The Play

Oscar is graduating from fifth grade TOMORROW and I'm hell-bent on writing about these days, these last days of Oscar at his elementary school.  Every time someone mentions graduation, tears pool on my lashes, my throat tingles and I feel my inner core start to dissolve.  

Pictures won’t be enough to capture and savor these precious moments.  So, this week, while I was frantically trying to find a special tie for Oscar to wear (preferably a giraffe tie), a dress for me to wear (wait till you see!), while I attended his last publishing party, helped him gather materials for Monday’s fourth grade vs fifth grade egg drop contest, and assembled pictures for his graduation tribute poster, I also did attend my writing group, compelled to write, to get these moments down.  Here’s what I wrote about the fifth grade play at last week’s writing group: 

Two weeks ago you performed in the fifth grade class play – three (three!) one-and-a-half-hour shows with countless transitions on and off the stage. Seven speaking lines!  I knew you played the bumble bee – I’d taken your black sweatshirt and wrapped the body with wide strips of yellow duct tape while you stood with your arms straight out to the sides and turned slowly so I could keep your stripes straight. I’d stolen one of Ruby’s headbands and twisted black and yellow pipe cleaners around it and glued a black pompom on the ends to make your antennae.  I’d practiced your lines with you over and over - at the baseball games, in the car on the way to school, and at the breakfast table - until you could say them without stumbling.  I figured you’d been assigned that part because the buzzing would mask your stuttering, which I thought was brilliant.  I didn’t know though that there were other animals in the play.  I thought you were the token one – that you’d been relegated to this role because you love animals and because it was all you could really manage. The entertaining side show -- a show I would thoroughly enjoy!

But I didn’t know that you also played a student and had many other non-speaking gestures and transitions to manage.  I didn’t know that you would hastily sit down when the “teacher” came on stage and snapped you all to attention. I didn't know you would keep your head down and pretend to scribble in your journal as if in writing class. I didn’t know that when you came back on stage as the bumble bee that you’d flap your hands down low next to your hips to imitate your wings. I didn’t know that your friends would gently touch your arm to prompt you if didn’t jump in right away with your line.  I didn’t know that you really could act!

I sat in my seat in the third row at that first show on Friday night and watched you walk onto the stage in that first scene.  I put my hand to my forehead to press away the tears of joy, just the way you did last month, after that marathon IEP, when I finally told you that you’d been accepted to that awesome school* for the Fall and that Daddy and I would do our very best to send you there for middle school.  (You were so confused by those happy tears – you’d only ever cried when you were sad and we stood there on the corner hugging, me crying too then.) 

On Friday, I pressed and pressed, just like you did, but I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes anyway, just the way they did at that musical performance back in kindergarten. Do you remember that performance? There you stood, up on the stage with your classmates.  Up on stage with your classmates! There was no adult helping you.  You mostly faced the audience.  Sometimes you sang!

Someone took a photo of Daddy and me watching that kindergarten you and I saw that photo this week while making your graduation poster.  Our eyes are shining, our cheeks are flushed, and our faces are lined with those wrinkles that appear when you are smiling through tears and trying not to sob. 

Over the years at this amazing school I’ve gotten used to you reaching farther than I thought possible.  I really didn’t think you could surprise me with the play. But you did, walking onto the stage like that on that Friday night.  Sure I noticed how you immediately scanned the audience, looking to see who was there and where we were sitting.  Integrating all that information is hard for you but you did it quickly and then switched back into your student role. “Middle School! What’ll it be like? What’ll it be like?” you sang with the rest of the “students”, clapping your hands and moving confidently across the stage to your next spot.

I looked around the audience then. Daddy smiled and wiped away a tear.  Somebody gently touched my shoulder. Someone else nodded to me with a smile.  I wasn’t the only one noticing how far you’ve come.  And then the tears flowed harder.  Just look at you!

* a small non-public school for kids with learning disabilities where all the therapies and structures are integrated into the curriculum and food security is already in place!

