ability

The other day, I brought Ted, my number-one-all-time-greatest student - my most incredible actor and thinker - to a special meeting with the top theatre educator in the country. (Drama Mama pulled a few strings) They had an hour long one on one to talk about colleges, auditions, and future plans.

Ted, as I've mentioned before, is one of ours.

Ted has played every substantial role I've thrown him effortlessly. His vocabulary and astute understanding of literature has played a huge role in his understanding of text and dramatic structure. His comic timing is genius. Like, someone who has studied hours of vaudeville. Depth of character is impressive - like, well, someone who has studied character. Most importantly, his feel for character carries with it an empathy that only a person who understands hurt can cultivate.

Before the meeting, I coached Ted on how to talk to theatre professionals. "Don't chew on pen caps," I said, "Slow down your brain before you answer questions".

He knew what I was talking about.

The day before, I reminded him to take an extra-thorough shower (hygiene can be an issue at times) and told him to wear his school uniform, clean and pressed. His mother was on board.

At the end of the day, he met me to drive downtown for the meeting. His shirt had ketchup stains on it, and he'd ripped his pants.

I found some clothing in the costume shop, and checked that his shoes were on the right feet.

His mother met us at the office, beautifully dressed in her camel coat and boots, and we sat, waiting.

Ted looked around, interested. At one point, we heard the sounds of a group rehearsing in another studio. Ted closed his eyes and said to us, "Smell that? That's the smell of good acting, right there."

When the professional opened the door and greeted us, his first words were that Ted was tall and handsome, and that his voice was modulated and well-placed. I felt a surge of pride and relief, and knew how important that was to Ted, who has felt like an ugly duckling all his life.

Ted was brilliant during the meeting - smart, funny, interested. He was asked to cold-read a script (act without preparation on an unknown piece -no pressure there!)
and did so with the ease of an actor twice his age. I know him well, and knew that when he crossed his legs, he was gently applying pressure to help himself.

As Ted picked up the unknown script to read, I knew that he'd do well. He began reading, and it was beautiful. Instinctively, his mother and I looked at our laps. We cry at these things. I struggled to control the tears dropping onto my slacks, lest the pro notice me losing it. No need. He was rapt with attention at Ted's beautiful read.

We ended the meeting with the pro sincerely assuring Ted of his future, and giving him stellar professional advice. An old friend, he stopped me at the door and said into my ear, "You weren't kidding about this one. He's fantastic. Well done."

I savored his words all the way to the car. I felt some sense of propriety over those words, as if I have anything to do with his success. I laughed softly as I thought of the hours invested in this young man, the phone conversations with his mother, the strategizing, the work. Then I thought of the hours he's worked on himself, by himself.

His story is not mine to tell, but suffice to say, that he is one of our kids; down to the nubbly disco seat, the hours of OT, the therapy that he still goes to every week. There have been mishaps along the way; there's been the heartbreak of first love, and the need to "fit in" at high school - but here is a young man with his feet firmly on the ground who still kisses his mother goodbye and openly says "I love you, Mrs. Drama," at the end of rehearsal.

What I want to impress upon you is that these odd talents - the hyperlexia, the photographic memory, the need to figure out human nature from a third-person point of view - have only strengthened his ability to succeed. He has had a cracker-jack support team, to be sure - but his autism has inextricably made him the genius, lovable artist that he is.

The words "splinter skills" have always bothered me, as if strengths in our kids were an anomaly, as if they weren't allowed to have talents. It's all part and parcel of the same package, but a gift, nevertheless.

We left the building, and walked into the warm, dry, dusky air. Ted excitedly loped next to his mother, and playfully punched me on the arm.

"You totally have this," I said to him, rubbing his arm.

"I know," he said, rubbing mine back.

Splinter skills, my ass.

Ability. Pure ability.

No pressure.

The tribe has spoken.

You need to know what is going on with The Fabulous Miss M.

I have been remiss - tending to my umpteen duties at work - and I've been ignoring your needs.

I'm sorry.

You know I could never quit you.

You had me at hello.

