Mon, 08 Sep 2008 04:16:35 GMT <![CDATA[Debra Shiveley Welch]]> Mon, 08 Sep 2008 04:16:35 GMT Ripe, red and round, I bite deeply. Juice runs down my chin and within the core of this plump, luscious orb, I taste sunshine. Mawmaw is waiting for the green beans I am to pick for lunch, but she knows that my duties in the garden will take a little longer than expected. I am a forager, a nibbler, a taster of bounty. I bite again and my mouth is filled with glorious, sweet, warm fruit.
 
"Youngin' you eat more 'an you pick!" she cries, smiling and shaking her head.
 
I choose a few extras and place them in my basket. They are warm and bursting, fat and juicy. Mawmaw will slice them and put them on a platter and we will feast upon large, meaty Beefsteak, sweet golden streaked German Stripe, beautiful, delicious, creamy Golden Yellow; slices so large, they fill a plate.
 
We sit and join hands. Pawpaw says the blessing, gives me a wink and passes a plate filled with golden fried circles.   I question with raised eyebrows and dig in. Fried green tomatoes, prepared as a surprise. I crunch into warm juice-filled ambrosia. They fill my mouth with the taste of green, of red, of fresh air. They are a little bitter at first bite, but sweetness comes through as tongue and palate work in harmony to wrest from each morsel every nuance of taste: corn meal, salt, pepper, un-ripened tomato, bacon fat. I close my eyes and eat more slowly - savoring.
 
Evening approaches. I have picked corn for the evening meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, leftover ham, biscuits and jam, and platters piled high with vine-ripened tomatoes. We sit in the metal rockers beneath the ancient oak tree and shuck the corn. I like these times of intimacy.   Mawmaw talks about food and its preparation. I listen with rapt attention. Soon dinner will be ready.
 
I pass on this legacy to my husband and son with "Mama Spaghetti" made with my own tomato sauce: slightly spicy and rich, hearty, neither sweet nor bitter; flavors of oregano, basil, garlic and wine, or a lighter sauce, which my son prefers during the week, with diced tomatoes, rosemary, garlic, onion and olive oil.
 
Today tomatoes remind me of summer, of sunshine, of creaking metal rockers rusting on a leaf dappled yard. The squeak, squeak, squeak of the chair as Mawmaw takes her only ease of the day...preparing vegetables and sipping iced tea. They remind me of hot summer days in the garden, surrounded by the smell of green, the promise of large platters of delectable fruit, joined hands around the kitchen table -- repletion -- redemption.
 
]]> <![CDATA[Summer Harvest]]> Sat, 26 Jul 2008 12:45:39 GMT  
“Your son is incapable of learning.”[1]
 
I sat for a minute, looking at the counselor who had requested the meeting, trying to decide if I had heard her correctly. I felt my left hand press against my pounding heart. 
“Did you say, ‘incapable of learning?’” I queried. “Yes,” she responded, and proceeded to mouth paragraphs of jargon, which my confused brain was incapable of comprehending let alone translating.
Stupefied, near panic, I fought for coherent thought. Slowly, however, a heat began to rise from my trip-hammering heart and to suffuse my face. Rage replaced terror.
“Incapable of learning?” I cried! “Incapable?” I repeated loudly. “How can you say that? How can you doom a child of three years of age to that kind of diagnoses? He taught himself the alphabet at two! How can you say that?” I raged. 
I have to admit that there were times when I believed I was either incapable of understanding what was going on in my son’s little head or reluctant to admit that there was a problem, but this I knew: Chris could learn. He had indeed taught himself the alphabet. I had purchased a wooden alphabet puzzle in lower case letters. Christopher would bring them up to me, one-by-one, and I would say, for instance, “a – apple.” It didn’t take me long to realize that he was actually learning the alphabet.
Of course, I realize that I was teaching him. But, the “game” was initiated by Chris, and it demonstrated a desire on his part to know, a wish to learn. This initiation on his part was indeed a form of self-teaching. Chris made the move. Chris wanted to know.
Incapable of learning! As my mother used to say, “Bull Hockey!” I thought of my friend Sue and her daughter Gretchen. Born with Williams Syndrome, Gretchen was an adorable, pixyish young woman with a sweetness of soul that made her a joy to know. At birth, Sue was told that Gretchen would never be able to dress, feed, or take care of herself. Sue had refused to believe it, and proceeded to patiently teach her daughter as she would any child.  The end result was a charming young woman, who admittedly was mentally challenged, but was happy, had friends, and held down a full time job, far from the diagnosis her mother was given at the time of Gretchen’s birth.
 
