Come On, Friend!

One of the joys of being a grandparent is spending fun time with my grandchildren. Sometimes on Saturdays my granddaughter, Rose, and I go to the Play Place at Burger King. She has so much energy that the climbing, jumping, crawling, swinging, hiding and chasing meets her activity level head on. However, the most amazing behavior coming from this innocent little tot is her ability to consider everyone her friend.

Rose, whose speech is delayed, is very large for her age of three, chunky and sturdy, but not overweight. She has a head of wild, curly hair that overwhelms her face. When other children talk to her, she cannot answer questions about her name, how old she is, or other ordinary questions children ask. Instead, she will gleefully look them in the eye, motion to them, and say, “Come on, friend,” as they inevitably run off to play together.

Rose adjusts her behavior to the age and temperament of her friends. Older boys, who would not generally want to play with a toddler, will play “tag” with her, thinking they can outrun her. Giggling, she runs beyond their speed limits with her long legs, chasing them into a corner where she tags them, and she steps back so they can run off and the game can begin again.

If Rose is playing with someone smaller than herself, her whole demeanor changes. She smiles and gently motions them along, skillfully helping them up to the next level, patting them soothingly on the back, and encouraging them with “Come on, friend.”

Rose has the most fun playing with someone her own size. They generally take turns playing “follow the leader”. Laughter streams from the Play Place as everyone is having fun.

Rose does not discriminate between friends, and merrily plays with anyone. One day a boy with obvious ADHD was running, skipping and jumping in a disorganized manner throughout the play area. Rose joined him, step by step, copying the same things he did, laughing uproariously.

Another day, an older girl who was non-verbal with an obvious developmental delay, became her friend. Rose joined her, playing on the outskirts. She copied her; jumping and twirling like her new friend. Every now and then, this girl would make a pleasant noise and Rose would repeat it in a singsong manner, taking her friend’s hand and saying, “Come on, friend,” as they did their dance.

Anytime one of her playmates leaves, Rose runs over to wave and say “Bye, friend,” then looks around for another friend to call her own. If no other children are in the Play Place, she will come and sit with me to have a drink of water and relax a little bit. Sometimes she will stand up and look into the Burger King dining room to see if any potential friends are eating their lunch. “Friends?” she says quizzically, putting both hands up in asking the question. As soon as another child enters the play area, Rose jumps up, runs to them, pats the child on the back saying, “Hi, friend!” as they go off to play.

This past Saturday, I heard screaming coming from the upper level of the play area. Not screaming as though she were hurt, but screeching that affected everyone’s eardrums. The boy with her was screaming also, in unison. Standing on my tiptoes, I saw the boy hit Rose, and Rose hit him back. This screaming and hitting went back and forth a few times before Rose heard me calling her to come down. Generally obedient, Rose was soon by my side where I reminded her that she should not hit or scream. She looked at me with her innocent, big brown eyes, pointed up and said “Friend?” who had continued screaming while his dad sat nearby and played on his cell phone. Reinforcing my rule for Rose that SHE could NOT scream or hit or we would leave, she wasted no time in darting her eyes around the room to find another friend, and soon ran off to play with someone else.

I learned two very important life lessons from Rose that day. She could learn proper behavior, and choose not to engage in misbehavior, even if it was hilarious fun for her at the time. More importantly, she was accepting of all children, and modified her behavior to deal with their differences. What a wonderful society we would have if we all could accommodate those different than ourselves; not just “accepting” them, but actively interacting with them and providing a positive relationship.

Come on, friends, we wait to greet you!

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Mothers, Help Your Sons Grow Up to be Fathers…

My oldest son, Francis, grew up amongst a caravan of foster brothers and sisters. Specializing in newborns and infants who had been affected by prenatal drug exposure and addiction, our family was usually comprised of my husband and myself, Francis, his sister, Dinora, who had been adopted from Guatemala, and one or two foster babies. Despite the fact that Francis is severely visually impaired, he played an active role in child care, frequently holding a little one, feeding a bottle and changing diapers. When going to the mall, he and his sister would proudly push the double stroller. (With the 2 of them, he could be a pusher without having to see where he was going…) Throughout his childhood, sixteen foster babies lived with us, and caring for them was just a fact of life.