Anyhoo, let's catch up. When last we met, Miss M was entering the rough and choppy seas of NT tween girls in a world-renowned chorus.

Talk about drama for the mama.

Oy.

For those of you flooding my email, yes, she is doing splendidly; she loves singing and is thrilled by music theory lessons (I shit you not).

She organizes her two looooooong rehearsal days - juggling homework, shower, and rehearsal like a pro.

She wakes up in the morning, verbally going over the steps of the day, what items are needed (Ricola cough drops, Kleen Kanteen full of water, music folder, protein-and-not-carb snack)

We've been to a parent/student mixer and have noted that though she is not the center of the socializing, she handles herself well and is available for socialization if it were to come up. In other words, she's appropriate and not calling attention to herself, polite but not forthcoming. You know?

There was one teensy incident the other day, where it sort of shocked me into remembering that oh yes, there is this little neurological difference that doesn't go away sometimes -hmm, what was it? Oh yes.

Autism.

My bad.

Anyway.

In typical Drama fashion, I hauled tail to her school, so I could make the pick up and drop off to chorus in one swoop. I was a few minutes late, but making good time (she'd have plenty of cool down time in the car before rehearsal) and at least 10 minutes to pee or snack at rehearsal before it started.

I parked in the tiny parking lot at her school. I made a brief call, leaving a message for work, and proceeded to walk across the lot. Miss M was looking mildly distressed, the passive after-care teacher whispering something meaningful in her ear.

As I got closer, I reminded myself not to bound, not to make any "hard" faces so as not to ramp up whatever was going on.

"Hey," I called, all fake cheeriness, "What's going on?". Miss M sat on the bench, softly stomping her foot and slapping her hand lightly on the bench. Her face was squinched up, but not crying. Passive Aftercare Teacher flatly intoned, "Miss M is trying to calm down."

Which.

Is.

A.

Big.

No-No.

You see, in Miss M land, the worst thing you can do if she's ramping up is to tell her to calm down.

In her head, she's already trying.

And she doesn't really like to be told what to do.

Passive After Care Teacher means well, and likes M a lot, and there is never really an issue. I decided to model appropriate M-management skills for Passive After Care Teacher.

"So, M. Just tell me what happened. The facts only, please."

Apparently, what happened was that Miss M was anticipating my arrival for chorus; not wanting to be late, she stood like a Meerkat in the yard, ramrod posture, backpack already perched.

She stood for ten minutes, eyes scanning the parking lot for me.

When I pulled in, then stopped for a moment to call in a message, she thought that I was waiting for her to jump in the car. (Since we do a hell a lot of pulling up and jumping in/out these days)

Forgetting to inform the teacher, she started making her way across the yard.

The teacher stopped her, lambasted her, and M, confused, snapped at her. (Something like "OK! I heard you!" with a foot stomp)

Passive After Care Teacher, in her same monotone, kept telling her to calm down.

Further accelerating the tension.

Enter the Mama Bear.

I heard the story. "Okay, M. Sounds like it was a simple mistake - you were excited to get to rehearsal, yes?"

She nodded. Jiggling her leg. I could tell that she was worried about being late to rehearsal.

I continued. "Dude. You totally were responsible about getting to the car, and to me, and to rehearsal, but it slipped your mind that we have to sign out. I so get that."

I took a breath.

"BUT," I continued, looking meaningfully at Passive After Care Teacher.

"No matter what, there are things that we simply cannot do in the world, no matter how frustrated you are, or misunderstood the situation must be. And we do not speak like that to a teacher. Under no circumstances. Ever. So if you'd apologize, we can talk about this after you've relaxed, and we can get on the road."

Miss M stomped slightly again. "I'm sorry, OKAY?!" she said, the whine still in place.

Passive After Care started in again. "Well, you just needed to calm do-"

I cut her off.

"Let's try that again, M. And let's use the right intonation for an apology."

She softly and sweetly said, "I'm sorry, Miss B. It was a mistake."

