authentic

Hello, you.

You're looking good. Lose some weight? Change your hair?

I know what you're thinking. Slacker, Drama Mama. Nice of you to show up.

Thanks for scooting over on the sofa.

I could bore you with the details of this last semester; how I am working on setting boundaries with my family, friends, students, and work - how I am learning to say NO, how I can't save the world, how I am seriously overworked, and because of that, see prior statements regarding boundaries.

So. Yeah. Whatever. It's been miserable.

What I DO want to tell you about are my kids. You've met them, haven't you? Miss M, who continues to grow at a quantum pace, who is so elegant and self-possessed that I'm starting to feel like a schlub around her. Roxie, who is taller, stronger, and smarter than I'd ever realized.

So even though I've sort of been neglecting my garden, my flowers bloom. I think I set a good foundation.

Or use good fertilizer.

So. I know you autie mommies want to know about, you know. The one. The one who is not neurotypical.

I'm asked frequently - especially from moms whose kids are younger - what to expect. What does ten look like? What do you see ahead?

It's been unbelievably easy. Occasionally rough.

The day that she was blown off by her best friend from early childhood had me palpitating in the car. Let me explain.

Miss M had a sleepover at her best friend's house. She came home at noon, exhausted, and retreated straight to her room. They'd been up all night. I took Rox and her friend to see UP, a charming but otherwise quasi-depressing animated film. We stood in line. I noticed a gaggle of girls about ten, and recognized a few from Miss M's old school. And there, in the center, her former best friend. I'd been calling her mom, trying to set up playdates, but our schedules didn't align. This kid has a lot of extra curricular activities. Or so it would seem.

I realized, by a quick calculation, that it was Emma's birthday. We were witnessing her birthday party. The first one that Miss M was not invited to. It didn't really register with me. Until her mother saw me and turned beet red. She stammered. "Oh, uh, hiiiiii," she said. "Uh, you guys seeing UP?" she said, forgetting that it was the sole feature at this landmark theatre. "Uh, uh, I wanted to invite you to our 4th of July thing - I , uh - " I nodded politely, told her to enjoy the movie, and sat the girls down.

It wasn't that Miss M was excluded. It was the reaction. Did she pity my daughter? Did she realize that Miss M had had a sleepover, a totally normal thing to do - with her friend?

I sat in the theatre, thinking. No matter. No matter how I rationalized it, how it really didn't matter, it still hurt. Her embarrassment became my own.

The movie started. I started to sob. Huge, wracking sobs. I didn't realize they were audible. Roxie peered at me. "You okay, Mama?" she said, her tiny hand in mine. "Oh, this movie," I said, "I feel so sorry for the old man. He's lonely," I lied. She didn't buy it. She climbed into my lap and rubbed my belly.

I had a hard day. I had to call people. I needed intervention. It wasn't about doubting Miss M; it was the rest of the world. We're a cool, inclusive group - but everyone else? Not so much.

The storm passed. It always does.

A week later, Miss M came down the stairs in her new skinny jeans. She is tall. Coltish. A knockout. She wore a sort of mod t-shirt with the jeans, and I scarcely hid my shock at her burgeoning maturity.

Her waistband pooched out. Her waist was too small for the pants.

"Here, M. I got you a new belt for the pants," I proffered the plain, brown thing that I had to scour around for. Miss M does not like a lot of ornamentation.

"Ugh. Mother. Not to offend you, but I find your taste somewhat -er - gaudy," she stage-whispered. "Please don't buy my clothes anymore."

A small voice yelled from inside the bathroom. "I LOVE the gaudy clothes you buy me!" she said, keeping the flow of sparkles and pink coming her way.

So I sit on my hands. And true to Miss M's way, she's paraded down in tasteful ensembles each day, each quietly elegant and muted. She likes neutral colors, soft, organic fabrics, and clean lines.

I step back, getting out of her way. Choices are all hers. I love the way she chooses fruit over desert, classics over trendy books. The way she likes no excess. How she has to pack waste-free lunches for herself every day.

On Father's Day, Drama Daddy had a work emergency, so I took the girls here, with our new membership. We hadn't all been there at the same time together, but Miss M had been there with a friend before. (Did you catch how casually I put that? Friend? Yup. And it wasn't Penelope, either. Another friend.)

Miss M lit up. She expertly got the map and checked for lectures. She demonstrated all the exhibits to her sister, and read the postings. Other parents around us complimented me on such a smart and friendly girl. "She's amazing," one mother noted, nodding toward Miss M explaining tide pools to a group of young children. We passed the teen interns, in their orange baseball caps. "Someday, mark this, I will work here," she said, determination in her eyes.

I nearly burst with pride watching her. I remembered how she used to run in circles as a child. How crowds were too much. How I had to hold her in my arms to explain about the penguins, so that she'd focus. Here was a tall girl, with glasses perched on her nose, her "Going Green" canvas bag slung on her shoulder, looking, for all the world, like an extremely cool preteen.

At lunch, I spied some other girls close to Miss M's age. They were eating burgers and fries. I asked my two if they were hungry. "I packed some trail mix and apples, but let's see what they have," Miss M consented gingerly. In true San Francisco fashion, the food court offered gourmet international foods at different steaming stations.

A huge smile broke on Miss M's face. "Pho Noodles! Banana leaf tamales!" she hurriedly went from station to station. "Mother," she said slowly, "I realize how expensive each entree is, but I'd like to know if I may try these dishes. They are irresistible," she said, studying my face. She doesn't like to ask for things.