“Where are the people who know where the people are?”[2]
 
I removed Chris from the school and entered him into a church-run day care center; Chris began to show progress. It was in Pre-Kindergarten that an inability to focus caused his teachers to mention the possibility of Central Auditory Processing Disorder. CAPD affects the ability to process what you hear. I set up an appointment immediately to have him tested. The results were negative. Chris passed with flying colors.
Next came testing for Attention Deficit Disorder. Although diagnosed with ADD, none of the medications, covering everything from Adderall to Welbuterin, had any affect whatsoever.
More years passed and still we tried to understand Chris’ particular issues. Aspberger’s was mentioned as well as epilepsy. We didn’t know where to turn until, finally, an educator suggested we take Chris to a neurological psychologist. Chris was diagnosed with ADD, Dysgraphia, Working Memory Deficit and Executive Function Deficit.
Dysgraphia is a neurological disorder, which interferes with the fine motor skills needed in the physical act of writing. For instance, when Chris puts pen or pencil to paper, some letters will “float”: they will be too high or too low, and his penmanship is generally too large or too small, and very difficult to read. In addition, because it is so difficult, Chris cannot write his thoughts with as much fluidity as he can when dictating or typing.
He also confuses some words, using “tell” instead of “ask,” and “never” instead of “ever,” and has trouble tying his shoes.
 Working Memory Deficit affects short-term memory, and Executive Function Deficit can manifest in problems with test taking.
At last, we had a diagnosis. It was not easy to accept, but coping strategies could be taught to help Chris learn, and that was the key word! Learn! Yes, he would learn!
 
Learning Differences – Not Learning Disabilities
 
Christopher has worked hard to overcome his learning differences – yes, differences. It isn’t that he is not able to learn, he simply learns differently.
We have worked with our son by being active in his school work, at school and at home. When necessary, tutors are hired. 
Chris plays guitar and is now the proud owner of an acoustic, six string electric and a bass guitar. He plays excellently after a mere eight months of lessons. He has asked for a mandolin and wants to take piano lessons as well.
Chris is an excellent swimmer, gardener, is becoming an accomplished cook and is working with me on a cookbook.
This year, Chris finished the ninth grade with glowing reports!   Not one teacher referenced focusing problems. A master speller and a budding essayist, Chris has received excellent grades in his written assignments, which are typed.
As I finish this article, I am awaiting an email from his publisher as to when his second book will be released. Yes, my boy who was diagnosed as “incapable of learning” is a twice traditionally published author.
I think back and can’t help but send out a thank you prayer to my friend Sue, whose example helped me to help my son. She taught me to listen to my heart, to believe in my son and his abilities, and to trust in his desire to learn and to grow.
 
 

[1] Excerpts from Son of My Soul – the Adoption of Christopher, Debra Shiveley Welch, Saga Books
[2] Joan Plowright as Eva Krichinsky Avalon 1990, written and directed by Barry Levinson
 
]]> <![CDATA[Your Son is Incapable of Learning]]> Thu, 19 Jun 2008 08:52:23 GMT

He lay back wearily upon pillows piled high,
His once bright eyes dull with pain.
A weak smile pulled at his lips as shaking hand
Cleaved through once abundant hair,
Now thinned by toxic treatments.

"Now listen to me, Dotter.
There’s things ya be needin’ ta know,
About where yer people come from – 
And land so green, it would tear yer heart.
Dotter, stop yer cryin’! We must be partin’ soon.
And if ya be wantin’ to remember me - I can tell ya the way.

So hush. Hush. Hush.

Dotter, remember your roots!
And every year - be wearin’ the green!
Wear it with pride, girl - yer head held high
For it’s poets ya come from,
Aye - and great men and women too,
Who would not be held down!

And don’t ye be, girl. Don’t ye be.”

I miss you, Da

Dotter

 

]]> <![CDATA[Wearin' The Green]]> Sun, 15 Jun 2008 04:24:39 GMT Joyful

 

A new day dawns upon the lake,
And joyful joyful arms spread wide,
Embrace the dawning day.
Sunbeams glance upon waters still,
And sounds of birds greet my ears;
Their quacks and honks and musical trills
Crying, “I Am!”

]]> <![CDATA[Joyful]]> Sun, 08 Jun 2008 04:09:53 GMT My son came home at seven-days-of age.  Fifteen years later, I am still in Nursery Nirvana. From the moment I first held him in my arms, I have felt a deep pride in him and how he came to be my son - and he knows it.