The Walk

A few Saturdays ago we held our 11th Annual Walking for PWS event in Northern California.  Oscar was only 18 months old when we held that first walk and I remember how Paul carried him on his shoulders for most of the two mile loop around the Berkeley Marina. (I remember thinking it was good trunk work for Oscar to hold himself upright like that -oh how we start to think like therapists when all we do is take our kids to therapy.)

In the years that followed Oscar was eventually able to walk the entire 1.75 mile loop, and then, later ride his bike.  The Walk became a way to keep track of those hard-fought milestones and we celebrated with our PWS community, as well as our friends and family that joined us, that Oscar was able to do just a little more each year.

This year though marked a different milestone.  Oscar's class is graduating from 5th grade next week and moving on to different middle schools.  So, at the urging of Oscar's teacher and the director of our school, I invited all of Oscar's classmates and their families to join us for The Walk.  I hesitated to extend a group invitation like that because, as I keep saying, these teachers, families and their children, our dear friends now, have been "walking with us" for years already -- including and accommodating Oscar, keeping him safe, urging him to join games, listening patiently through mind-boggling stuttering, inviting him to watch a basketball game or go to the movies.  They admonish me for thanking them.  They just don't see it that way.

Nearly 50 people walked for Oscar this year at our new location - Crissy Field in San Francisco. Over half the class was there with their families, along with two families from Ruby's class, three teachers and the school's director.  We made t-shirts with the 5th grade class picture on the back for all to wear.  It was almost too much -- that sea of people wearing "Walking for Oscar" shirts on that clear blue sky day in the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge. All those people there, for Oscar, for us! I felt my body tighten, not wanting to sink into the moment lest I melt into a puddle of tears. 

Our group was asked to lead off the walk.  I wish I could post the picture of Oscar with his friends and Ruby with hers pausing under the green and white balloon arch that marks the start of the walk but I didn't ask everyone's permission.  I wish I could post the picture of Oscar heading off down the path sandwiched between two pals.  It would show his proud shoulders (but not the slight bounce in his step as he walked off.)

I wish I could share the picture of Ruby and the two boys from her class as they wandered slightly ahead, chatting amicably, looking older than their 7 years.  When Ruby heard that Oscar was inviting his class to come and support him, she wanted to ask the 1st graders to come and support her too.  I sent an email explaining PWS to her class, realizing as I did so that I hadn't really ever taken a moment to formally educate all of those families about PWS and what that means for Ruby as a sibling.  I've been feeding them tidbits for two years now, not wanting to burden them either I guess.  I was so glad Ruby was open to sharing, and mostly that she asked for support too.

I wish too that I could post pictures of the elaborate face painting, our group with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, the kids playing chase on the banks of the amphitheater, the teachers chatting and remarking on the day.  I'll hold this day always in my bank of memories from these amazing six years.

Here, though, are a few pictures I think I can post:

Costa Rica

We’re in Costa Rica with Paul's family this week, visiting my sister-in-law who is living in Monteverde with her daughter while on sabbatical.  While all of us were excited to get here, Oscar was especially ecstatic about this trip.  As a little guy he was obsessed with rainforests and has been begging for years to visit one.  I reminded him yesterday that his preschool teacher turned the classroom’s play kitchen area into a rainforest on his behalf. (He doesn’t know this was also because otherwise he would have spent the entire school day in the kitchen, making plates full of plastic fruit mixed with all sorts of forbidden foods like pink frosted donuts, three layer chocolate cakes, and miniature fake fries.)