Passive After Care started in again, "Okay...you are usually a really good student, and when you get - "

"Oooookay," I said fake-cheerily, pulling M with me in a fake hug, "We'll see you tomorrow and thank you for working this through with us."

Miss M smiled and gave a little wave.

We got in the car.

I know better.

I buckled my seat belt and turned to Miss M. "We have exactly 25 minutes before rehearsal. What do you need to chill out? I do suggest you get on that snack."

Miss M dug in her bag. "Mother, if you don't mind, I just need to turn on Madonna and practice vocal silence. I just want to eat my soy chips right now, and we can talk about this debacle later."

"You got it."

Miss M deplaned the car 20 minutes later, smiling and waving.

She had a good rehearsal.

We talked later, before bed.

It was a simple, forgetful mistake.

She's doing it. Managing her stress.

Of course, the rest of the world doesn't understand our way of managing stress (I mean, Madonna? Soy chips? Driving in silence?) If Miss M can continue to know what works for her? More power to her.

I spoke to a friend that evening. "I don't know about you, but when I'm upset? The worst thing to say to me is 'Don't be upset' - makes perfect sense."

I forget, sometimes, that Miss M is ten years old, and her regulatory skills are far beyond those of most adults. Considering what she has to manage? Extraordinary.

And for that, I report to you: It's going well.

One sleep over last night, two birthday parties this weekend, and now a play date.
She came home in her tie-dyed tee shirt, hippie bracelets, and Uggs, her skinny legs making her look all at once so old, and still, so young.

She walked in the front door, threw down her sleeping bag. She paused at the bottom of the stairs. Thinking.

She held up her hand, partied out. "I'm going upstairs for some peace and quiet," she said, "I do hope that's okay?"

It wasn't really a question.

"I bought you some books last night for that very reason, M...All non-fiction. Ghosts. History. Okay?" I kept making coffee, not looking at her, no pressure for her to like anything that I picked out.

"Perfect," she said, putting her fingers together in a perfect O.

Yep. It's going well. We know what exactly what to do.

independent leave

To my teammates...my sisters in parenthood...I felt you with me every moment of this very long day. Thank you. I think our girl did it for us.

I spent most of the day in knots, looking at the clock.

I haven't done that in a long, long time.

When I picked up Miss M at school, I nervously made my way across the yard, telling myself to keep calm at all costs. I knew that we would have a brief ride to her chorus rehearsal, and I couldn't get her worked up.

Her teacher stopped me. "Drama?" she started, as my heart began to sink, "Miss M is having a hard time focusing back to school. I know it's only been five days, but I don't know? Maybe it's having so many new kids in her class, hormones - and she mentioned some rehearsal today?"

Of all days, I was gonna get one of those talks?

One of those talks I hardly ever, ever get anymore?

I thanked the teacher, made an appointment, and hauled ass across the yard to the parking lot.

Had to keep my focus. Had to keep Miss M's focus.

We got to the rehearsal studios, teeming with girls of all ages. I walked her to her studio and kissed her goodbye.

I didn't want to linger.

As I got upstairs, I found myself smack dab in the middle of a two hour orientation for new parents.

Why God, why?

Luckily, one of my very best autie mommy friends kept me company on my Blackberry.

She texted me pep talks. We played punny word games. We joked. Like a good friend, she diverted my attention.

At the end, the docent let us tour the building. I peeked in Miss M's rehearsal room, only for a moment, I told myself. I didn't want to hurt my heart.

The kid, who, according to her teacher, is having focus issues with math, was attentive and smiling, watching the teacher intently. She saw me out of the corner of her eye, and gave me a short wave and sly smile.

I made myself scarce.

At the day's end, she came bounding out of the building to the sidewalk, where I waited. She flashed her ID to the security agent.

I signed her out for "independent leave", which means that she can walk herself out to me. No need for me to fetch her from the studio.

She's a big girl.

Her smile was huge, her eyes sparkling.

"That was AWESOME," she said, unusually effusive.

She never stopped talking.

She talked about alignment and posture, oh , and did I know that she'd have music theory on Thursday?

