New Room

Houlder about 3 months old

Almost 19 years, I had this delicious baby boy.  He rarely cried.  He fooled William and I into believing we were good parents.  We had the touch.  He slept which we somehow believed we made happen.  He sang himself awake in the crib, in another room, while we listened to his tunes.

One of the best gifts of parenting is the dismantling factor of smug righteousness.  Having children who did not follow the scrip or our lead barreled down our pride and produced plentiful humble pie which comes without a direction manual.

Each subsequent child provided glimpses of knowing and unknowing what the heck we were doing.  We reminded ourselves that they were all alive, fed, housed, and clothed.  Our expectations expanded to reality -- not Lifetime movie fluff.  We managed each kid and scrambled.  I went from organized and early to perennially late and scattered.   I came across as flaky to those just meeting me; during the unctuous stage of my life, I would have cared. Now, I just hope my shirt is clean and I have everything I am supposed to have.

Dell about 15 months

Dell about 18 months with Max Bunster

Frazer 2 weeks with Grandpa Sid

With Frazer, there has been mystery, quirkiness and joy.  A much longed for soul after three miscarriages, his dramatic arrival at the beginning of Y2K was chaos.  His family has embraced this chaos, guided it and enjoyed him.  We had no clue, but we had love.

And, often, we worried for him.

Most notably Frazer is petite.  He looks like an 8-9 year old.  That size has allowed us to perhaps ignore things that were beyond quirky.  The past two years his friendships slipped away.  He was enraptured more and more in a world he only he knew.   

Frazer at 5 in preschool

Monday, he handled his inpatient status happily.  He has his own room with bathroom.  As as sibling  who has always shared, this is an improvement of some nature.  When Porter and I left that night after a bedtime reading, we were sad.

Yesterday when Porter and I went to spend time with him, Frazer asked us to go.  He was otherwise engaged alone with his mind and a show.

We left respecting his request. Porter and I both had those achy pits that make you want to barf or cry or zone out.  I am still unfolding my emotions.  Essentially this writing is for me.  I can share some of Frazer and some of what we are learning, but I need a place to put my voice.  To hold my fears and gratitude and I hope some laughter and lightness.

Houlder 10, Porter 7 months

My 25th reunion from college is this weekend.  I opted not to go even though I have spent past ten months thinking about it.  My friends are gathering in one of my most favorite places on earth to celebrate and embrace our youth.  It feels lonely, but this is my choice.  I can't shake off this responsibility.  A babysitter cannot be mom.  Hopefully I will not be asked to leave again.

But if so, I will come back to my room and watch my reunion unfold on Facebook.  I am not sure if that is great thing or something for which I should be embarrassed.  It is honest.

solipsism

Frazer getting ready to swim breaststroke.

Solipsism.

What’s real? 

Do I know?

Writing this blog earnestly began as a means of documenting the work Frazer and I did together homeschooling.  It was a useful, private tool which I only shared with a few family members and friends.  When Frazer was hospitalized in January, we were blessed with caring hearts and friendly concerns.  The blog was a natural extension of how to communicate efficiently with friends. 

It morphed. 

Inspired by some other friends who blog publicly, I opened the privacy controls and posted on Facebook. 

I let go.

And I found that when I sat in the hospital room at night, thoughtful kind responses held me.  Isolated but not alone, friends from long ago and across the country and over the oceans connected electronically.  

It was difficult to grasp.

Dell's graduation, June 9, 2011

I would read my posts and cringe with the verb tense errors and spelling errors and poor proof reading.  My sentiments were released and available for consumption, and I had not had the energy or presence of mind to think longer or better or clearer.

That anyone even read the blog is a tremendous testament to my kids.

A nagging sense of creating my own private Idaho kept rising. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7t7cGwN7_0

An inner world in which I could not escape the the medical world and could no longer define the boundaries of my angst.  A world in which I would write lists of things to do and stop mid-way to care for someone or research more or lately just stare into space. 

I began a blog about solipsism.  Was I creating reality that no one else saw?

Porter mite party 2011

Dell during Frazer and Porter's fencing feista!

These months of writing and being with the mystery of what is going on with Houlder has helped me control knee-jerk responses and try to frame what we are living.  I have tried to avoid exisitential rants, pity parties and full-metal jacket scream fests.

But, is it True?

I have been wanting to write about this idea but shied away when David Brooks,’ with his crisp excellent writing and somehow radically moderate ideas, wrote about the dynamic nature of our country -- democracy and republic -- in the The Politics of Solipsism.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/06/opinion/06brooks.html

How could I even begin to discuss this grist mill when he was discussing truly  meaty and pertinent and well-crafted ideas? Seemed audacious to try.

Persistently that word would jump out at a stop light, while waiting for lab work, during swim practice, or while trying to find patience to deal with a 6 year old.  I sensed that we were living a life somehow separate.

People have been unexpectedly kind.  Unexpectedly generous .  Unexpectedly concerned.

So, why think that our experience is so singular?  Why fluctuate?  Why not ride the wave?

Fear?

Egocentricism? -- that’s what David Foster Wallace and Jonathan Franzen would say.

It feels like McCarthy’s The Road.  An isolated life, trying to get through, to manage parental love and being blind to the community around us and that’s when I know I am in too deep, too far gone to find a realistic view.  I find I have created a world in which I choose what to say and how to say it.  How infinitely selfish that enables me to be. 


The ultimate trap of the adolescent mind seeing life beyond oneself.