Oscar’s been so engaged and energetic here in the rainforest.  He’s the first one to volunteer for any walk – to Quaker Meeting, a mile up the big hill to breakfast, an extra two mile loop in the local reserve.  On Sunday he hiked the steep, rocky, and, at times, slippery trail to the impressive San Luis waterfall.  He hikes slowly in the back of the group with whichever adults feel like strolling, while the other kids race ahead, bounding up hills and leaping across makeshift bridges. Oscar doesn’t leap or bound, but he does just keep on going without complaint.  When we got to the waterfall he happily squatted on a damp rock overlooking the deep pool and watched his dad, cousin and brother jump from the face of the rock into the water right next to the misty fall.  I don’t think he ever thinks about wishing he could follow in their footsteps, but sometimes I do.  Not for my sake, but for his.  What would it be like for him to be out there jumping too?  What would his dogged determination look like in a body that complied? Or, I often wonder, are his determination and positive attitude also a result of learning to persevere through the challenges that PWS presents?  I’ll never know of course.

On Monday we went to Selvatura, a nearby adventure and wildlife park.  Oscar insisted on visiting every exhibit - he toured the reptile house, saw the hummingbirds, and visited the butterflies and insects.  And, amazingly, he agreed to a ziplining tour through the rain forest. I didn't know, and neither did he, that it would be thirteen ziplines through the rainforest canopy that would take 2.5 hours to complete.  I had chosen the hanging bridges walk instead but arrived at the last platform in time to wait for Oscar and the rest of our crew to complete the last zip. I stood there waiting, pacing, hoping he'd had fun. Hoping it wasn't too strenuous or stressful. Hoping we hadn't stretched him too far.  Hoping he and Paul hadn't had to hike back on the trails instead.  I looked out across the valley in search of the starting platform but it was hidden among the trees over one kilometer away. Another family was waiting too, and we took turns checking the cables for vibration, our only sign that they were on their way. When Oscar finally zipped in to the platform he was waving and beaming.  “Mom, mom it was so cool -- we were so high up in the trees!"

Here he is mid zip. (I was relieved to learn he did every zip with a guide).

And here he is beaming. (You can't see me, but I'm beaming too)

Exsanguination

Exsanguination -- why, you are wondering, is this word spinning around in my head?  Exsanguination is the bonus word that Oscar correctly spelled on today's spelling test. Really.

I stopped by school this morning to drop off Ruby's car seat and ran into Oscar's teacher. Her huge smile forecasted good news -- I'm not sure what I was expecting but it wasn't this.  My brow furrowed in disbelief as several thoughts raced through my mind.

He must have seen the word before.

Nope. 

Someone must have told him. 

Nope.

Did he cheat? 

No way. (I feel horrible that this even crossed my mind)

I looked over at Oscar's aide who nodded, smiling, confirming.  By now the director of the school had joined the conversation and the marveling.  She, like all of Oscar's teachers, has been celebrating his successes with us since kindergarten.  (In second grade, when Oscar was reading his poems aloud at the class publishing party, the poems he had written himself, her eyes were wetter than mine.) 

As we discussed what exsanguination actually meant, Oscar bounced over and said, "let me see if I can do it again."

Without hesitating he rattled off the letters -- E-X-S-A-N-G-U-I-N-A-T-I-O-N.

I must have still looked surprised because when he finished he said confidently, "It's easy Mom. You just go syllable by syllable."

Syllable by syllable. Little by little. Step by step. He's so right. It's how he has gotten here.  It's how he learned to walk. It's how he learned to read, and ride a bike, and draw a giraffe. It's how he'll always move forward.  It's how he'll always accomplish his next goal.

I used to be so impatient, anxious even, waiting for Oscar to reach the next milestone.  When he was an infant I compared him to my memories of a precocious Abraham who took his first steps at 8 months. When he was a toddler, I'd pull out the developmental tests and check his progress against skills for his age group.  I'd argue to the early intervention therapist that he could stack those 1" cubes if he had better trunk strength and fine motor control and therefore he shouldn't be penalized on his cognitive scores.  I'd talk incessantly with other parents about what their child could or could not do.  I'd lie awake at night thinking about ways to help him along.

At some point though I stopped charting and calculating and wondering and worrying.  I still supported him. I still taught people how to break down tasks into smaller chunks so he wouldn't get overwhelmed and could feel a sense of accomplishment each step of the way.  I still took him to all his therapies and advocated fiercely for his placement at this amazing school.

