Worth bending over backward

Near the end of yoga class a couple Saturdays ago, our instructor told us we would do back bends. As the members of the class made their way into bridge or wheel pose, Janet encouraged us to picture someone who was worth bending over backward for. Grammar problems of that sentence aside, I knew instantly who that person was for me.

I love yoga for many reasons. The hour or two I spend practicing each week is the closest I come to quieting my noisy mind. Oftentimes, the experience is quite emotional for me, and once in a while I feel as if I'm about to cry. As I pushed up into my wheel, I felt weepy as I pictured Gus.

Two days before, Mark and I had sat down with Gus's teacher for his fall conference. "How do you think things are going?" his teacher asked.

Oh, God, this is a trap, I thought. Mrs. S. had been in touch about one negative incident, but in the three and a half weeks school had been in session, I hadn't heard much else. I knew things probably weren't fantastic, but I had been optimistic that they were going reasonably well.

"Pretty good, actually," I chirped hopefully, in the manner of one who is trying in vain to delude oneself. "Better than last year, anyway."

It turns out I couldn't have been more wrong. Despite my fervent wishful thinking, Gus had not magically matured into a model pupil.

Mrs. S., kind soul that she is, told us gently about the difficulties Gus faces on a daily basis. Acts of impulsivity mar most days. On any given day he may be found turning cartwheels in the middle of the room or invading the personal space of a classmate with some wrestling or a tickle fight. The kids think Gus is hilarious. Most of them know when to stop; Gus does not.

Gus is ahead of the curve academically. He's got letter recognition and sounds down cold. He can easily identify numbers into the hundreds, a task with which many first-graders still struggle.

On the downside, though, Gus has a lot of trouble functioning in a classroom. Small groups and one-on-one work are fine for him, but center time, a part of the day when children participate in self-directed learning stations, is a disaster. He can't handle the lack of structure. He's often disruptive to other kids and distracting for the teacher. Transition times, like walking in the halls, also don't go well. Gus may fail to pay attention and carelessly bump into someone, or he may simply choose to goof off.

I believe Gus's teacher when she says she loves him and enjoys him so much, and I see her concern for him is genuine. That is life with Gus. Mrs. S. told us of one incident in which she caught Gus rubbing soap on the walls in the bathroom. She knows Gus and his challenges but expressed worry that other adults may not and that he may get in genuine trouble down the road with some of the choices he makes.

I felt wrung out and depressed after the conversation. I spent a lot of time worrying and shed my share of tears of frustration and helplessness.

The truth is, though, I'm not helpless. I can allow myself to dwell for a bit in my self pity, but I can't set up permanent residence there. It won't help me, and it certainly won't help Gus.

We've talked to Gus's doctor and to a counselor who specializes in ADHD. Mark and I likely will have to make some treatment decisions we wish were avoidable but clearly are not. I've spent much of the last three years dealing in wishful thinking. It gets me nowhere. These choices are difficult, but it also feels empowering to know that we're taking steps toward helping Gus attain lasting happiness and success.

I remember my gymnastics days from when I was a kid. I always was good at back bends. Age may be robbing me of some of my flexibility, but I like to think I've still got it. That's a good thing because my sweet, smart, struggling boy is, without a doubt, worth bending over backward for.

Twelve. Twelve?!?!

Twelve years ago today I sat wondering if this would be the day my baby would finally arrive. Ben (or Lauren for all we knew) was already a week overdue. If this had been my second or third child, perhaps I would have relished a few extra days of peace, but since this was my first, I was beyond ready.

Go time wouldn't arrive until my waters broke in the wee hours of the next morning. After 12 hours of labor and two hours of pushing that left me wrecked, at long last I heard my destiny: "It's a boy!" Ben was laid upon my chest, and with clarity I can conjure to this day I recall the wonder I felt the first time I laid my hands upon his tiny body.

I was just 25 years old when Ben was born, a naïf. It wasn't exactly a whim, Mark and I wanting to start a family so young. We had solid reasons both personal and practical. Yet I distinctly remember thinking, how hard could it be?

One day when I was about six months pregnant with Ben, Mark and I were taking a walk and I expressed my fear about the physical pain of labor that awaited me. If only I'd known. Labor is painful, yes, but in the end it's the ultimate gratification. It was the forthcoming decades of fretting, worry and uncertainty that should've had me nervous.

We moms often like to ponder what was the hardest transition. One to two children, two to three? No and no. When Nos. 2 and 3 came along, I relished having the knowledge I'd earned after going through birth and raising a baby. No thanks, Ms. Lactation Consultant. I'm all set.

By far it was the hardest for me to go from no babies to one. What do I do with him? I puzzled once we brought Ben home. This is a question veteran moms never ask. Duh. You don't need to do much besides kick back and feed the baby, fall in love with him, rest when you can, read a book, watch some TV. In short, enjoy this brief time while it lasts.

Hearkening back to the how hard could it be question, I had no idea. I knew babies sometimes didn't sleep, but I did not nearly grasp the extent to which this could happen. As evidence, our first night home, I lovingly laid Ben in his bassinet and set the alarm for four hours later so I could wake up to feed him (I know I've probably told this story before, but I still cannot get over my naiveté). Not one minute later a waaaaah! rang out. It heralded months of interrupted sleep.

I somehow thought baby sleep could be dysfunctional but in an organized, contained sort of way. Surely a baby could not be needy all night long? I know some parents have babies who sleep like champs from the beginning. For this I loathe congratulate you. This was not the case for us. We were sleep-deprived for a good year.

Twelve years later, I can recall the physical and emotional toll sleep deprivation and first-time baby angst took. I'm here to tell you, once again, that I hadn't seen anything yet. These past years have brought both soaring highs and crushing lows.

I've watched Ben's evolve into his own person, one whose intellect, abilities and drive are awe-inspiring. Paul has become this passionate, creative, imaginative kid. He's all heart, and he's sensitive in ways both good and trying. Gus makes me laugh every day. I wish I had an ounce of his confidence. 

On the flip side, trying to negotiate a tween's moods, worrying about a middle son's frightening health episode, and facing a youngest son's school troubles are enough to make me long for those "simpler" days of babyhood.

In going through this life transition, these days I often find myself feeling wistful. I look at pregnant women and moms of babies and toddlers with real envy. Should we have had one more? I ask myself. (Not going to happen.)

When I think about it, though, we're really in a pretty sweet spot for reasons not the least of which is that everyone now sleeps through the night. Yes, I feel ambivalent about 12 (six more years someone recently said to me, to which I respond, shut your mouth!). The years really are passing staggeringly quickly, but these are good times.

The baby smell on my oldest has been replaced by body wash for men and deodorant at a good moment and tween boy funk at a bad. His body is growing ever longer and more muscular, and his face is no longer that of a little boy, but a young man. I was gobsmacked a few weeks ago to realize I had a son old enough to interview me about my memories of 9/11. 

I know even as they are happening before my eyes how fleeting these days are. I miss my babies, but I relish these moments watching my boys grow, building a foundation of who they will become. 

Happy birthday, sweet Ben, my first, my guinea pig, my teacher. These lyrics from one of my favorite children's songs feel appropriate today: "Evermore I will love you, evermore I will stay, ever right here to hold you, never so far away. And though I know sometimes you go to find your way alone, evermore I will love you. You are ever my own."