On the Shadow Side of Morning

“For a while they stood there, like men on the edge of a sleep where nightmare lurks, holding it off, though they know that they can only come to morning through the shadows.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

When my husband walked into the kitchen and told me there was a shooting in a Connecticut school, my knees literally buckled. I remember being horrified and grief-stricken by the slaying of the Amish children, by Columbine, by the tragic movie theater incident this past year. However, this one is somehow different to me, maybe because it's closer.

As you may know, we recently moved to Connecticut, and Newtown was one of the towns we had considered. In the end, we decided it was too far for my husband to commute, and rush-hour traffic was moving the wrong way. Still... I can't help but wonder, if we'd made a different choice would I be burying a baby this week?

By Sunday evening, I had just started pulling myself together, but then we got word that one of my husband's colleagues lost a daughter in the shooting. The news has left me completely undone.

Ever since, I've been thinking about something one of my friends posted on Facebook. "On days like this, I wish I believed in God so that I could believe in hell." I can empathize with his outrage and the desire for justice and retribution, but I can't find a response. I do believe in God and hell, and it doesn't help me. I'm still filled with this dark, howling sense of grief.

I see and hear people -- kind people with good intentions -- trying to lessen the pain that our whole country feels right now. They say things like, "Now these little angels are in a better place" or "They're in the arms of Jesus."  I can believe it, but speaking as a mom, it feels like hollow comfort. The thing is, before I ever fell in love with my children's spirit or personalities, I loved their bodies -- every miniature part from their tiny fingers and toes to their soft bellies and mewling little cries.

Maybe that's why even parents of less-than-lovable children show such devotion. A true parent doesn't love a child because of what they do but because they exist. It's simply their existence that gives birth to love. I can say that my kids sometimes (ok, everyday) do things that really irk me and I wish they'd stop, but I never tire of their physical beings. I love the warmth of their breath, the pressure of their arms around my neck, their hands as they grab mine, the giggles when I tickle a belly button, silly grinning faces, the sound of their steps coming home from school... I could name a thousand things about them that fill me with joy. To have all these things snuffed out in a moment, I don't know... I guess I'm a heretic, but I can't think of anything that would fill that vacuum, not even hope.

I don't blame or accuse God, but I'm struggling to find some kind of peace in this. I just can't shake or process the senselessness, the total pointlessness of this nightmare. I don't know how to write a card, how to comfort a bereft parent without sounding lame or false or meaningless. And there are other feelings rolling under the surface that I don't even know how to put into words.

Anyway, I will wrap this up because my own little ones need to sleep, and though it's trite to say, I will hold them closer and longer.

Mugged by Sound

It's not easy being the parent of a special needs child. I know because at the end of kindergarten, my oldest child was diagnosed with Asperger's, which is on the autism spectrum.

Asperger's is tough in its own special way. My son's biggest challenge is interacting socially because he has difficulty interpreting facial expressions, body language, and tone of voice and even understand what other people are thinking. He's actually a very kind child, but he can seem insensitive (or even snotty) because he doesn't always respond to social situations correctly. Sensory input is another huge challenge for him. Not only is he a synesthete, but a sensory processing disorder was part of his diagnosis. So for him, the world is one loud, bright, mixed-up source of chaos. He spent two-thirds of kindergarten  in a ball under his desk because he was constantly overloaded by sounds. Five years later, he's made a lot of progress, but he still has a rough time in school.

As a mom, my heart hurts when I see him struggling, but I haven't been without my share of issues, too. For me, one of the toughest things to do was learning how to ignore what other adults think of me. They see my kid in total meltdown under a table or saying something that seems mean, and then they glance at me. In their eyes, I see the quick assessment of my total lack of parenting skills and the swift ensuing judgement. Truthfully, it can be more than a little embarrassing at times.

It would be easier in some ways -- people would be more sympathetic anyway-- if my child was obviously different, if he had Down's Syndrome or a physical handicap. But he doesn't. In fact, most people never guess that's he's on the spectrum because he's bright and funny and frequently shows some profound insights into situations. He's a little uncoordinated, but not so much so that one would notice.