But mostly I relaxed into the knowledge that he would eventually get to that next place and that it wasn't a race. Mostly I just started believing in Oscar.

It seems corny now but the very first book we read to Oscar when he was a floppy infant in the NICU struggling to stay awake long enough to feed was The Little Engine That Could.  There weren't too many books lying around the NICU but this little dog-eared copy was a staple and we read it no fewer than a dozen times in his two week stay.  We read it to ourselves as much as to him. We read it to glean hope that he'd someday be able to eat, to walk, to talk -- things we didn't count on in those early pre-diagnosis days. Oscar knows this, and sometimes when we express surprise at his latest accomplishment he reminds us that he is the little engine that could.

He reminds us to believe.

It doesn't get old

I'm not going to tell you about our tantrum-filled weekend with new records set for screeching and duration or my impatience with the slow processing or, for that matter, that just after I posted last we got lice (yes, me too) but that I still managed, thanks to my amazing inlaws, to get away to a fantastic writer's retreat with Kate Hopper and then when I got back Ruby got a stomach bug and now my hands are cracked and bleeding from over-washing and sanitizing and I'm still not letting anyone use the bathroom Ruby is using.  Nope, someday I'll tell you about all that, maybe, but for now I'm taking a class that is going to help me recognize and enjoy some of the small pleasures in my life rather than always fearing the next tragedy (today's back to back pre-dawn earthquakes did not help) or always focusing on what needs to get done or be fixed.  And so I'm going to tell you this instead:

Last Friday, like every weekday at a minute or so past three, I punched in the five digit code on the school's keypad, yanked down on the handle and pulled open the heavy gate.  Parents had already gathered loosely to chat and wait for their children to appear. The younger kids often stand at the top of the schoolyard with a teacher and then come bounding down the slightly inclined blacktop when their parent appears. The older kids walk a little more slowly, self-conscious pre-teens already, and slide up next to their parents rather than rushing into their arms.  Ruby does neither -- she marches or skips confidently towards me and, as she nears, bellows out a request for a playdate with one friend or another.  She balks when I say no, and pushes her flowered lunchbox, her purple fuzzy jacket and her backback into my arms before disappearing once again to climb on the bike rack or giggle with a friend.

Oscar always arrives several minutes later, slowly descending the steps one at a time from the upper classrooms with the other stragglers from the 4th and 5th grades.  He peers down at the crowd from under the hood of his brown fleece jacket.  It takes him a while to process the scene, to find me in the crowd, but his face lights up when he does.  He always has something to report and starts talking without introducing the topic first so that I spend the first few seconds trying to guess what he's referring to.  Or he'll forget to notice that I'm already speaking to someone, usually his teacher or aide, and start his story anyway.

On Friday though, Ruby stayed home sick so I was standing alone at the bottom of the steps when Oscar appeared. His backpack was slung over his right shoulder and in his left he clutched a red three-ring binder containing the script of the play his 5th grade class will perform in May.  With a huge smile he reported that they had just had their first blocking rehearsal.  He and his classmates moved around on a makeshift stage and delivered their lines for the first time.  To my surprise he was beaming. He was excited.

It doesn't get old....this reveling in things Oscar can do, in things Oscar wants to do.  Things that years ago I'd never imagined possible.

These past couple of days I've been listening to the recording of December's triennial IEP so that I can be sure to get all the nuggets of brilliance included in the IEP document notes.  Yesterday I heard his private OT and his neuropsychologist sum it all up beautifully -- because the space-time demands are fewer at his school and because structure and calm are embedded into the environment and because he has excellent food security and because he has formed caring relationships with his peers and teachers, and because his teachers have the patience and training and flexibility to meet his needs, his progress in the five or so years that each has known him is nothing short of astounding.  His OT said that he is one of the most earnest kids she has ever worked with, and that if Oscar is withdrawing from an activity then you immediately have to look at the sensory demands being placed on him.  After all, said the neurospychologist, he is the kid who begged his math teacher to teach him to multiply big numbers. (She did.) After all, chimed in the OT, he is the kid that insisted on learning to touch type with proper finger placement, not just two fingers. (He does.*)

