. I said reading the book would make his brain stronger and help him be ready to watch the fourth movie when the time came. He interpreted that to mean that he could see the fourth movie after he finished the first book, and because I didn't think he would actually read the first book, I didn't contradict him. Then, for Christmas, the only thing he asked for in his Santa letter was the first three Harry Potter books. I really didn't think he would actually read them (they are waaaayyy above what I considered to be his reading level and he ordinarily has a veeeeerry short attention span). But since they were his entire Christmas list, and I thought maybe I would read them to him later on, and of course, we want to support reading, Santa brought them. Anyway, since Christmas, he's been diligently reading the first book and I realized yesterday that I have a problem because I'm pretty sure he's actually going to finish the first book pretty soon, and that would mean I would have to let him watch the fourth movie. So, just now, I looked up the rating and explained to D that it's rated PG-13 and we talked about what the ratings mean, and he decided that it's not a good idea to watch that movie till he's older. Instead, he plans to keep reading the first three books, and when he's done, if he's still interested, we will read the fourth book together.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Birthday letter to Daniel, Age 6!
Birthday letter to Daniel, Age 6!
Feb. 16, 2014 - Colorado Spring, CO
Dear Little Bear,
Welcome to age 6!
The months since your half-birthday letter have flown by! We are pretty well settled in now, adjusted to the altitude and the climate. The autumn was short, and soon into it you developed a great fondness for playing in snow. You and father bear have played like peers, sledding and building a snow man.
Father Bear has settled in to his new job, where he provides counseling and serves as the alternate program manager for the Alcohol and Drug Treatment Program at Peterson and is doing massage on the side. As for me, I closed my private practice in NC and then once we finished the move to Colorado, I underwent a miserable Medicaid audit. Since then, I have joined the board of Autism/Aspergers Connections and taken on several volunteer responsibilities at your school. I have been most grateful to be able to focus on helping you with what you need. I hope to find a job here too, but your schedule keeps us both quite busy, and the benefits are worth it.
You are thriving at Academy ACL. You're doing well academically and have terrific friends! For several weeks you've been telling us how much you love Lydia, your "girlfriend," about whom you are charmingly serious! You presented her with a plastic ring and a big hug at your birthday party.
You've grown a great deal taller (46 inches now), and in addition to having had your tonsils and adenoids removed, you've also said goodbye to your four front teeth and the last inch or two of baby fat.
Your passions, interests, and explorations continue to evolve frequently, but of late they seem to include math, astronomy, languages (specifically French, German, and American Sign Language), and ice skating. According to the skating teachers, you're really quite talented! You've fallen in love with Curious George and loved singing songs such as Firework and The Boys 'Round Here, learned in an after-school singing class. Pretend play has also continued to evolve for you.
After you were asleep last night, Father Bear commented on how you seem to really enjoy your life in a way you never did before. It seems like things that used to be so hard for you really aren't anymore, and you seem happier. I agree with him that you enjoy your life a great deal more, and many things are becoming easier. Many things are still quite difficult for you and in some ways that's a good thing. You're developing those all-important perseverance muscles, and a growth mindset way of being in the world. More than any achievement or outcome, it makes me proud when I see you giving your all in the face of a challenge.
In the 8 whole days since you turned 6 you have completely adjusted to it. Now you are excited about the fact that you have two loose teeth and are enjoying your birthday gifts. You live in the moment and for the next milestone.
This morning, as I sneak my phone out to take a few notes for your birthday letter, you have climbed into bed with me and are either asleep, or as I so often do, you are feigning sleep. We both know the clock is ticking and soon the day will begin. You will be dressed and fed and off to school, and I will be on about my day.
The air is cold; the ground is covered in snow, and the day ahead is full. No one would blame either of us for stealing a few more minutes to enjoy the still of the darkness, the comforting heavy blankets, and the peace in this silence for just a little longer. But I think you're only aware of cherishing the remaining quiet before the day ahead. I feel like I'm actively cherishing the few sweet moments left before you decide that you're too old to snuggle in with Ma & Pa Bear for a stolen morning nap.
It has not yet occurred to you that moments like this one aren't going to be available forever. You haven't fully, consciously realized the implications of what growing up means. That someday you will give Lydia (or someone) a real ring, that you will move away, that you will fly. To you, this moment is just stolen from the busy day ahead.
Soon there will be sleep overs and club meetings and more and more play dates your parents don't attend. And though I've always known in theory that those things would come, I know that more and more concretely as you stretch and flap your wings. More and more often you tell me I'm not needed and that I can leave when I take you to school or you walk off with a friend or to an appointment. Those are bittersweet moments. It gives me joy - to see your burgeoning independence, as well as a mixture of joy and sorrow, that your parents are no longer the center of your universe.