We have always discussed adoption naturally and openly, and with great joy.  I call him my Very Special Child and even wrote a book by that title for him.  He is giving a copy of it today as a present to a young girl who is also adopted, because he is proud of it and is proud to share his specialness with others.

In discussing your child’s adoption openly, just like you would discuss your child's birth had you carried him or her, you make it a common every day thing: I have two eyes, two ears, a nose, I'm adopted, I'm a boy, I live in Ohio....no biggy.  On the other hand, by hiding it, you make it seem like something to be ashamed of, something to push to the back of the closet, something that you wish had never happened.

More importantly, you are basing your entire relationship on a lie - a lie of omission.  How is your child going to trust you in any other area of life if you have deceived them about the very core of your relationship?

I have a cousin who was adopted and his parents never told him.  He found out on his own at age fourteen.  He ran away from home and refused to speak to his parents.  They reconciled, after a fashion, but their relationship was damaged irrevocably.  My cousin never trusted his parents again.

I say speak of adoption to your child.  Show them the pride you have in choosing them out of all of the other children in the world.  Encourage them to adopt when they decide to have children.  Tell them openly about waiting for them, praying for them and that glorious moment when you finally got THE call.  My son knows the story backwards and forwards and loves to tell it to others.  When he speaks of it, his face lights up and he smiles.  He even wrote a book about it which is coming out soon.  Here is a quote from it which I think clearly makes my case:

From Just Chris by Christopher Shiveley Welch

I am adopted.  That feels good.  I like being adopted.  If it weren’t for my parents, I don’t know what I’d be like.  They are here for me.  My mom and dad tell me that I am beautiful, so I believe that I am.  They tell me I’m a good kid, so I accept that I am.  They tell me that I’m loved, so I know that I am.

            I have learning differences.  Mom says I am not learning disabled, I just learn differently, and that’s okay.  I don’t mind having differences.  I just want to learn.

            Mom says that a child sees themselves in their parent’s eyes.  I want to put this poem of my mom’s in here:

I am your mirror.  When you look into my eyes,
You see how beautiful you are.
When you enter a room, my heart lifts up to meet you;
A smile of greeting lights me up from within. 

 

I am your mirror.  When you look into my eyes,
You see love, as my soul embraces yours,
Revealing to you just how wonderful you are:
My friend, my heart, my son.
From “Mirroring”[1]


            Mom uses this poem a lot in her interviews.  She tells people about adopting special needs kids and that makes me feel good.  I know she is so happy that she adopted me and she just wants people to know how it can make them happy too.


[1] Son of My Soul – The Adoption of Christopher, Debra Shiveley Welch, Saga Books, page 118

]]> <![CDATA[Should I Tell My Child He's Adopted?]]> Fri, 23 May 2008 03:56:31 GMT Chris  Every spring, Chris and I order butterfly caterpillars.  We have an inexpensive, one gallon aquarium, where we keep them safe and snug, while they munch themselves to ten times their size, finally go into chrysalis, and then - the butterfly.

Usually, everything goes very well.  We watch them with awe...eagerly awaiting the beautiful painted lady butterfly that we know will emerge. They hatch…they dry their wings ... and then Chris, oh so carefully, places them on his finger, gently releasing them outside.   He always says, “Goodbye my baby.  Be happy!  Be safe!”

This year, things didn't turn out the way we'd hoped. We got our five caterpillars, and gave them a snug, safe “womb” in which to develop. We watched them with delight as they grew and grew, finally making that long journey up the sides of their jars to the lid, where they formed their “J” to go into the chrysalis stage.  With anticipation, we awaited the hatching, eager to see those beautiful orange and black wings spread out in flight. But, something went wrong.

Two butterflies were born with mangled, twisted wings. They couldn't fly. I waited a day, giving them sugar water, to see if the process was just taking longer than usual. Things didn't improve. Finally, I took them out into the bright sunlight, thinking that God's healing sun would dry their little wings. That's when I noticed they didn't have all of their legs.  Sadly, I told Chris to put them in the rose garden and leave them, hoping he wouldn't be there to see the inevitable: a bird swooping down to capture them to feed her young.  Such is the way of nature I reasoned. It's the only way.

As Chris was dutifully taking them down to place them by the roses, totally innocent of what I was asking him to do to his beloved butterflies, it occurred to me: nature doesn't HAVE to be this way. They don't have to be “perfect” in the literal sense of the word. If they couldn't pollinate and procreate, their right to exist wasn't automatically negated.  They could just be themselves, giving pleasure to a six-year-old little boy who loved them, and was willing to turn them loose simply for their own good.

