Speak up!


As a kid, I thought my mom the most embarrassing person hands down, second only to my dad and that’s because he would fart in public.

He would walk up a step, pause and shake his leg like something was going to fall out of his pant leg and out would come the loudest fart. My mom would turn around embarrassed and my sister and I would fall over in belly aching laughter. I swear sometime I think he wished we were boys. My dad was and still is one of the funniest people I know, but in a crude humor sort of way. No wondering where I get that from.

My mom was the embarrassing one, or so I thought at the time. She was the one that spoke up all the time and I would cringe and slump into that “trying to be a wallflower stance but can’t because my mother is telling you off” stance. And she would tell anyone off, politely. It could be the cashier who didn’t put the money in her hand and threw the change on the counter, the mechanic who tried to rip her off at the garage, or a teacher who said something in a way they shouldn’t have.

Back then I just thought she was a fly off at the handle kinda gal, but now I realize, my mom was our advocate. All parents become advocates at one time or another. You have to be an advocate when you need to, don’t want to and probably shouldn’t but for the sake of your kid, you put it all out there.

Advocating is saying all those things out loud, you often think in your head, with a filter, of course. It’s trying to keep your calm and trying even harder to stick to your guns, especially when people tell you “that’s not what they do here”, “he’s not eligible for that”, and “that’s just not possible. I think it is especially difficult to advocate for people that can’t tell you what is going on or how they feel, whether you are advocating for an adult or a child.

My crash course in advocating came this past fall when my father was in the hospital. I have never been a soft spoke or quiet person by any means, my husband will confirm, but advocating is a completely different ball game. It’s not as easy as yelling a couple abrasive words to the driver who won’t give you 20 seconds to cross the street, even though you are pushing a stroller, carrying one child and have another attached to your leg, holding on as you were the tree trunk of like. Advocating is completely different.

There is always a trigger that sets it off and on this day, my voice found it’s trigger. My dad has congestive heart failure, liver failure and kidney failure, we found out through his past almost two month stint in the hospital. Luckily it was in one of the best hospitals in the nation, where the doctors and nurses worked effortlessly to save his life. But before he was transferred there, it was not such a great situation. He had had an incident at home, got up in a state of mass confusion and dementia and hit his head on the night stand. My mother found him kneeling near the night stand, blood everywhere. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was unable to speak, couldn’t say his name, didn’t know where he was and was slurring his words. They claimed he had a stroke, but something wasn’t quite right.

Nothing added up.

Not that I also have an inner nurse voice, but I have a husband who is a “male nurse” and great at his job. When I went to see him the first day, he was out of it. They explained this was normal for a stroke victim. The second day, he was the same. I think he knew I was there because he moved his head in my direction when I spoke but for the most part, he didn’t open his eyes and my very talkative dad was completely silent. Something didn’t seem right.

When I went to talk to the doctor, whom my mom explained was “nice”, I found my trigger. When I asked what was going on with my dad, the doctor explained the belief is he had a stroke, there is no telling how long he could be like this, and (*trigger time*) she continued, “The only thing different that could be done was we could have given him a daily dose of aspirin”. Yes, here is my dad laying there helpless, completely out of it and this doctor was ready to give him ASPRIN.

As I walked away, I wasn’t even sure I heard that right. Even the nurses, standing a couple feet away, looked and silently about shrieked in horror. I was not about to let my dad, lay in a hospital where the doctor in charge thinks the only thing they could have done different was give him aspirin. To make a very long story short, a couple very demanding and persistent phone calls later, my dad was transferred to another hospital. He didn’t have a stroke after all, it was the toxins in his failing liver. Without the hospital we transferred him to, we would have lost my dad without a doubt. I not only learned how to navigate the system and the political, insurance and medical jargon that comes with it, I learned what it was like to speak up for someone that cannot speak up for themselves.

I learned to put in to action, all the things my parents had taught me over the years.  My parents used to tell my sister and I constantly, you can stand there and let injustice happen, whatever it may be, you must speak up. I guess they taught us well. I also learned to speak up quick when we learned our boys had Autism. It’s so easy for them to be misunderstood.

You’ve got the stares and comments. Trigger.

The School. Trigger.

The people that try to tell you what can’t be done, what won’t be done and how they think they know your sons better than you. Trigger. Trigger. Trigger.

Advocating and speaking up, never comes with a prize. It always comes with a price.