Last year I prayed that for just a little while more that you would let me hold you. Thank-you for having done that, and thanks for all these stolen moments too, but you're ready to start working out your wings and we are as ready as parents can really be for you to do that. So this year, I invite you to stretch and grow, take risks and be brave enough to try. Trust that failure is safe and that we are here to catch you when you fall. Explore this wonderful world with your eyes, heart, and mind wide open, and trust that it IS wonderful! Keep exploring the whole range of yourself: athleticism and musicality, solemnity and exuberance, sense of humor and soulfulness; and trust that you ARE wonderful! It's clear to us that you are limited only by your willingness to try and by your imagination and your dreams. Dream big this year, and try. Manifest. Initiate. Fly!
Love, Mother Bear
Feb. 16, 2014 - Colorado Spring, CO
Dear Little Bear,
Welcome to age 6!
The months since your half-birthday letter have flown by! We are pretty well settled in now, adjusted to the altitude and the climate. The autumn was short, and soon into it you developed a great fondness for playing in snow. You and father bear have played like peers, sledding and building a snow man.
Father Bear has settled in to his new job, where he provides counseling and serves as the alternate program manager for the Alcohol and Drug Treatment Program at Peterson and is doing massage on the side. As for me, I closed my private practice in NC and then once we finished the move to Colorado, I underwent a miserable Medicaid audit. Since then, I have joined the board of Autism/Aspergers Connections and taken on several volunteer responsibilities at your school. I have been most grateful to be able to focus on helping you with what you need. I hope to find a job here too, but your schedule keeps us both quite busy, and the benefits are worth it.
You are thriving at Academy ACL. You're doing well academically and have terrific friends! For several weeks you've been telling us how much you love Lydia, your "girlfriend," about whom you are charmingly serious! You presented her with a plastic ring and a big hug at your birthday party.
You've grown a great deal taller (46 inches now), and in addition to having had your tonsils and adenoids removed, you've also said goodbye to your four front teeth and the last inch or two of baby fat.
Your passions, interests, and explorations continue to evolve frequently, but of late they seem to include math, astronomy, languages (specifically French, German, and American Sign Language), and ice skating. According to the skating teachers, you're really quite talented! You've fallen in love with Curious George and loved singing songs such as Firework and The Boys 'Round Here, learned in an after-school singing class. Pretend play has also continued to evolve for you.
After you were asleep last night, Father Bear commented on how you seem to really enjoy your life in a way you never did before. It seems like things that used to be so hard for you really aren't anymore, and you seem happier. I agree with him that you enjoy your life a great deal more, and many things are becoming easier. Many things are still quite difficult for you and in some ways that's a good thing. You're developing those all-important perseverance muscles, and a growth mindset way of being in the world. More than any achievement or outcome, it makes me proud when I see you giving your all in the face of a challenge.
In the 8 whole days since you turned 6 you have completely adjusted to it. Now you are excited about the fact that you have two loose teeth and are enjoying your birthday gifts. You live in the moment and for the next milestone.
This morning, as I sneak my phone out to take a few notes for your birthday letter, you have climbed into bed with me and are either asleep, or as I so often do, you are feigning sleep. We both know the clock is ticking and soon the day will begin. You will be dressed and fed and off to school, and I will be on about my day.
The air is cold; the ground is covered in snow, and the day ahead is full. No one would blame either of us for stealing a few more minutes to enjoy the still of the darkness, the comforting heavy blankets, and the peace in this silence for just a little longer. But I think you're only aware of cherishing the remaining quiet before the day ahead. I feel like I'm actively cherishing the few sweet moments left before you decide that you're too old to snuggle in with Ma & Pa Bear for a stolen morning nap.
It has not yet occurred to you that moments like this one aren't going to be available forever. You haven't fully, consciously realized the implications of what growing up means. That someday you will give Lydia (or someone) a real ring, that you will move away, that you will fly. To you, this moment is just stolen from the busy day ahead.
Soon there will be sleep overs and club meetings and more and more play dates your parents don't attend. And though I've always known in theory that those things would come, I know that more and more concretely as you stretch and flap your wings. More and more often you tell me I'm not needed and that I can leave when I take you to school or you walk off with a friend or to an appointment. Those are bittersweet moments. It gives me joy - to see your burgeoning independence, as well as a mixture of joy and sorrow, that your parents are no longer the center of your universe.
Last year I prayed that for just a little while more that you would let me hold you. Thank-you for having done that, and thanks for all these stolen moments too, but you're ready to start working out your wings and we are as ready as parents can really be for you to do that. So this year, I invite you to stretch and grow, take risks and be brave enough to try. Trust that failure is safe and that we are here to catch you when you fall. Explore this wonderful world with your eyes, heart, and mind wide open, and trust that it IS wonderful! Keep exploring the whole range of yourself: athleticism and musicality, solemnity and exuberance, sense of humor and soulfulness; and trust that you ARE wonderful! It's clear to us that you are limited only by your willingness to try and by your imagination and your dreams. Dream big this year, and try. Manifest. Initiate. Fly!
Love, Mother Bear
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