Yes, their wings were mangled, and they flopped when they tried to walk, but they had their own beauty, their own value, their own perfection.

Chris and I are keeping the butterflies until they die a natural death.  I know it will be hard for Chris when they die.  He wont’ be able to look for them next spring, thinking that every painted lady he sees is his beloved Sam or Lou, but he will learn a very valuable lesson, and I'm pleased to learn it with him.

You see, Chris is adopted.  My husband and I were the seventh couple called.  Chris was headed for Children's Services because he wasn't “perfect.”  He was born with a moderately severe unilateral clefting of the lip, gum, and hard and soft palates. While he was carrying his butterflies down to the rose garden, I suddenly thought -- What if we had not been contacted, and Chris had not come home to me?  I would not be here, in this garden, enjoying the unique beauty and perfection of my son. I would not know of his goodness, his sweetness, his gentleness, and my life would not be as full and rich as it has become.

I called Chris to me, and oh so carefully, we returned Sam and Lou to their “womb” for safe keeping.  Within their imperfection dwelt perfection; their existence, a lesson so gratefully learned.  I looked at my son, and saw him smile.  I think that he understood long before I did.

Excerpt from  Son of My Soul - The Adoption of Christopher
]]> <![CDATA[Sometimes Life is a Metaphor]]> Mon, 12 May 2008 11:52:33 GMT I had a particularly interesting job to accomplish today. I had to clean up the remains of a squirrel’s nest, which had fallen on to our tow path. Inhabited by a bachelor squirrel throughout the winter, its fragile form held up much better than I had predicted, in spite of its antiquity. It did, however, ultimately disintegrate, as witnessed by the pile of twigs and dead leaves, clumped upon the gravel of the path which encircles our lake.

I’m not surprised at his choice of “digs” for the winter. It had been my privilege to witness his attempt to take possession of a certain tree this last fall. Sitting at a window, which faces our front yard, I witnessed his “battle for ownership” of a particularly stately ash, which culminated in his ignominious ejection from said tree, ending in a resounding thump, as his body hit the ground, clearly heard in spite of the glass pane through which I peered. He fled with much chattering, which I can only guess, were I able to translate, offended any lady-like squirrels within hearing distance.

He is a handsome fellow. His tail is full and tipped with white, his ears are pert, his eyes large and bright. His pelt gleams with good health and is quite attractive. I can only imagine that this spring, he will reach his goal and woo a lady love, the ultimate end of course being that of becoming a patriarch. I wonder if he’ll rebuild where his flimsy shanty sheltered him throughout this rather wicked winter, or will he choose more stable environs? I find it intriguing as to what Monsieur Squirrel will do now.

]]> <![CDATA[Monsieur Squirrel - Observations of a Bachelor Squirrel]]> Mon, 05 May 2008 04:24:07 GMT Another birthday dawns, and I awaken to the sounds of ducks peeping and quacking, birds singing and splashing water. I stretch and rise, eager for the day: your special day – your birthday!

I dress and walk to the staircase. Breakfast and coffee must be prepared and I want to make sure that your presents are well-hidden, although you have a knack of finding even the most "cleverly" concealed gift. I put my hand on the rail and pause as memories sweep over me – memories of the time I stood at the top of these very stairs with you in my arms. It was 2:00 a.m., just twelve short hours since I first beheld your sweet face and breathed deeply of your unique scent. Twelve short hours since, with arms outstretched, I said to our attorney, "Give me my son!" and held you to me for the first time.

Twelve, short hours – you had awakened for your two o’clock feeding, and I leapt from my bed, eager to hold you once again. I gathered you up and started for the stairs. Something made me pause. I guess I just wanted to take a moment to once again look at you, savor the feel of your little body in my arms. I stood there, looking down at you, breathing you in once again. You arched your back as if reaching toward me, and I was lost.

Sixteen years have sped their course since that day. And yet, I can still feel the thrill that leapt through my heart at that particular moment of our bonding, of our truly becoming mother and son.

Memories race through my mind, like a slide show, embedded in my heart and sealed forever until the end of time: memories of adventures we have shared, cities we have explored … memories of raising you and the joy it has brought me.

Sweet love, you have placed my feet upon a path which I never want to leave. You have given me a gift far sweeter than I ever believed possible. You have made me a mother. More importantly, you have made me your mother.

I have watched you blossom and take on life’s challenges. I have witnessed your struggle to overcome your learning differences. And I have glowed with pride as you grew from babyhood to the incredible young man you are today. In my joy and pride, I can’t help but reflect on our journey as mother and son.