And now the kid who five years ago sat in the lap of his kindergarten teacher sobbing with his hands covering his ears whenever there was clapping, the kid who refused to join his class in singing a song at an all-school community meeting, the kid who hid under the table whenever a challenging task was presented, is excited to perform in a play in front of the entire school and their parents and grandparents and friends. He's excited to learn his lines and remember where to be on stage. He's bounce-all-the-way-to-the-car-and-talk-about-the-play-the-whole-way-home excited.

Nope, this reveling in all he can do, in all that his wonderful school has supported him in doing for nearly six years now, will never get old.


*(We just got his Certificate of Completion from the Mavis Beacon typing program.  Accuracy -- 96%.  Words per minute -- 4.  I love it.)

A Glorious Day

This weekend we hiked (some of us reluctantly, the 49ers were playing!) 1.7 miles to this dark sand crescent beach in the Marin Headlands. Frothy waves crashed against the cliffs creating mini waterfalls down the lowest portion of the rock face. Blue skies, warm sun and still air had us peeling off the three extra layers any savvy northern Californian wears to the beach. We've been here before, in all seasons, and never have we had more perfect weather.

Oscar was one of the reluctant ones but he came around when I reminded him that he could hunt for semi-precious stones among the dark pebbles.

After lunch Paul and I were reading but Ruby and Abe itched for adventure.  They wanted to climb up that crack in the grassy hillside. 

We let them go.  Five minutes or so passed and I realized I could not see them. I figured I should check on them but I wasn't worried. I slowly laced up my shoes and headed across the beach to the base of the hill. 

 

I gasped when I reached the crack.  I had no idea how narrow the space. How steep and crumbly the walls.  I started climbing, and my feet slid on the rocks that covered the trail, rocks that had been pulled out of the dirt walls by previous climbers. I climbed faster - slipping, stepping - up the deep and twisty ravine, calling up on decades-old rock climbing skills to grasp tiny rocks poking out of the walls to hoist myself along.

My heart pounded. My legs shook. I worried about Ruby slipping backwards into Abe and the two of them sliding on rockfalls all the way down. Partway up the climb, the walls grew shorter and I could spot them sitting on the old military bunker looking down over the cliff. I hoped Abe knew to keep Ruby from the edges of the sheer cliffs.

Of course they were fine. But definitely not the best idea to let them hike alone.

The views from the top were breathtaking.

 

We stayed a while just breathing it in.

When I returned to the beach Oscar was eager to show me that he'd found more green and white stones among the black pebbles.

He put them in his pocket for safe-keeping and laid down on the blanket with his book, Diary of a Wimpy Kid.  He read, I read, and Ruby buried her legs in sand. 

Paul and Abe hiked to the top of the peak above the bunkers and around to the next peak.  When I squinted I could just barely make out their slender figures along the ridge before they disappeared. Later, Ruby and Paul hiked up the crack again while Oscar and I read some more and Abe ran along the shore in and out of the waves.

 

The sun edged slowly toward the horizon and still we stayed.  Oscar, who usually begs to leave the beach after an hour, was happy on this rare windless day.  I rested my head against a rock and closed my eyes and let the warm sun wash over my face. 

We considered staying on through sunset and hiking back to the car in the dark.  (If only we'd brought our headlamps and an extra snack.)

 

On our way back we stopped to take this family portrait.  That's me on the left, then Ruby (with her hat and bucket), Paul, Oscar and finally Abe.  

Our glorious day was made even more glorious by an uneventful walk back. No complaining, no whining, no requests for food. Just five hikers, holding hands, chatting, and tossing the football back and forth along the way.

Hawaii

We returned from Hawaii exactly a week ago tonight, and yes, it's taken me this long to post! The trip was in honor of Paul's parents' 70th birthdays and so we were there with them, Paul's two sisters and our niece -- and had such a wonderful time.