Hey, a lot of the girls are a year or two younger- so that's really easy for me, she said.

She told me how she and a few girls spied on the advanced level at the break. Strictly as motivation, she assured me.

Oh, and she'd be singing at the symphony hall at Christmas. She named the piece of music.

I asked her to sing it for me.

"Mother? No offense, but um, when you and Daddy hear me sing, sometimes, you praise me too much, and it embarrasses me. If you would, can we just keep your compliments inside our home? I don't want you to stop them, just, you know, keep it modest." She looked at her choral binder, smiling at her independent leave ID.

As usual, I wore my big, huge black sunglasses. I've done that for most of her childhood, so that my tears go unnoticed.

But it wasn't really working too well.

She saw my tears, paused, then said nothing.

But her chatter got intentionally more animated, more cheery, more chatty. She was trying to shake me out of it.

She said she felt energized. When we got home, she did all of her homework in her room, by herself.

At bedtime, she said, "I'm thinking....I'm thinking that someday I'd like a solo. When the maestro called on Elizabeth and she sang, I had this feeling...it was like...I can do that, too."

Our plan exactly.

okay, so i'm begging

I know what you're thinking.

So I hardly ever call. I post rarely.

But I'm positively begging for your help.

You see, tomorrow? Miss M becomes the member of a world-class chorus. She will run with some of the most talented and typical girls in the city.

She auditioned. She was accepted.

She waited for a soprano slot to open.

She starts tomorrow.

Listen.

I hear you. Don't think I can't hear you over here.

I know she's been working her ass off. She controls herself, she regulates herself, she is appropriate.

I know all this.

On Saturday, Roxie started her first day at a world-class ballet school. Again, we had to prove ourselves to get in.

On arrival, she strutted in with a winning smile and a tight bun.

As the class dispersed, she hugged her new best friend goodbye.

Yes, I hear you. They are two entirely different people.

But sometimes?

Sometimes?

I wish God had given Miss M a tenth of the ease and confidence her sister was born with.

At dinner, I gently brought up the subject of tomorrow's rehearsal. Miss M paused thoughtfully over her salad. "Yah. I'm nervous," she said, "but I gotta do what I gotta do." She sighed as if she were representing a small country in the Olympics.

In a small way, I think she is.

Her successes speak to the determination and capability of all of our children. If M can do it, anyone can.

I think she'll be just fine.

Old habits -er-anxieties die hard.

But just this once? I'm asking. Can you please throw in a thought or prayer for the mama? 4 o'clock, Pacific time?

I'll be the one face down in the waiting room, hand clutching my heart.

My daughter. She's doing it for the team.

deeeeep thoughts.

I don't know about you, but one of the things that has been hardest to accept as a parent of a special needs kid has been the silence.

It's like being a comedian and working to the worst audience ever.

I used to pick my daughter up after school. I made the grave error of asking how her day was? What did you do? Who did you play with?

Nada. Zip. Zero. No response.

It drove me batty. I would sometimes reply for her, under my breath. (Oh, I had a great day, Mommy! I played with six girls on the monkey bars!)

I later concluded that Miss M was DONE, that her temporary check-out was merely her way of re-charging, of decompressing from a day spent conforming to the rules and regulations of a Big Huge Loud Public School.

It's been years since we've had those one-sided conversations in the car. She's quite forthcoming these days, and is a pleasant car companion.

She sits in the passenger seat, commandeering the DVD player, punching the buttons and adjusting the volume.

We have been listening to the soundtrack from HAIR. Miss M likes to lean back, eyes closed. She likes me to describe scenes, to explain what is going on in the story.

We were listening to I Got Life the other day.