Sixteen years! To some it may seem like a long time, yet in twelve short hours, my heart was lost. And it still is. You have held my heart in your hand since that very moment. It’s a nice place to be.

 

]]> <![CDATA[Today You Are Sixteen]]> Thu, 01 May 2008 11:38:52 GMT Namaste

In India they say "Namaste," 'I see the God in you.'" or "I bow to you" and acknowledge the Devine spark within each of us.

An elderly woman progresses down the grocery isle.  She is blocking me from my usual break-neck run as I race through the store to complete my selections.

I know that she has paid her dues.  She is a hero - she is a survivor.  I know the Devine spark dwells within her and I slow my pace.

Namaste

A young teenage boy bags the groceries.  Mentally challenged, he does not realize that he has put a bag of potatoes on top of my loaf of bread.  The manager walks over and berates the boy and he begins to cry.

I know this Man/Child is a creation of God and I comfort him.

Namaste

A young man lounges outside of the store.  He is angry and I can tell from the way he looks at me that he feels hatred simply because of who I am.  His eyes are full of rage and his sneer cuts into my heart.  I nod my head and walk on.

I know Creator exists within him and I say a prayer for him.

Namaste

And when I am the one who is slow, or messing up or am angry, I pray that those who witness my actions will realize that God also lives within me.

Namaste

]]> <![CDATA[Namaste]]> Wed, 23 Apr 2008 11:28:26 GMT Our neighbor spread straw on his lawn, so that the ducks and geese will not eat his newly sown grass seed.  A rain-filled breeze swept my way, and with it came sweet-scented memories.
 The Farm: where a child could be a child.  My grandparents:  Mawmaw and Pawpaw, sturdy legs planted on the land, strong arms, shielding a child from hunger, from danger.

Straw...I remember the front porch with rocking chairs creaking and Pawpaw singing.
 
“Amazing Grace”

 I remember a canopy of stars above, and below, lightening bugs sparkling on the hill, iced tea, pie. I lean against my grandfather’s legs.  A calloused finger stretches forth, pointing to the ancient Hopewell Indian earthworks on the hill directly across from ours.  “That there is Serpent Mound,” he says.  “You’ve got kin buried there.”  He lights his pipe.
 I crawl into his lap and snuggle.  His chest is bony.  He works too hard to put on fat.  He pulls out his harmonica and plays.

“Amazing Grace”

Straw...I remember the barn.

  Fragrant hay and chubby kittens; soft, roly poly balls of purring fur, sweet babies.  The hayloft: my domain, where Nancy Drew is devoured as hungrily as my grandmother’s biscuits.
 Warm teats in the palms of my hands, the metallic sheeeeeesh sheeeeeesh of warm, rich milk, as it hits the side of the bucket, my cheek against warm, contented cow.  Here you go! A cat catches a well-aimed stream and looks satisfied.
 Bucket fed calves, their noses knocking against the metal pail, soft noses, nuzzling for more, their sandpaper tongues searching for every drop.  Squawking chickens gently lifted from straw-filled nests; eggs are gathered for breakfast.

Straw…I remember Mawmaw’s kitchen.

 Here is food: yeast rolls and fried chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, peas, summer salad, corn on the cob, noodles and fresh green beans.   Here is security and love.

Straw...I remember running wild – at last I can be a child – running through pastures and woods.

 There are grapevines to swing on and hills to climb.  I walk with the cows.  I carry a stick.  It’s handy to scratch a bovine’s hard-to-reach itch.
 Sun drenched rocks on which to dream, “Wolf Run,” a clear running stream, gorgeous with its blue, clay walls.  I stop and eat my lunch of thick ham sandwiches with home made bread, Mawmaw’s cured ham, preserved pickles, and secret recipe spread.  I drink from the stream.  It’s cold and delicious.  Crawdads dart by.  I laugh and raise my face to the sun.

Straw...I remember the “Joke Tree.”

 My cousins come “a visitin’of the weekends.”  We dart from the house, and run to the pigpen over which an aged tree reigns.  Up her trunk we scramble, and clamber over thick, leaf-filled limbs.  “What did the mayonnaise say to the refrigerator?  Shut the door, I’m dressing!”  Exaggerated laughs; we swing from the limbs and dare each other to jump and miss the slop trough.

Straw...I remember the smell of straw and cows and manure.

 I remember the smell of pipe smoke and haylofts, rich milk and good food.  I remember the smell of sunshine and laughter.  I remember the smell of love.

"Amazing Grace."

]]> <![CDATA[Straw]]> Sun, 06 Apr 2008 05:42:58 GMT