We stayed in condos overlooking a cove just around the corner from Napili Bay and enjoyed this amazing view from our balcony.  I loved falling asleep listening to the waves knocking against the rocks, and, a whole week later, I still miss the sounds of the water and breezes at all times of the day.

We went to a luau with the men and kids wearing these matching shirts and dresses.  (Notice that I'm hidden in the back in my boring brown dress). We all felt a little silly but it was fun.  Abe enthusiastically responded to the call for volunteers to learn the hula dance up on the stage, Ruby took dozens of pictures of the dancers, and Oscar was wide-eyed and keeping the beat with the drummers all evening long. 

We realized (thanks to facebook) that old college friends were staying just up the road from us and so we enjoyed an hour reminiscing over a glass of wine at sunset on a gorgeous point separating Napili from Kapalua.

We have at least five pictures of Oscar wearing this hat -- is it Paul's or Grandpa's? I'm not sure, but I think it looks best on Oscar.

Oscar wasn't so excited about getting into the ocean (except for snorkeling) but he swam laps in the pool, and then cozied up in towels on the pavement afterward.

We tried surfing, and I thought I'd be really good, but I really really wasn't. Abe did well, and so did Paul's sister and my niece, and Paul too actually. Really, everyone but me seemed to get it.

We snorkeled nearly every day, exploring most of our favorite spots from years past.  We swam with the turtles in the cove, and drank wine on the "grassy knoll" overlooking the cove at sunset.  We boogie boarded (even backwards)...

gazed out at the cove and drew pictures...

...and built sand castles.  Oscar started and finished a castle all by himself one day with no help or suggestions from anyone.  (Sometimes I don't realize how much help, or rather how consistent his need for help is, until he does something completely independently.)

 

Can you see it? He's pretty proud.

And Paul, Abe, and I read most of the Suzanne Collins Gregor the Overlander series. I'd brought lots of books about writing, a memoir or two, and one novel, but I didn't read any of those. Instead I got completely sucked into this five volume series and only finished last night.  I loved diving into a wildly different world, and then discussing plot and character development with Abe.  He says, by the way, that the Hunger Games trilogy is better, so that's what I'll read next.

I found, though, that despite the glorious setting and fun adventures, that I couldn't escape my anxiety in Hawaii. The breathtaking views, warm trade winds, crashing waves and the sugary sand were all incredibly soothing to me during the day but I really struggled at night. I woke in the wee hours and could feel the panic start to fill my head. I practiced my breathing and focused on comforting images but the stomach pains and racing thoughts persisted.  (Our mediation with the school district is on Wednesday and I can only assume that thoughts of that meeting were invading my calm.) 

On our last afternoon, I sat on Napili beach and concentrated on the contented calm that filled me in that moment as I breathed in the swaying palms, shimmering water and billowy clouds.  I promised to start making some changes to help reduce my anxiety and feel more fulfilled no matter how busy and stressful our days are sometimes.  I need a daily practice.  I don't know yet what that looks like, but this photo brings me hope that I can figure that out. 

 

Aloha!

Prader-Willi Walk-Along

Ok, so I've been pretty absent from the blog-o-sphere.  I started a post a few days ago about being home last week with Oscar during his spring break.  I wanted to complain about all the medical crap we took care of and how it led to more tests and questions for me but thankfully resulted in less stuff for him. (glasses: optional, scoliosis brace: no).  I was going to go on and on about how Oscar's spirits soared all week, even when he was struggling with horrendous disfluency and fighting for every word, while mine just plummeted, tired of the doctors, tired of the stuttering, and how it made me feel even worse to be the one complaining. But then I cut my hand with a butcher knife trying to remove an avocado pit and when I got to the ER a family was in distress over the attempted suicide of a loved one and, well, I finally got some perspective.

