Blueprints: an Introspective

One of the things that really annoys me is how things that happened so long ago still have impact now.

I understand that our foundation story is deeply routed into our brains and our smaller selves can get trapped in the ruts. It can take all our skill as learned adults to get our smaller selves out of those ruts and moving in a positive and healthy directions.

Our foundation stories keep coming up throughout our lives in our various interactions and experiences, as they are our blueprints and how we recognise our relationships. Changing the blueprints is a lifetime of work.

It annoys me that things my adoptive mother did so many decades ago can still have impact. She’s ancient. I’m well and truly middle-aged. I have a deep seated anger toward her that I rarely touch. I also have deep seated pain that I let go and let go and let go.

I have been through periods with my own adult children where they have been busy separating and blaming. I understand that this is a process we all go through. I am grateful that they have matured and we have settled into adult relationships that are mutually supportive. I did not do to them what my mother did to me and my siblings.

What happens when your parent is the cause of significant damage for you? When they put you into such appalling situations of abuse that the blueprints are disastrous? Those blueprints may never be able to be altered. They get shelved. They get dusty. They get frayed and torn at the edges. They are still there.

I have no resolution for this, I’m just irritated. I cannot allow myself to even think about my mother. It makes me sad, especially when I consider what I have with my girls, whom I adore. They are truly wonderful people (and yes, I know I am biased). I wish my mother thought that of me.

And therein lies the niggling doubt. No matter how much I appreciate myself and am grateful for my resilience and strength, the foundation person in my life does not consider me a person of worth. There it is, that thread of doubt that it might be true.

Ahh, now that I know what it is that taints my blueprints, maybe I can get them off the shelf and find those threads and erase them.

From brown to grey in a few short years

Very recently, Youngest Daughter, re-posted a photo of me from 2009. I looked so much younger than I do know. A lot has happened over the past eight years and I am completely grey. (I tell Youngest Daughter that she is responsible. heh!)

I don’t mind being older, in fact I relish it. There is so much that once used to bother me that now doesn’t. My hair being grey? Looks good. Other people’s opinions? Who cares? What I relish most is what I know. Feeling down? It will pass. Sliding into a depression? I have the skills now to balance out. Stressed out about kids, work, house, elderly animals? I can deal.

All that ‘dealing’ has been hard won. Does it sometimes get on top of me despite my best efforts? Totally. Do I break under the strain? Sometimes. Do I know that I can get back up? Absolutely. At times it seems to take me longer, I don’t bounce back any more. ‘Getting back up’ can be laborious and take some serious determination. Do I pep-talk myself every morning to get up and get going? Yes. Do I have internal debates about every effort? Yes. Do I do it anyway? Yes, I do.

I am better at what is good for me and better at not giving up. Sometimes it takes an inordinate amount of time to figure how to get things done with limited resources (for example, gigantic dresser down to Middle Daughter’s place without strong people to help), and I eventually succeed. I am better at knowing when one thing extra is too much or when one thing extra will be just the thing. Falling asleep at the wheel on the way home from work? Go to sleep or take dogs for walk? I take the dogs for their walk. I feel this deserves cheering!

My reluctance to socialise does not concern me any longer. I work with people five days a week, belong to committees and volunteer. Enough people. Being at home, peacefully with my fluffy peeps is the best.


Today is Sunday and I am tired. (Yesterday was exhausting, searching for missing child.) I will take the dogs for a walk after this, then have another cup of tea. I will do some shopping (yuck) and housework (double yuck) and rest because it’s back to work tomorrow.

Yes, I like being older. I am sad that I have physically aged so much but vanity was never my concern. I do wish I had more pep. I know that I will still get done that which needs to be done and the selectivity between need and want will prune the extraneous. It may take me longer but I get there in the end.

Grey hair rules!


Tricky Tricksters

My son has autism.

He came to live with me when he was 9 years old. He was small for his age and the two years that he had been in and out of foster care had frozen him. At the age of three he contracted pneumococcal meningitis and lost his hearing. At four he received a cochlear implant. At six his primary carer (grandmother) died and he went into care.

Like most children in care in Australia, he was in and out of care as the department tried for reunification with his alcoholic mother. She tried, she really did, but the lure of the bottle  was too strong. The impact on children like my boy though is traumatic.

By the time he was brought to me, he was frozen. There were often times when he stood still, nothing going on in his head, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. At seven he said that he was saving all his hugs for his mum, so the carers stopped hugging him.

