Thoughtful Spending

When Noah began receiving therapy through First Steps, I didn’t realize I would become a therapist myself.  Although he received speech and occupational therapy once a week, I was expected to continue with his treatments the other six days they did not visit.  I took my job seriously and followed their directives to the letter, sometimes at the expense of my own sanity.  Noah hated the brushing sessions, and the listening and swinging therapies sometimes made him sick to his stomach.  But, I wasn’t willing to miss even one day of treatment.  I felt Noah was counting on me.   

There was a moment though, when I realized I had stopped thinking of myself as a mom.  The woman who had brought home a bundle of joy, swaddled in dreams and good intentions, had become someone I no longer recognized.  My thoughts, my actions, and my words were always focused on one thing – keeping the gap between him and his peers from spreading further.  But, many times I treated the race like a sprint, when what it really is, is a marathon. 

Today, I try not to get too wrapped up in doing everything; instead, I’ve learned to temper the therapy with allowing him to just be a kid.  More importantly, I’ve learned to give myself permission to just be his mom.    Now I can spend more time enjoying the finer points of mothering; like reminding him to make his bed, take out the trash, and not gloat too much over beating me at Mario Kart.

The Power of One

About the time Noah received his diagnosis, God answered my prayers…actually I wouldn’t really call them prayers.  My convos with the Lord were more like a two year old having a fit over not getting a Hershey bar from the display case at the grocery aisle cash wrap.  Why God?!  Why?!  I’m hungry…just one!   But, before I go further, I need to give you the back story.

When I got pregnant I knew life would be different, but I wasn’t prepared for the sadness I would feel in losing my social circle of co-workers when I chose to work part-time from home versus full time in an office.  The difficulty was compounded by the fact that Steve’s car had lost the will to live and our mechanic had recommended a do-not-resuscitate order.  Noah, was just 6 weeks old, and since I had had an emergency c-section,  I wasn’t scheduled to start back for two more weeks.  Then came the call that my job was no longer secure…that is if I didn’t plan to haul my entire family on down to Sarasota, FL.  In the end I was able to work out a deal that allowed me to return to my post, but I would get to work from home and for only 20 hours a week.  The only catch was that this situation was temporary.  I had bought myself and the company, three months to find my replacement.

Our situation was aggravated further by the fact that 18 months before, my husband of good intentions, had tried to strengthen our portfolio by purchasing a rental property.  Unfortunately, we bought high, and soon after the bubble burst, and we were left with a second home that drained us and our bank account . I rationalized that since I was only going to be working 20 hours a week from home, I wouldn’t need a car because I'd be tied up with nursing and trying to fit in four hours of work each day.  Steve used my car to commute back and forth to work, and to school, and to the second job he’d taken to help us make ends meet. 

I was then left to cope with walking a line of having one foot in the working world and one in the SAHM world.  I didn’t have a solid footing in either place.  What I really needed was to create a new circle of friends and support which was no easy task without wheels.  I logged a lot of miles with my stroller and visited every park within safe walking distance from my home.  Every day I’d ask God…ok, I guess I should be honest here, I didn’t really ask – I pretty much demanded and swore and had a Super Size tantrum for him to give me one girlfriend who would listen and commiserate with me.  I was lonely dammit.

Enter…God’s perfect time line:

October 2004 – Steve and I joined a church (I had spent more than 15 years trying to convince myself I didn’t need one – I was spiritual.  That was enough, right?)  Though I was born and raised Catholic, we settled on attending services in a contemporary, Methodist one. 

December 2004 - Noah began having seizures.  A blessing in disguise, because it fast-tracked us to seeing a specialist.

January – March 2005

• We bought a second car!
• I am given the opportunity to work again with my former boss and forever friend, Ellen Rohr. 
• A space opens up in a Mom’s Day Out program allowing me to work without a toddler under foot, one day a week. 

May 2005 – Noah begins receiving therapy through First Steps and I begin my education in Sensory Integration Dysfunction and managing a very intense “sensory diet” with our son.

June 2005 – While taking a class at church, I meet a new mom.  Her name is Barb, but I’m so sleep-deprived and overwhelmed by Noah’s health issues, I don’t recall much passed her name.

August 2005 – I learn through the church bulletin that Barb’s family had experienced a death in the family.  Though I don’t know her well, I feel compelled to send a sympathy card.  A day or so after I sent the card, she called to thank me!  Who does that?  By this time, I wasn’t sure I wanted a friend as Noah’s behaviors and tantrums were growing as fast as he was and I was busy with work and working the “sensory diet plan” which involved:

·         Brushing and joint compressions -  10 times a day

·         Listening therapy  - twice a day, 20 minutes increments

·         Swinging therapy – twice a day,  15 minute increments

·         Systematic desensitization program –  twice a day, between meals

I wasn’t embarrassed by my son or his diagnosis, I told myself.  That’s because somewhere deep down (I don’t even think I consciously thought it) there was a part of me that felt if I just worked the plan, followed the therapist’s instructions, I’d get his issues licked and our lives back on track. 

What I thought would be a short, five-minute call, turned into a two hour therapy session.  I couldn’t believe my luck when Barb told me she was an occupational therapist.  What were the odds?  Our daily phone calls turned into frequent play dates and a sweet babysitting swap set-up.  It was amazing how easily the words passed between us and she cared for my kid like he was her own.  It was as if God had hand-picked her to drop in on my life when I needed her support the most…oh, yea.  Duh.