Children

The too muchness of it all

by Veronica Foale on September 7, 2010

in Children,Life,Me

My daughter has Aspergers. It doesn’t matter that we don’t have a slip of paper with the words on it yet, I know.

An official recommendation is made for assessment by an autism team and while I’m coping, it’s all a bit much.

She bounces off the walls, sensory seeking, frantically jumping and leaping and running and falling and laughing too loud and too hard for too long. She avoids my eyes and runs away and hugs me like the world is ending, clinging to my shoulders, trying to scale me like a jungle gym.

I drag her outside to jump on the trampoline and run and swing.

It helps.

For a while.

The sun shines brightly, but the wind is cutting and while she doesn’t feel it, I do and I shiver as I push the swing.

We check for eggs, she races around, she falls over and laughs.

I read about autism and aspergers and remember Amy’s first year, a first year I’ve blocked out for my own sanity. A year of screaming, of arched backs, of refusing to be consoled, to breastfeed, to play.

***

My son screams the scream of a frustrated toddler. He has wants and needs and I’m not meeting them fast enough.

8 hours of tantrums later, a small giggle escapes him as I take time to tickle him.

Two white points pushing through his top gum, two angry swellings on the bottom. Teeth. More of them.

His tantrums continue, interspersed with happy chats on my lap.

My head aches.

***

My partner hurts his back and tries to drive me to an appointment the day afterwards.

Half way to the city, his back seizes and he pulls over, stuck, screaming, in pain.

20 minutes later an ambulance takes him to hospital, leaving me and the children behind, on the side of the road. Stranded; I don’t drive.

My father-in-law and brother-in-law rescue us. I’ve never been so relieved to get home.

My partner makes it home later that night, a prescription of painkillers in his hand.

A week later he still can’t walk much, or move, or help around the house.

***

It’s too much when my daughter bounces and screeches and my son screams and my partner winces and it feels like all the balls are up in the air, waiting to fall in a heap.

It’s too much.

And while I know it will be okay and our families are helping lots, it doesn’t help when I’m on my tenth tantrum and my eighth meltdown and no one can help.

I’m overwhelmed and planning on spending a week in bed when this particular hell ends.

With chocolate.

A lot of chocolate.

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One foot and then another

by Veronica Foale on August 15, 2010

in Children,Life

There is sand in my toes and my hair is tangled around my face, hanging free, dripping salt water everywhere.

Again.

It feels like a kick in the guts, like someone walking over my grave, a shiver, a shudder. I am surrounded by ghosts of might-have-beens and if-things-had-been-different. They tug at my clothes and my hair, flitting out of sight when I look too closely.

***

You were meant to be here, helping with this.

You weren’t meant to die.

Everything is falling apart and you weren’t meant to be dead for this.

Do you hear me? You weren’t meant to die and leave us to deal with this alone.

***

One foot in front

and then the other.

Repeat, ad infinitum.

It won’t get easier, but it might get different.

I’m overwhelmed and unprepared for this.

Even though it’s been coming

for months

for years.

***

Things fly up and smack me in the face. I didn’t think of that. Why didn’t I ever notice that before?

The world falls down around my feet and I’m walking, crushing everything and I don’t want to be.

***

It’s cold outside, a veritable wasteland of winter. The rains come and everything turns green overnight, a stark change from the deathly yellow we saw last week. I want to sit in the sun and breathe in the smell of summer. I want to watch my children splash in water, to drip peach juice down my chin, to baby a garden through the hot weather.

I want warmth and growth and the smell of hot grass and sweat.

I want to lay on the grass and sob, to have the sun dry my tears as they leak from my eyes.

Instead, it’s cold and icy. The wind cuts through me like a knife, leaving me jagged.

And we are stuck inside again.

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Am Ow-Side!

by Veronica Foale on June 23, 2010

in Children,Family,Life

I didn’t want to go outside when my son stood wailing at the baby gate, crying for ‘ow-side!’ I wanted to stay inside and hibernate, curling up with my book and a hot drink. I didn’t want to have to do anything, just be alone inside my head.