In fact, to the casual observer, my boy appears perfectly normal. But I can tell that he's wired differently. For instance, a few months ago, a kid came running up to my son, waving his arms and yelling his name. A "normal" child would be able to tell that this kid was excited and friendly. My boy responded by freezing and reprimanding him. "You don't have to be so loud," he stated. It's instances like this in which, even though my son doesn't register the reaction, I see the startled, shut-out look on his friend's face. I see the other parents' faces as they wonder why my kid is such a snot. I know he doesn't even realize that he's misinterpreted the situation or responded incorrectly. I know I have to draw him aside (yet again) and explain what just happened. And my heart hurts for him. And it steels itself against the reproof I see in other people's eyes. But in the end, I've learned that I really don't care about them or what they think of him or me. I only have to love my child.

So recently, NPR posted this video called Mugged by Sound, Rescued by a Waitress. It's part of a project called Interacting with Autism. I wanted to share it because it touched me deeply. Watching this, I saw my boy. I don't know who made this animation, but he captured my child down to the last mannerism.

Sensory Overload (Interacting with Autism Project) from Miguel Jiron on Vimeo.

My favorite part of this video is the waitress who comes alongside this boy and doesn't say a word. She doesn't touch him, doesn't try to "help." She doesn't add to the noise but just lets him be. I wish I had a penny for every time I've told people to just leave my kid alone and he'll come around. So it moved me to see that some other person gets it.

In any case, I wanted to share this because I think it provides a terrific insight for people that have a relationship with a child (or adult) on the spectrum.

Happy

Scrolling through Netflix at 4AM this morning (not that I wanted to be up, just couldn't sleep), I noticed a film called Happy.  Its description read:

Happy takes viewers on a journey from the swamps of Louisiana to the slums of Kolkata in search of what really makes people happy. Combining real-life stories and scientific interviews, the film explores the secrets behind our most valued emotion.

It sounded fascinating. Then I skipped it so I could catch up on Doc Martin. But the idea of the movie has stayed with me all day. What makes my family happy?

Knowing how hungry my boys are when they get home from school, I made some pretzels this afternoon. As soon as they found out, my little one started a happy dance. Even the older, "cooler" one threw his image aside, jumped into my arms, and plastered me with kisses. He exclaimed, "My day was horrible until I came home!"

So this was the answer to the question I'd been pondering all day. In our house, happiness is a little bit of flour, yeast, and water.

Assistant baker hard at work

To share our happiness with you, here is the recipe I used.

Soft Pretzels (makes 18 pretzels)

•  1 Tbsp yeast 
•  1 1/2 c Warm water 
•  2 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
•  1 1/4 cups whole wheat flour 
•  3 Tbsp canola oil 
•  1 1/2 Tbsp Honey 
•  6 Tbsp baking soda; in 6 cups water 
•  pretzel salt; optional 

In a stand mixer, combine yeast, warm water, flours, oil, and honey. Using a dough hook, mix for about 5 minutes until you have a soft, smooth dough.

Place dough in a greased bowl; turn over to grease top. Cover and let rise in a warm place until double (about 1 hour).

When the dough is almost done rising, line two baking trays with parchment paper. Lightly oil/grease the paper. Set trays aside.

When the dough has doubled, punch down dough, turn out onto a floured board,and divide into 18 pieces. Then roll each piece into a smooth rope about 12-18 inches long (depending on how thick you like them), and twist into a pretzel shape. Place pretzels slightly apart on baking sheets. Let rise, uncovered,until puffy (about 25 minutes).

Meanwhile, in a 3-quart stainless steel or enameled pan (not aluminum), bring soda water to a boil; adjust water to keep water boiling gently. With a slotted spatula, lower 1 pretzel at a time into pan. Let simmer for 10 seconds on each side, then lift from water, drain briefly on spatula, and return to baking sheet. Let dry briefly, then sprinkle with coarse salt if desired. Let stand uncovered until all have simmered.

Bake in a preheated 425 degree oven for 12 to 15 minutes or until golden brown. Transfer to racks; serve warm with butter or mustard.

We always seem to run out of pretzels immediately, but if you can't eat all of yours right away, you can cool them completely, wrap airtight, and freeze. To reheat, place frozen pretzel on ungreased baking sheets and bake in a preheated 400 degree oven for about 10 minutes or until hot.