Francis is now an adult with a Ph. D. from Cambridge, a well paying dream job, a wonderful wife and a cozy home complete with a grill for grilling steaks and a lawn to mow. And, as of three weeks ago, a newborn baby. My week spent with his little family renewed my faith in the power of what is learned in childhood. Without even knowing it, I had trained Francis how to be a good father! He bundles his little girl up in a baby blanket, like I had bundled up those babies who were going through withdrawal. Newborns like being in a tidy bundle because they arrive with strong startle reflexes and without much control of their arms and legs. By pulling her arms and legs in close and securely wrapping a blanket around her little body, baby India can feel safe and secure. When she is awake and alert, Francis rocks her and sings songs to her, songs that he heard me sing so many years ago: “Itsy Bitsy Spider”, “Hush Little Baby,” and “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round”. Even though she couldn’t possibly know the songs, the sound of his voice quiets her, and these songs are easy to sing. When he is expertly changing her diaper, he plays “This Little Piggy” with her toes, gently pulling her feet to his mouth to kiss. He exaggerates the “wee wee wee home” by tracing his finger from her toes to her chin, tickling her slightly before kissing her forehead. And while she sits in his arms on the couch, ready for bed, he reads her books with very large print; “Goodnight Moon”, and “Five Little Monkeys Jumping on the Bed”.

On the evening before I left to fly home, he looked over at me and thanked me for giving him the opportunity to practice on all those babies years ago. All of his friends are having babies now, he said, and they are all in a tizzy. Because of the practice HE had, he is a confident parent and not at all nervous with India. I realized that by being a foster parent to infants, I was not only caring for little ones, but also nurturing parenting skills in my oldest sons, skills that will ensure he will be an awesome father!

I have repeated this post from last year. His adorable baby is now a year old, and his father’s day skills have continued to flourish!

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If you are interested in reading other stories about Francis, please purchase my book on Amazon.

Just Call Me Marshmallow Head!

My oldest son, Francis’s wife just had a baby. Being a thrilled grandparent, of course a trip from the Northeast to California was in order!
Exactly 23 hours and 50 minutes before my flight, I dutifully “checked in” with Southwest in order to get a boarding pass with a “low number”. For those unfamiliar with Southwest Airlines, passengers are boarded according to the letters and numbers on their boarding passes, Letter A, 1-60, Letter B, 1-60 and Letter C-1-60. You can only register 24 hours or less to get a boarding pass, so I try to do it as early as possible in order not to get stuck with a high letter/number. It never ceases to amaze me that calling in at 10 minutes after 24 hours yields me the combination B-10. How could 70 people have checked in before me? Was everyone else sitting at their computers at 5 in the morning just waiting for that magic moment when their prize would be a low number? But I digress…this system is only mentioned because it will pertain to an issue which will occur later in this post.

Anyone who knows me knows that I get motion sickness very easily. (Almost my entire childhood was spent sleeping in the backseat of my parents station wagon as we traipsed across the country.) My plan was to sleep the entire 7 hour flight to California. (Another talent of mine is to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime, a skill that came in handy in college where cat naps were caught on the couches in the student lounge between classes.)

My sleep technique is somewhat unique…I can only sleep if a pillow is wrapped around my head. Yes, a pillow wrapped around my head. Tightly, so as not to let in any light. Using a king sized pillow with some of the feathers removed, one end of the pillow goes under my head, the pillow is wrapped around the front of my head, and the other end of the pillow is secured behind my head. For those unfamiliar with my technique, it looks as though smothering myself is a possibility, but an air hole from my nose down to the bottom of the pillow is created. Sleeping my way to California would be no different. Dragging my pillow onto the plane the next morning, I settle into my window seat waaaayyyyy at the back of the plane. (There is always the possibility that the plane won’t be full and I could have the whole seat to stretch out on to sleep. Alas, not so lucky this time.) Settling in and maneuvering my pillow strategically around my head, I became comfy. Because I put my own comfort first and don’t worry about what others think, any references to the appearance of “Marshmallow Head” would not hurt my feelings. As I sat there, cozy and drifting slightly off to sleep, I could hear the usual commotion of the “onboarding” of the plane. Most of the seats have been filled except for the unpopular middle seats. At this late stage of boarding, three different sets of couples found themselves in the back of the plane trying to get seats together. Their seat numbers were probably in the C-45 range. As they moaned and groaned about being separated, the stewardess ordered single people to change seats. People like myself who had obtained earlier boarding passes were being directed to move into those vacant middle seats! I feigned sleeping; it would have been upsetting to sit in a middle seat in which my pillow manipulation would have been unsuccessful, especially for a flight of more than 7 hours. One kind gentleman who gave up his window seat to sit in the middle seat next to me, instantly regretted his choice. The woman in the aisle seat had obviously had one too many to drink, and she slurred her words as she chatted to him, providing him with a non-stop foray into the dysfunctional family she called her own. As I woke intermittently throughout the flight, and she could always be heard talking about one thing or the other. I was filled with sympathy for my poor seat mate who had no place to escape and no pillow on which to feign sleep.

The flight was otherwise uneventful Of course, I could not know for sure because I slept through most of it…

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For more stories about my childhood, please, read my book. Here is a link:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-apple-tree/id538572206?mt=11

The Apple Tree: Raising 5 Kids With Disabilities and Remaining Sane