I got life, mother
I got laughs, sister
I got freedom, brother
I got good times, man

I got crazy ways, daughter
I got million-dollar charm, cousin
I got headaches and toothaches
And bad times too
Like you

I got my hair
I got my head
I got my brains
I got my ears
I got my eyes
I got my nose
I got my mouth
I got my teeth
I got my tongue
I got my chin
I got my neck
I got my tits
I got my heart
I got my soul
I got my back
I got my ass
I got my arms
I got my hands
I got my fingers
Got my legs
I got my feet
I got my toes
I got my liver
Got my blood

I got my guts (I got my guts)
I got my muscles (muscles)
I got life (life)
Life (life)
Life (life)
LIFE!
Miss M sang along in her perfect voice. I asked her what she thought it meant. She paused a moment, turning the volume down on the stereo.

"Well, Mother," she said, "he's describing the parts of his body and sort of being glad that he is here, that he is living life, that he is in his body." She pushed her glasses up her nose.

Impressed, I nodded. A few songs later, Where Do I Go? came on.

Where is the something
Where is the someone
That tells me why I live and die

Where do I go
Follow the children
Where do I go
Follow their smiles

Is there an answer
In their sweet faces
That tells me why I live and die

She held her hand to her heart and sang along earnestly. Again, I asked her what the song meant. Again, she turned the volume off.

"I could be wrong, but I think it's about questioning why we are here? What are we put on this earth for? It is sort of bittersweet - sort of happy and sad - and I think that's what life is sort of about." She turned the music back on.

I turned the music down. "That's pretty damned deep for ten years old, M. Pretty deep, man."

She didn't look at me, but smiled.

Then she turned to look at me.

"Oh Mother. You don't even know how deep I am."

I sucked my breath in. "How deep are you?" I asked.

"Sometimes, Mom? My thoughts are so deep that I can't even explain them to you. You know when you think I space out? It's because I'm thinking so hard. No offense, but I don't think you'd understand."

She thought for a moment. "For example? Like I have these thoughts - I think about whether or not we are really here or not. That people might be illusions. I mean, our interaction right now might just be something we're projecting."

We sat on that for a moment.

I drove.

"Another one is that I think a lot about the forms God takes. I like to wonder whether God comes to earth as different people, or animals, or situations, to test us. Or teach us lessons. Like, I mean, God could be someone we might see in Safeway today. And FYI, I don't believe in Heaven. Or Hell. That's just something people made up."

I kept driving. Nodding. Trying desperately not to look dumb.

She turned the volume back up. "Well, I can try to explain this again another time. It might be too much for you right now."

I used to think my daughter "went away" sometimes. That we were too much for her.

Now I realize that we weren't enough.

sister, can you lend a hand?

Hello, Beautiful You.

Here am I, on the eve of another tumultuous year of teen-wrangling, life-saving, pimple-medication buying (yes, I did, for one student who could not afford it) teacherdom.

I'm sort of excited.

I'm sharing the reigns with a trusted, dear professional friend, who will, I believe, at last, help me administer to my students the way I deem fit. In other words, someone who is worthy of my students.

So I will collaborate.

Ducky.

This means, my friends, that this is Phase Two of Drama's Plan to Take Care of Drama.

Miss M, it seems, is well on her path, and is cooking right along, needing me for things like rides and pocket money, and the occasional warm cookie, but really, is now a fully actualized person. She has interests and friends and a social life that is no longer of my creation.

I've been putting a lot of thought to this - this what? - this transition that I wish to happen.

I'm feeling like myself again. (Shhhh. Don't tell anyone)

I don't feel guilty if I'm not engaging my daughter 24 hours a day; I don't cry guilty tears if I happen to cook dinner or talk on the phone without directing my every energy wave to my daughter. I do, however, pause for a moment and get confused and check to see if she's still with us, or maybe hover a little too long in the doorway of Miss M's room, and then her friend ever so gently closes the door and says, "Um, excuse me, Mrs. Drama, but this is private girl talk," and I walk away elated and sad and missing Floortime just a little bit.

There are nights, my friends, where I still wonder.

Today, when I picked Miss M up from her friend's house, she pouted at the door and breathed an audible Aw crap when she saw my face. It would seem that it was far more pleasurable to talk about You Tube and boys and eat rice crackers in her friend's tent in her backyard.

Of course it is. To borrow a phrase from the lady herself, Duh, Mom.

