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summer

Slow, sweet summer.

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I hate slowing down. I always have. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be as busy as possible. I always had a pit in my stomach on Fridays, knowing I had two full weekend days that were going to be slower and more relaxed, without work/school/schedules to keep me busy and occupied. For 9 summers I finished the school year, had one week off, worked full time all summer, and one week before school started again. Everyone told me I was crazy. I loved it. Those interim weeks were the hardest ones of the whole year.

Clearly there’s a lot to unpack there. Namely, a realization about which I am doing some soul-searching: maybe my love for being busy isn’t just a personality trait, but was a long-standing avoidance technique. The busier I was, the less time I had to think about difficult things, feel difficult emotions, etc.

Two summers ago was the first one I wasn’t working, but I had a newborn and I was a mess, and everything was a mess, and the days just passed somehow. Last summer was HARD. Maya was at a tough age. 14 months wasn’t young enough to just do anything (though she was never that type of baby) but not old enough to do a lot of things. She woke most days at 5:15 for the day, and despite my best efforts, napped once for 45 minutes. The days were long, I was so bored and so lonely, I cried a lot, and I was elated to go back to work at the end of August (let’s not even get into the guilt I felt about that).

This summer, I was fully prepared that it might be difficult again. But it has been nothing short of GLORIOUS. Maya is at the most wonderful age. We’ve slowed down and I’m enjoying it so much. She sleeps until a reasonable hour, we chat over a long breakfast, we have conversations and jokes, we cook together and run errands together and go places together, and it’s FUN. (Note: don’t get me wrong, you know I’m not the type to sugarcoat. There are moments I’m exhausted and feel like I’m going to lose my mind, but I’m talking overall here). She is an active little girl and we usually do something in the morning or afternoon, but during the opposite half of the day we often just end up outside, because that’s where she wants to be, running around our driveway, watering the flowers, going for a walk around the block, splashing in the water table, finding bugs.

“Yook at that, Mama!!!!!” she says all day long, pointing at things and telling me what she notices.

It is so different from when she was younger. She will now play alone for stretches of time, she actually takes naps (most days!), she doesn’t scream if I’m not holding her, meal times are long and leisurely, and I begin each day excited rather than filled with a sense of dread (being honest here. If you’re a new mom and feel that way – I freaking get it. All babies are cute but not all babies are easy. More on this another day).

And for the first time ever, when I looked at my calendar and realized that in 2.5 short weeks I’ll be back at work, I felt so sad. Time is rushing by and I just want it to slow down. And I was shocked. I have NEVER felt that way. I usually count down until the days the craziness starts again. But man has this summer been wonderful.

I think I’ll always default to loving being busy, because that’s how I’m wired, and plus, who doesn’t like to avoid other life stressors and difficult emotions? But I have learned that I CAN slow down, I CAN love it, and this time with my daughter has been more special than I ever imagined.

Summer transition

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The school year is winding down, and we are in what we know to be really difficult for a lot of our kids: transition.

Some kids are acting the same as they always do. Their behavior hasn’t shifted, and their mannerisms are the same.

Others are silly. Giggly, laughing, hyper, falling off their chairs, bodies flopping all over the place.

Some are weepy. Expressing fear, anxiety, worry, dread.

And others are angry. Seemingly rude, bitter, mean.

Years ago I worked with a 13-year-old at a summer program. All summer long, I was the one she would run away from, the one to whom she’d roll her eyes when I came after her, the one she’d use sarcasm and and an annoyed tone of voice with all day every day. Still I persisted. I adored her. On the very last day of camp, the group was on our way back from our last swimming block. The path split, the group headed in the direction we usually went, although both paths ended up where we needed to be, and she looked at me and said, “Can we walk through the woods path, just the two of us?” The entire walk she said nothing, but wrapped her arm around mine and held on tight. She never shed a tear, she never said “I’ll miss you”. But in her own way, she conveyed exactly that.

This year, one of my little cherubs constantly uses a rude tone of voice with me. I’ll give a direction to the group, and, seemingly exasperated, she’ll interrupt with some sort of off-topic comment, random demand, or expression of displeasure for what I’m saying. (I love this kid. So much. No sarcasm at all.) The thing is – I KNOW she adores me. Looking past the behavior I see the other things: how her behavior escalates when she knows she won’t see me if I have a meeting. How she acts even ruder if I’m paying attention to another kid in the group. How she acted like a bear and then told me she wished she could’ve been on my Field Day team. How she whined all class and then said, “I don’t only want to see you two more times this year!”

Yet again, I have to come back to behavior = communication (I know, you’re so sick of me saying that over and over again).

And this point is so necessary to remember as transitions come up, because amidst the silly, rude, mean, immature behavior, the off-topic comments, the whining, the meltdowns, we have to remember that for them, their world is turning upside down. And not necessarily in a bad way – it’s just shifting. I understand it particularly well, given that at age 28, I still don’t handle transitions well. I’m fine once the event has occurred. But the anticipation of anything, even a positive event, is hard.