Instead, I took him outside to join his sister in running around the paddocks.

And the look on his face was worth it as I opened the front door and he, newly clad in bright blue gumboots, clomped out to join his father.

It was worth it when we grabbed some wheat and fed the chooks and ducks, together.

It was worth it, to hear him calling duck-duck-duck-duck as he tried to chase them a little.

It was worth it.

He spent the first 10 minutes we were outside happily exclaiming ‘am ow-side! am ow-side!’

He chased a duck and paddled in the water. He stomped through a mud puddle and ran around the tyre arena. He helped to check for eggs and chased his sister.

And finally, he asked to be picked up and we came inside, to eat lunch and nap.

It was worth braving the cold and bitter wind. It was worth not getting to write what I was going to write. It was worth not curling up with a book.

It was worth all that, just to see his face light up as he called ‘Am ow-side!’ to me every few steps through the grass.

Seems I’m not the only one who hates the indoor isolation of winter.

And we’ll be going ow-side more often.

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More than a mother

by Veronica Foale on April 14, 2010

in Children,Life

My son stands up and starts to walk.

But he’s the baby I think. Who gave him permission to grow up?

He stands, laughing and clapping and walks the length of the room to get to me. I scoop him up and spin him in a circle, before he bites my shoulder and gets put down with a thunk.

He laughs again and stands, walking towards the other side of the house.

Wow. That time flew.

I swear, I only gave birth to him a moment ago. Not that long, surely?

***

They are screaming and I am stressed. Grabbing my camera, I escape the noise. Heading outside, I leave them to their father and disappear to reclaim my sanity from the other side of a macro lens.

I find bugs and flowers and then I return, wind chilled and flushed red – but happier. Always happier.

I adore my children with every ounce of my soul, but I scream to be more than a mother.

I want to be a photographer, a writer, an author, a blogger.

But my children are young and they’ll only be this small for a short amount of time.

I put aside my own wants and needs and make time for them, to roll around on the floor and nibble toes and elbows.

However, for 20 minutes a day, when I am in front of my computer immersed in words, or outside taking photos,

I am more than a mother.

And that makes me happy.

Pretty in pink.

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Now

by Veronica Foale on March 16, 2010

in Children,Family

Sighing, I flop on the couch and wiggle until I’m on my stomach. Arms outstretched I hide my head and eyes.

My brain works and I taste the words on my tongue, playing them through my mind. They fall from my mouth, whispered, like jewels and I swallow them back up again, not wanting to lose any.

‘What are you doing?’ says my partner. ‘Are you hiding?’

‘No. I’m brainstorming’ I mumble. My head pops up and I look at him, cupping my chin in my hands. ‘I’ve already had a shower today, so I can’t go and brainstorm there, can I.’

‘Oh. Okay’ he says and wanders off.

I had words, before. A whole post full of words, beautiful words, strong words. I just hadn’t written them down yet. I was busily running them through my mind as I picked up toys when a harmonica drilled it’s way into my ears and chased all the words away.

I can still hear it, that damned harmonica.

Innnnn ouuuuuut innnnnnn ouuuuuut and SQUEAL!

I bury my head back in my arms and try to return to my words, but the spell is broken. My son crawls over and pulls my hair and my daughter continues to suck on that dammed mouth organ.

Standing now, I head to my computer, hoping to salvage something. Anything.

It doesn’t work, not really.

Behind me my partner switches on the vacuum and watches me typing and ignoring the housework. His gaze makes my hands trip over the words and glaring at him, I snap the laptop shut. In reality, he probably wasn’t watching my words, but I can’t work anyhow.

I stand, allowing him to vacuum underneath my desk before he heads off in one direction and I sit back down to harness my wayward words, like small flighty creatures they dart off before I can get my hands on them.

In the background, the vacuum cleaner hums still and my daughter screeches my name, imploring me to ‘let her iiiiiiiiiiin’. My son giggles at her.

It’s hard to write here and now.

But I do it anyway.

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