I sort of sit nimbly by, waiting to be of service, but then also, thinking, hmmm...now is the time for me to do __________. (you fill in the space)

The other day, I ran into a friend. She is the mother of a special needs kid; I knew her at the previous school Miss M attended.

Whilst catching up, we launched into Special Needs Talk in about 2.5 minutes, after the cursory hellos and how is your husband-oh-really-and-where-did-you-go-on-vacation-I-like-your-hair niceties.

I noticed that she had purple bags under her eyes, and that she had a good inch and a half of grey hair that needed covering. She wore baggy everything, and spouted IEP talk to me in a language that only we understood, standing there in that coffee shop.

She is still in the thick of it. I imagine that she still worries at night, and admittedly, even she says that she gets that pit-sinking feeling whenever she thinks of the school year that is to come.

I wanted to ask her what was on her personal IEP; what goals did she want for herself, what was her baseline?

And more importantly, how would we get her the services?

Without stirring up a shitstorm - yes, I know how impossible it is for special needs parents to get a break - I'd like to brainstorm with you. How do we care for ourselves without sacrificing precious care for our loved ones?

How do we help our friends in need without sapping our own personal resources?

I am thrilled to begin to enter my next phase of development. I feel a responsibility to reach out to those around me who are walking around in Starbuck's with stained clothing, clutching a Spec Ed file, with sunken, hollow eyes.

What can I do?

What can we do, as a village of multi-tasking parents?

Not to be all Kumbaya about it, but dammit, our people need help. Our parents need the proverbial oxygen on the plane, as Oprah says in her mighty Oprah way, so that we can help the people around us who are not as strong.

How do you care for yourself? Please. Tell me. I'd love to know what we, in this kingdom of non-stop, can do for ourselves and each other so that we can feel...well, like ourselves. Not just the "parent self" - (though that is what we have embraced and become) but as the person who, independent of our children, has a whole other inner life going on?

I offered to watch the child of my friend, the Half-Crazed with Exhaustion Starbuck's Woman, so that she could get a manicure, go for a coffee, a yoga class, get some sleep.

She smiled wanly and said that she'd think about it.

I'm waiting for the call.

What would you do?

I'm thinking maybe I should make the first move.

Not to be all Kumbaya about it or anything.

one small step for humankind

I know I'm preaching to the choir when I say that for those of us with special needs kids, summers are hard. By about February, I am trolling camps on the internet, sweaty palmed, looking for key words on sites that indicate even the slightest bit of inclusive spirit.

Most have disclaimers about "behaviors", which makes me immediately give my screen the finger.

Miss M has always attended NT camps, with no aide or support, and has generally done fine. No outbursts, incidents, or (ugh - there's that word) "behaviors".

My mark of success has always been her engagement level. Early on, in K and 1st grade, she was able to make a friend or two. In 2nd and 3rd grade, she mostly went through the day with polite but minimal engagement with other campers. She ate lunch alone. Counselors gave me sad smiles at pick up. I think they felt a little sorry for my kid.

Summer is my personal benchmark for Miss M. It's not school, where there is great deal of support, and socialization is encouraged and facilitated when necessary.

At camp, she's flying solo. Running with the big (NT) dogs.

This year, we put her in a high cost, low-student-to-counselor camp. She has taken nature walks, cooked, played lots of field games, gone swimming - typical camp things. On the second week, the flyer said, there would be an overnight camping trip. Drama Daddy and I sort of filed this information away, telling Miss M that that would be a decision that she could make later.

She made the decision. Tonight, she is sleeping under the stars.

Can you hear the diarrhea rumbling in my gut?

Yes. My daughter opted in.

She has been uncharacteristically gung-ho, bopping into the car at pick up, telling me about her day, how she is a "team player" and is "really, really playing the games. Even the competitive ones."

I have ever-so-slightly tried to get her engagement level out of her. She says that she talks to the other girls, and "tries to get in there" when she can. She's cited a few of the topics she's talked about with the girls. She took extra trail mix for her fellow campers.

