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July 26, 2008 8:45 AM
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch
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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.
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June 19, 2008 4:52 PM
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch
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“ 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
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June 15, 2008 12:24 PM
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch
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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
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June 8, 2008 12:09 PM
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch
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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!”
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May 23, 2008 11:56 AM
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch
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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
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