Some of our kids are going to a different school next year. Some are entering middle school, some high school. Some staying in the same school and devastated that their good friends will be moving on, or moving up. Some are already worried about which teachers they’ll have next year. Some are excited for summer, and some dread it. Some are busy and kept stimulated, and some sit on their ipads and are bored.

Transitions are hard, especially when you’re particularly sensitive, or autistic, or have executive functioning challenges, or a learning disability, and you’ve spent the entire year acclimating to a routine and structure and now it’s being taken away from you.

What helps: talking about it, constantly. Previewing, constantly. Being transparent, constantly. Throughout the year, I reference the calendar in my room at least weekly. I point out what’s going on that week, if I won’t see a group for a holiday or if I have a meeting, if there are any special events, if it’s someone’s birthday.

This month, we talk about the calendar daily. Every single day we look at it, discuss the events that day, talk about how many days are left in school, how many more times they’ll see me, and their other teachers. Every single day we talk about it, because it helps. Remember, we are talking about kids who thrive on routine, thrive on repetition, thrive on knowing exactly what’s happening when. The more it’s discussed, the more they can accept it and process it.

We talk about how we feel about summer coming. For some, we do it simply: we show how we feel with a thumbs up, down, or medium. For others, we talk about the things we’ll miss about school and the things we won’t. Still, others, we talk about the feelings around moving to high school, saying goodbye to a friend. But we talk about it so we can meet it head on.

Change is hard. For all of us. To different degrees. It’ll manifest itself in a variety of different ways.

Just hold onto that knowledge, as we transition into summer.

Things that made me cry today, in no particular order

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lake

-Listening to one of our campers play and sing a song she wrote on her ukelele, about how much she loves camp.

-Watching one of our little 6-year-olds silently cry. And when I said, “I’m feeling really sad about camp ending. Are you?” he heavily sighed, wiped his eye, and said, “Yeah, I am.”

-Watching another one of our little 6-year-olds say goodbye to our therapy dog. He knelt down, and whispered in Cadet’s ear, “Bye, Cadet. It’s my last day of camp.” He then told us, “Cadet is so sad it’s the end of camp. Cadet wishes he could come back every day. Cadet is going to miss camp.”

-A thirteen-year-old camper saying, “I don’t want to go to school. I wish camp could be forever.”

-Four nine- through thirteen-year-olds making a conga line in the water during free swim

-Taking one last picture of our backyard this morning, and one last picture of the lake yesterday afternoon.

-The idea that yet another summer is done, in the blink of an eye

backyard

To the mom I met last weekend

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Hi. I’m so glad that Charlie* is coming to our summer program this year. I’m so glad you brought him to the meet and greet a few days ago.

I know you were worried. When I sat down next to you, while Charlie was with his summer group and summer counselors, you gave me a tense smile and said, “I’m so embarrassed. He keeps saying bathroom words.” You went on to explain how awful he was behaving. That no other kids were saying poop or fart in response to questions. That during the year he had worked with his speech-language therapist who had provided him with social stories that were effective, and the bathroom talk had been extinguished. That you were petrified that it had returned.

When I gave you a smile and told you that this was SO common, that I had seen it a million times, I wasn’t trying to make light of your fears. I really was telling the truth. When I told you that potty talk doesn’t make any of us bat an eye, I was telling the truth. When I told you that it makes perfect sense that he’d resort to potty talk today, I was telling the truth. Charlie is 5 years old. Five year olds love potty talk. It’s silly and goofy and it’s a fun way for them to make each other laugh and connect. Charlie also happens to have an autism spectrum diagnosis. He has language, but anxiety and fear prevail over language. He was put into a new environment, with new kids, and new staff, for the first time all year. That would make ME nervous! So Charlie turned to the words that are easy for him, that he knows, that he could easily access. And those happened to be “poop” and “fart.” I promise you, this is the truth. I promise you, not a single one of us ever thought, or even will think, that he is “poorly behaved,” “trouble-causing,” or “disrespectful.”

When you left and told me, “Charlie said he loves this place!” I was thrilled. That was our goal for the meet-and-greet. To get each and every kiddo feeling like, yes, this is a place they will be safe and have fun this summer. You then followed it up with your disclaimer and fears, “But, he didn’t listen to a word anyone said.” My reply: “But he sat with the other kids. He kept his body in the group. He kept his body safe. He shared some laughs and some words. So from our point of view? It was a huge success.”

I was telling the truth.

We will work with Charlie all summer. We will help him find and access his language. We will teach him the “expected” and “unexpected” times to use potty talk. We will provide him with words and visuals to help him share his thoughts even if verbal expression isn’t accessible.

We are thrilled Charlie is here. We are thrilled you are here. You are in the right place.

I am telling you the truth.

 

 

*not his real name