I'm thinking that she is a polite and engaged camper. I don't think that she's the belle of the ball, but I don't think she's on the outside anymore. I think she is, as she says, a member of the team.

I had to call in the calvary today. Mama got a little spilkes thinking about the trip, and got a little clingy this morning, asking if I could comb her hair, and tearily insisting that she take my chapstick (she wouldn't take my Clarins apres-sun lotion, however).

Once friends talked me off my ledge, I decided to treat Roxie to a special day swimming. The really good pool complex is 35 miles away, in the suburbs. You have to take a very busy freeway to get there.

Did I mention something?

I have a terrible, terrible phobia about driving freeways and bridges. I can't and don't drive them, save for the Golden Gate bridge and the little freeway to the mall. I city drive like a champ.

I was in a car accident in my mid-20's, and, since then, I've not been able to vanquish this fear. (Don't judge me or feel sorry. I have a lot of other things going for me).

I took a cue from Miss M today.

I did something out of my comfort zone.

I got on the freeway.

I found myself at the first merge, heart pounding, hands slick with sweat, dripping on the steering wheel. I had to wipe my hands on my skirt. I hummed to myself, sang softly to The Who, prayed the Hail Mary. Roxie sat in the back. I could see her through the rearview mirror. "Take your time, Mama, " she said, "calm down." I kept thinking about the word anxiety, that this is what it was, and goddamit, how hard must it be for my kid to do things. Miss M was camping today, for crissakes. I could do this.

Admittedly, I had to get off. Drive alongside the freeway for a bit. Got back on. I did this for the 35 miles. Off and on.

It took me almost an hour and a half.

I got lost in the maze of suburb. I don't do well in suburbs. It all looks the same to me. I squinted at the rows of neat Fisher Price houses, at cul-de-sacs, and marveled at a kid playing in a sprinkler. He could have had two heads, for the intensity of my stare.

Roxie politely asked when we were gonna get there. I remained fake and cheerful, finally steering us into the parking lot.

We entered the pool area. I looked around.

One of these things was not like the other.

Mothers were tanned and leathery, wearing simple J. Crew shorts and utilitarian flip flops. They brandished huge tubs of sunblock, and rubbed their kids down in 30 seconds flat.

I showed up in Jackie O shades and a fabulous neon coverup - very Valley-of-the-Dolls/Sharon Tate-circa-1969 (though on me more like Bea Arthur in Maude). Roxie and I came in, city pale, with our Starbuck's iced coffees (hers an iced cocoa) and lounge chairs. Our sunblock had shimmer in it. Our snacks were not homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but ridiculous tiny baguettes avec fromage from the overpriced bistro in our neighborhood.

I felt like a shitty mother.

A stranger in a strange land.

We sat on our chairs, me finishing the last of Roxie's swim braids. She hugged me. "You look fierce, Mama," she said, picking up immediately on the fish-out-of-waterness of the whole situation.

Once in the water, we had a great time. Roxie is learning to swim, and her little face screwed up in determination makes me positively liquefy. She was jumping in and swimming to me, and I did the mom trick, you know, backing up a little more each time, fooling her into swimming longer and longer distances.

Pretty soon, she was swimming the length of the pool. She clung to my front. "We did it!" she crowed.

Roxie, exhausted, slept on the way back, while I hopped on and off the freeway, this time, staying on longer than I stayed off. I owed at least that much to Miss M's courage.

I thought about what I'd told Jess earlier in the morning. I told her that I was blown away by Miss M's progress; that this summer marked a whole new standard for the summer benchmark. I told her that suddenly, I looked up, and there she was, shockingly more advanced. It had seemed like we had been in an interminable holding pattern.

And here we were.

I thought about how Roxie and I took it in the pool, inch by inch, me cheering her on, ever ready to pull her out of the water should she get fatigued or crampy. We'd made progress.

I drove the freeway today. It wasn't perfect. It was on-off, and I hugged the far right lane. My biceps hurt from gripping the steering wheel.

But I'd made progress.

I'm looking up, eyes open. None of us are remotely in any sort of holding pattern.

We did it.