"Rock out," I said, hefting a tray. She filled up on Pozole, Tamales, Pho Noodles. Guacamole. Spring rolls. She waved off the deserts, claiming that they were "empty calories".

I noted one thing. She asked the staffer at the Mexican station if the food was authentic. He smiled, showing his gold teeth. "Pos si," he said, ladling extra soup into her bowl. "Su hija es muy preciosa," he said to me, and I nodded.

She asked the Vietnamese staffer if the broth was meat-based, or vegetarian.

She is discerning, my girl. Knows what she wants.

We sat down to her feast, and she ate everything. Got her sister trying things, too.

At the gift shop, she spied a black yoga shirt with the galaxy emblazoned with (subtle) sparkles on it. She lingered there for a moment. I knew she wouldn't ask.

"I'd like to get this for you, if you want it," I said.

"Oh yes," she said. "It's extraordinary."

On our way out, the three of us stood on the sustainable, solarized roof of the museum. Miss M looked out at the expanse of Golden Gate park. "I'd like to see the King Tut exhibit next week, if I may," she said, looking at the posters waving in the breeze.

"Of course," I said.

We walked slowly back to the car, holding hands. All three of us. The girls chattered about the Rainforest.

I realized something. That my crystal-ball predictions have been useless. That the IEPs are done, the special services are done. Nothing left to do.

What does ten look like? What to expect?

She is one incredible, thoughtful and brilliant girl. She has far more going on that I can fathom. I need to step back and enjoy.

Authentic.

That's what she is.

decompression

In case you've been wondering where I've been, I've been doing two things, well, three, really.

Working.

Parenting.

Getting therapy.

And not necessarily in that order.

Here, on the precipice of the final true workweek of the year (well, that's sort of false, because teachers never really stop), I emerge, sort of like The Swamp Thing, out of the earth, dripping with uncorrected exams and lame excuses, needy parents, and sleazy school officials who want to squeeze that one last thing out of you that's not really in your job description, but they need you to do it anyway, and, with, well, sweat.

I've had students pelt their vitriol, love, hate, resentment, and utter apathy against my office door.

I've endured lame assistants, a fabulous gay best friend, and a whole lot of people that I'd otherwise have nothing to do with, other than we work in the same building.

I know I say this every year, but this time I mean it: I am done. DONE.

Cannot look at or help one more nascent, pimply adolescent one more day.

I know you'd like to think that teachers are immune to challenging or hard-to-love students. I'd like to.

But we're not.

I'm not talking about our kids - you know -the ones who have good reason to be challenging. The ones, you know, with the interesting wiring? I could never, EVER, not love those kids.

It's the ones who feel entitled, the ones who think that I was hired just for them - the ones whose parents call me up and insist that I must make Binky's graduation party - because he loves you so - even though I've explained it's the first Saturday my family has had me to themselves in two months.

The ones who don't say thank you.

Or try when I go out of my way to help them.

But I digress.

It's about time management, really, and feeding the soul of the mother, the teacher, the worker - the creative side, the quiet side, even the side who needs her toes did and hair streaked.

My therapist looked at me today, in her neutral-yet-slightly-passively-judgemental-way and said, You don't have the time because you are not making the time for yourself. You don't want it badly enough.

I wanted to slug her.

It was like some Kung-Fu episode gone bad. Little Grasshopper, in all earnestness, is working her ass off trying to get better, feel better, be her authentic self with what resources she's got...and to be told that she doesn't want it enough?

Bullshit.

It was insensitive, and a little ill-informed of my well-intentioned, but no-kids-no-spouse therapist.

You know what I'm saying.

My therapist helpfully suggested that I quit my job - you know, the one that pays half the bills? - and get this:

Land a national commercial. Or two. That'd pay the bills for a year.

Um. I think that a few people have had that idea?

Like three million? I mean, really. Where do you think waiters come from?

I'd like to do my suggested one hour of meditation a day, my half hour work out, my hour of reading and hour of "connecting" with my spouse.

I would.

I would like to avoid collapsing in front of the TV at nine o'clock, after the school prep, girls' homework, dinner, and bath are over, but gee, I'm too busy drooling on the sofa, watching Jon and whats-her-name obliterate their marriage before the cameras.

Women get a freaking bad rap. To be one with yourself. To work. To parent. To wear a bikini and groom the various hairs around that area. To not show gray, and to keep the teeth white. To eat clean. To connect with the husband. To lovingly read the books to the kids. To be thin. Tan. Smart. Be a good financial manager. To have a Girls Night Out, throwing the head back, wearing the perfect pair of expensive jeans with some sassy heels, forgetting that all you really want to do is take a long fucking nap.

Those of us with special kids know. We've been to the puppet show and we have seen the strings.

You do what you can, the best way that you can.

And frankly, our kids have schooled us on this - you can't really look over and compare yourself to the neighbors next door, because, well, that just doesn't work.

We're our own thing.

Sometimes, we don't have the luxury of picking and choosing what needs to be done.

So, this is my plan - my scale-it-down-be-your-best-self-SELF-magazine-feel-good-plan:

Take it easy.

Go easy on myself if I miss that workout. Or meditation. Or whatever.

It's okay to simply watch TV with the kids, and if Mama falls asleep during iCarly, so be it. At least I'm in the same room.

Champagne is sometimes as good as meditation.

It is okay not to monitor the engagement-meter of Miss M. At this point, I'd say we're good, thanks.

It's time to stop self-critiquing my self-critiquing, and well, just, let it be.

I'm counting on you, my village of mommies, to help me

keep

it

real.