Instead of that post, I steered my efforts toward our annual Prader-Willi Walk-Along fundraising letter.  The walk is this Sunday and we're gearing up.  Boxes and boxes of sky blue t-shirts sit in our basement, along with thirty some informative signs and their accompanying stakes which we place along the mile plus walk route that looks out over the San Francisco Bay. We'll drag out our huge white tent to use as the registration booth and print out several pages of labels with Oscar's picture to be worn by friends and family who join us for the walk.  I'll make lunches for our family and our Southern California PWCF leaders who always come north to help our local support group pull off this event.  We'll help set-up, we'll walk, we'll sit and enjoy the band, we'll talk with other families while the kids play picnic games and get their faces painted.  And at the end of the day we'll feel grateful for who Oscar is, for our friends and family who support us from near and far, and for the wonderful people we've met on this unexpected and admittedly unwelcome journey. It'll be good.

Grateful

Time sure flies around the holidays...but not writing in a month has been hard.  I like to put my stories down and develop them but instead they are fluttering around in my brain taking up space but losing their nuance and details. I know, I know, I should just carry that little notebook with me and jot things down but it is never satisfying enough. If I start I will want to finish and there is just so much other stuff I am supposed to be doing.  "Supposed to"...a phrase I sure need less of.

In any case, as I race around town checking out all the local toy stores in between my usual medical rounds my mind keeps wandering back to a feeling of gratitude. Thanksgiving is several weeks past but still...

Every single day I'm grateful for Oscar's school (which was also Abe's and will be Ruby's), which supports and loves him, providing "just right" challenges and somehow fostering continued, even mounting, enthusiasm about school. Each morning, as he walks into the classroom, he checks the schedule on the board and has been known to jump up and down upon seeing that writer's workshop, or Native American posters, math centers or a spelling challenge is on the list for the day.  The teachers, his aides, and the staff really know what they are doing and it really works for Oscar. Four years in and I still pinch myself every day.  This stuff is hard for him...he's just barely (and often not) keeping up and yet he is learning and loves it.

I'm grateful for Oscar's friends who know, really know and like him.  It took me a long time to believe he had friends and even when I would say it out loud there would be a big "but...." lingering on the tip of my tongue. I'm catching myself now, admitting that these kids want to play with him, are choosing to talk to him.  The other day his friend Lara was supposed to come over. He hadn't seen her in 6 months because she switched schools and both kids were so excited to finally get together. The playdate ended up getting canceled (for good reasons) and both kids were devastated.  Lara called on the phone instead and I could hear her enthusiastic "OSCAR!!!" booming through the phone as I stepped out of the room. The smile on Oscar's face was precious -- he said she just kept asking him question after question and he could hardly answer before she asked another, let alone ask her anything. And then there's Angie who shares Oscar love of animals and will scheme for hours with him about the zoo they're going to run when they grow up.  She's patient, kind, so mature and talks to Oscar in the most matter of fact, non-alarmist way.  She even orchestrated his Halloween costume, passing tips to me through her mom.  I didn't know Oscar wanted to be a cow till I heard it from Angie's mom! And I can't forget Ben, his first friend at school. Ben was Oscar's de facto aide in kindergarten, before we'd convinced the school district he needed a real one.  Ben is the one who nicknamed Oscar "Oskie" and now all the kids call him that, even Angie.  Ben always knows what Oscar needs and can pull him into just about any social situation with his enthusiasm. Oscar knows he is safe with Ben. I think that's really it, with these kids and all the others in his class, he feels safe.  Safe enough to contribute to class discussions, safe enough to do his best and not worry too much about messing up. He knows he belongs and it makes all the difference to him.

And, finally, I'm grateful for this community of bloggers and readers.  I started off here a little less than a year ago and though I'm not writing nearly as much as I would like I am loving the new connections, the cyber friendships, and the wonderful writing I am reading on your sites.  I am constantly moved by your stories, your struggles and your triumphs and can't believe it took me so long to get here! 

So with that I'm hoping that I've ended my unintended month of silence and can get back to a more regular blogging schedule!