A price you have to be willing to pay for your children. It’s tiring. It’s hard and even though I know it has to be done, I’m always still hesitant when I do it, but I do it. I organize my thoughts, sometimes. Speak with conviction, I try to. But speak up, always. I may not always be right, but I will be the first to speak up about something that doesn’t feel right.

My mom had a mouth, opinions and she would used them both frequently.  My mom wanted her kids to know, when something isn’t right, SPEAK UP. She also wanted us to know, she had our backs.

And now, 39 years later, I get it, I finally get it.


What dreams may come


At one point, almost 4 years ago, I had another blog and wrote this post, which now, makes more sense, makes meaningful sense.

My husband’s sport to play, watch and breathe is baseball.

He played baseball throughout his school years and used to, during his not as chronically injured days, play on a Sunday Softball League. So when our then 5 year old was finally old enough to be signed up for t-ball, you could only imagine my husband’s excitement. And when it came time to hand out uniforms, it warmed my heart to hear him say, “I want to be number 5 like daddy”. Upon sensing “Steve’s” excitement to play, my husband enthusiastically signed up to volunteer, and who could imagine,not even himself, that he’d end up being the head coach.

He researched drills and coaching practices found on blogs ironically titled, Pray for Rain.

When “Steve”, being the youngest 5 year old on the team, took to the grass for his first practice, his age became apparent, swinging the bat like it was a lead weight and running after balls like it was a game of tackle football. And when he took to the field in his first game, what became apparent was his sense of humor and non interest in the sport. He burped and joked to the other kids on the bench. His zig-zag run to the bases became a dance of shuffling dirt. The outfield was his own personal sandbox. And his turn up at bat was more like he took stage and the spotlight was on him. While one of the coaches was giving him pointers and trying to get him to look at the ball, showing him the correct way to hold the bat, his head was turned in the other direction, yelling jokes to his teammates on the bench.

He loved every second of it. And isn’t that the point?

Where we look at sports as a way to nurture dreams, maybe the message is just that, let your kids be kids.

I swam my entire life from the age of 4 until I graduated college. Swimming was and is in my blood. I wanted to be an Olympian and break multiple world records. The walls of my room were adorned with pictures of Mary T, The Albatrosse, and pages I’d update with goal times above my bed, as if the success would come to me in my sleep. Even though I had a couple failed attempts at making the Olympics, I was successful. Swimming took me around the world, provided me with a great education to one of the best schools in the country and provided me with many experiences I carry with me today.

Swimming shaped me into whom I am, as a friend, a wife and a mother.

My dad always recounts my start in swimming, at the age of 5, the same age my son is now, walking down to the pool in the apartment complex so I could learn to swim from the life guard who had “taken me under her wing”.

30 years later,I still remember her face.

He also recounts with vivid description and expressions I’ll never forget, my first experience with earning ribbons and winning and losing. He says throughout my swimming career, especially early on, I was in the moment, enjoying life and enjoying swimming. And he’s right. I can’t recount a lot of the experiences I had in swimming, I remember making great friends, traveling to beautiful places and setting goals. I remember the successes and of course the let downs, but the emotion I get from remembering swimming is as clear as day.

I remember the feeling you get on a Saturday morning, when the air is just right, entering the cool water on the first warm up for a weekend meet.

I remember the smell of chlorine that often hung with me through out the day.

I remember what it felt like to achieve my goals, what it felt like to have dreams to chase and what it felt like to be involved. I lived and breathed swimming.

I never remember my parents pressuring me. Of course, when I realized swimming was something I wanted to do they encouraged me to stay committed and involved. But I never remember feeling like it was something I HAD to do, it was something I WANTED to do.

They nurtured MY dreams they didn’t create them for me. They didn’t base MY dreams off their own.

Maybe that’s the key.

When your 5 year old takes the field in a t-ball game, swim meet or soccer erase images of future Ryan Howards, Michael Phelps and David Beckhams from your head and remember that it is exactly that, your 5 year old taking the field in a t-ball game.

What’s baseball today, may be 7 card Poker tomorrow.

Watch your kids grow and develop.

Watch their interests change, their humorous side come out, introduce them to new things and let them become their own being.

Now at 8, almost 9 it is apparent that “Steve” may never be an athlete. He may not even like to participate in sports. He likes Lego club, building things, drawing things and creating things. And he excels at whatever he puts his mind to. If it weren’t for kids like “Steve” we wouldn’t have the Wolfgang Mozarts, Temple Grandins, or Andy Warhols of the world.

Find out what your child’s niche it and let them blossom into their own person.

And watch what dreams may come.