His first night at my house I said the rule was that you had to have a big squashy cuddle goodnight. That little boy could not get into my arms fast enough. All sticks and bones and desperation. His case manager took him home after the weekend and asked if he thought he might like to live with us. “Oh yes,” he replied, “they just love me!” We do.

The combination of deafness with artificial processing of sound, autism, a short term memory disorder and a language disorder combined to cocoon him in his own world. Even today he will speak his mind (yes, he is very opinionated), asking questions and answering himself. On one occasion, when he was still small, he was chatting away to himself in his room and his case worker dropped in for a visit. “Oh, has he got friends over?” “No, that’s just him,” I smiled. “Goodness, it sounds like an entire basketball team!” Sure did.

As he thawed, he began to release a lot of anger. I had no idea so many things could get broken. The only thing that really upset me was my ceramic frog in the front garden. This large frog had many adventures as my bush garden was used for hide and seek by the neighbourhood children. I was never sure where it would end up, it was always moving around. One morning I came out to find it smashed to pieces. I burst into tears and my boy looked at me in bewilderment. It has taken many years for him to grow empathy and understand that actions have impact.

Growing empathy. His response when people hurt themselves was to point and laugh, sometimes when it was scary, not funny at all. Step by tiny step I took him through appropriate responses. When he was ten he would play with my Scruffy dog, who being a little old and grumpy, would growl at him when he had had enough. My son would storm off into his bedroom and draw pictures of die scruffy die. I explained over and over that using your feet to ‘play’ with an animal was not appropriate and hurt him. “He should know,” my boy cried in frustration, “he should know I didn’t mean to hurt him!” Two years ago my little Scruffy mate died. I was bereft. The neighbours brought the children to the vet, where Scruf and I were waiting, to say goodbye. All the way there he patted the back of his younger sister and said, “It’s alright, it’ll be okay. He knows we love him.” My boy dug a beautiful hole in the garden for our dog and we sung Scruffy into sleep, all crying. My son cried too. He understood and had grown in empathy.

We love to laugh. It’s one of my favourite occupations and I often play tricks on the children. My son loves it when the trick is on him. One time we were visiting friends in Port Macquarie and walked along the river esplanade. There was a large sign for the caravan park and on top was a matching set of pelicans. “Look!” I called to my son, “Check out the pelican statues! They move too!” He watched in amazement as the pelicans turned their heads at the same moment to look out to sea. Then one flapped it’s wings. I was doubled over from laughing. “Oh Mum! That was good, I really thought they were mechanical statues!” He often asks me to tell that story and has it on his list for his 21st.

There was the time I hired a Hyundai Getz as my Mitsubishi Lancer was having panels repaired. I opened the door to my son and as he hustled in out of the rain, I pointed to the little Getz and remarked “Look what all the rain has done. It shrunk the car!” He turned in astonishment, then grinned and shook his head, “Oh, Mum! That’s funny.” He’s always been a good sport about my tricks although other people can be critical. He is often reluctant to change the batteries for his cochlear implant, just because he can’t be bothered. When it is obvious to me that he hasn’t changed them, I talk intermittently as if sound is cutting out. He just rolls his eyes and gets the batteries out of his pocket. I’ve had other people take exception to this joke but if it works for us, it works.

Last year my boy’s mum died. She died of her alcoholism and it was so sad. The best Christmas had been two years previously when we had all been at my place and we have the loveliest photo of the mums and kids from that time. He spoke at her memorial service. He speaks really well. When I met him he spoke in a staccato monotone. She would have been so proud of him, he spoke beautifully. We all cried.

He’s eighteen now and getting his driving licence, finishing school and getting ready to head out into the world of work. We were fortunate to receive a bungalow from Kids Under Cover so he has his own little unit in the back yard. Feeling very grown up.

How does autism come into all this? You know what, it does and it doesn’t. Understanding the disorder gave me a place to teach and helped me understand how he learnt things. He finds it difficult to keep his opinions to himself and shares them volubly. He finds it difficult to understand others’ behaviours and is not very tolerant of differences (yes, that is ironic as he is the boy who walks through our small town talking to himself out loud and gesturing). He deals with depressive and anxious thoughts and has me to remind him how many people care for him and to count his blessings.

He also has a very big heart and cares passionately about many things. He cares passionately for us, his family and justice. He is almost ready to step out and find his place in the world. He is beginning to understand how I taught him by watching his little nephew who has autism and seeing the step by step process.

My son has autism. I couldn’t be more proud.