Joy Thief  by allie taylor

And sadly, other times I almost relish it.

Woe is me.

But in my heart of hearts, I don’t want to. I know better. And I hate how I feel when I succumb.

Self-pity.

Noiselessly, it crept up on me without warning yesterday morning. When I was cheerfully minding my own business, starting the day, getting the kids out the door for school.

Through the monitor I hear Hudson chatter in his room upstairs. (You know Hudson, my nearly five year old little special needs guy.) I’m glad he’s busy, because I have cleaning to do, carnage from the recently departed lunch-making crew. Dirty cutting boards, knives. Crumbs, mayonnaise and jelly smears. Hum as I work, sip my tea. Soon she’ll arrive for our weekly basement workout. I so look forward to it. Hum humming along, smiling to hear the upstairs chatter, bookmark the funny quote I’ll tell her on the treadmill.

She’ll arrive in ten minutes. I race up stairs two by two to change Hudson’s diaper, get him dressed, give a quick breakfast. Halfway up I smell something. And I get nervous. Hudson and I, we have history. (She Picked Up Her Pen. Yeah, that kind of history.)

I find him happily rocking in his upholstered rocking chair, turning pages of The Little Engine That Could. Chortling to himself. I get closer, and all’s not well. Brown peeks from pajama pant ankles, spills onto the cushion. Little brown hands, a little brown chin. I deflate. Been here before. Not once or twice. More. I’m overwhelmed, discouraged at the gargantuan task suddenly ahead of me. The hurry in which it must be accomplished. I kick into action, lay out a towel, strip him down. Use a million wipes in the process. Bag up the clothes, the offending diaper, the pound of wipes. Start the bath water. And that’s when it quietly creeps in, on cat’s feet. When the voices murmur low…

• “Wonder how long he’ll be in diapers…”
• “Maybe he’ll never be potty trained…”
• “All your friends with five year olds, they’ve been finished with diapers for years now…”
• “Aren’t you getting a little old for this?”
• “Quite possibly you’ll be doing this the rest of your life…”
• “Diapers are expensive. Wonder how much you’d save…”

The voices of doubt, self pity, complaining, they mingle and rise. A dull roar, pilfer my joy of moments ago. But I recognize it. (Today I do.) Self pity is just that. A Joy Thief. A liar. A party pooper. (Pun intended.) A robber. And I choose to put self-pity in its place. (Today I do.) Fight back the only way I know how: speak truth.

Stop. It. In. Its. Tracks. Remind myself the many joys and blessings (read more about those blessings here: Glimpse of Sunshine, Can’t Buy This, Grace for Hudson, Embrace the Gift, They Didn’t Know ) I’ve received. How they far outweigh these fleeting moments in time, these doubts I let creep in.

    “Eucharisteo” – Greek for “to give thanks”                               Photo courtesy Lauryn Ortlieb

Maybe you have fleeting moments of self pity too? Don’t know your journey, the pity party that knocks on your door uninvited, when you least expect it. But know this. Self pity, it grows like a cancer. Eats from the inside out, leaves you nothing but a hollow, discontented shell. Whatever the hardship, pain in your journey, you don’t need self-pity along too.

Let’s do it. Let’s start counting. Counting blessings. You and me, separately. (Together.) We might just surprise ourselves. The murmurs and voices, they’ll return in the weak moments. But we’ll be ready, we’ll count. We’ll speak truth loud and clear. Truth about how blessed we truly are.

Please take a moment to share something you’re thankful for today…

“Count your blessings, name them one by one,

And it will surprise you what the Lord has done.“

Related post: Key Women

The post Joy Thief appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.

A truly beautiful and monumental thing happened just this morning. Only Hudson and I know about it. It involved three people, but only two of us “get it”. It’s after lunch now, and I was just pairing up winter boots and gloves by the side door, vacuuming up the salt and grime that comes with winter around here. Tidying up, thinking about what happened today, and my eyes filled and spilled. I stopped vacuuming for a second, looked straight down. So the wet would fall straight down on the L.L.Bean water hog door mat, not ruin my mascara. (I’m just that vain.)

Glimpse of Sunshine by allie taylor

On my fridge door,  five years now…

Hudson and I headed to his music therapy session this morning, just like any other Thursday morning. We were running late, as is often the case in winter. Hudson is resistant (understatement) to hats, coats and mittens, a difficulty in the Northeast. With below zero temps here this morning, these were non-negotiables today.

Music and speech therapy are ways we attempt to encourage speech and communication for Hudson. Children with Down syndrome and other special needs often have difficulty communicating. With Hudson’s fifth birthday rapidly approaching this spring, he can say maybe ten words (or an approximations of ten words). Milk is “elk”. Music, “ick”. Cookie is “ookie.” All very important words in his world!

Surprisingly, Hudson’s actually a little social butterfly who manages to get his point across quite well, but mostly without words. He points, gestures, signs, has a vice grip finger-lock he engages, then gently drags you along where he wants you to go. It works some of the time, but as you can imagine, often frustrates him and us both, as we try to guess his wants and needs. Let’s just say, it’s not a long term workable strategy.

So this morning, hand in hand, we’re walking together across a long snowy parking lot to get back to the car after saying goodbye to Christina at music therapy. Hudson is entranced with the snow on the ground, but concentrating even more on his little suede Stride Rite fire engine boots. The boots are six years old now, a hand-me down from his big brother. The captivating thing to Hudson about the boots is, that at the right time and with the right “stamp”, he can make the little red engines light up. The tiny built-in batteries are old now, mostly dead. But every once in a while with a little luck, the lights still engage. So Hudson is very busy stamping, prancing his way along to the car for the desired effect.

Along our route, a nice lady wearing all black, and a pair of knee high black leather boots, crosses our path. She flashes a radiant smile to Hudson stamping his way along, pleasantly says hello to us. Hudson looks up from the boots, takes the chewy tube* from his mouth, waves, and very clearly and appropriately says a two syllable, halting “Hel-lo” back. He glances up, smiles at me. He gets it. I’m overwhelmed, speechless. (Rare.) She keeps walking, oblivious to the gravity of the communication that’s just taken place, but cheerfully throws back over her shoulder, “Nice to see the sun today, isn’t it?”

Communication for our children is something we take for granted. We often assume they’ll one day be able to express their wants and needs in an often harsh world. But it’s different for parents with special needs children. Because we don’t know if our children will ever be able to communicate or express themselves clearly. But I’m overjoyed and thankful for this fire engine boot-stride of progress today.

She was right on. It’s nice to see the sun today. We all need that Glimpse of Sunshine now and again. To give us hope.

*A chewy tube is used by individuals like Hudson with sensory issues who crave oral stimulation. A chewy tube provides that, and also builds up the muscle tone and strength of his jaw, helping prepare him for speech, feeding and overall motor skills.

Related Post: Glimpse of Sunshine: Part 2

The post Glimpse of Sunshine appeared first on Through Her Looking Glass.