Back when I was in the deep trenches of motherhood, back to a time not so long ago when our three kids were under five, there were days when I never ever sat down on the (ugly) rust couch in our family room, unless it was to feed the baby, or to read a story to the “big” kids.  And to cuddle.  We always made time to cuddle on the couch.  Heck, there were days when I didn’t even read to my kids, many days in fact.  Horror of all horrors.  Greg and I breed kids that go-go-go.  They didn’t sit still for long.

The Twedtlings have turned into book lovers, each in their own time.  But for a while Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? was about all they could or would handle.

I’d like to stop right here and take time to share an actual photo from the days-of-old yet not-too-far-off.  My babies are too precious not to share.

I should share the almost identical photo from when the kids suddenly turned not-so-happy.  I’m all about keeping it real.

It’s clear that I have no point to make today.  Just the thrill that comes of stringing words together.  Words that snatch back memorable moments for this mother-turned-writer.

Actually, the urge to write started with the soft and calming scent of melon and cucumber.  I was greeted by this lovely fragrance the moment I walked into the living room from my bedroom.  Normally I don’t care for cucumbers.  And I’m not a fan of any descendant of the melon family.  Combined, however, I find their scent both calming and strangely invigorating.  It’s what beckons me to write this morning.

I must confess that the stimulating fragrance was actually Lauren’s Herbal Essence’s Cucumber Green Tea Dry Shampoo, not freshly sliced cucumbers, not melon.  I must be delusional about the melon.  After all, melons of all shapes and sizes are banned from our home, effective immediately.

By the way, the sweet fragrance of dry shampoo was one of the materials used in Lauren’s “art school” at the oak farm table in our dining room.  You don’t even want to know.

All of us, except early bird Steven, are in our jammies.  Come to think of it, six-year-old Lauren is also dressed.  But she doesn’t really count because she fell asleep last night in one of Emily’s Hanna Andersson castoffs, the one with the blue puffed sleeves and the stain down the front.  The stain happened three months ago at Grandma’s house when painting with acrylic seemed the perfect activity for cousin Brad’s graduation party.  Anyway, Lauren fell asleep in the blue dress in the van, on the way home from the Evergreen State Fair.  We woke the Tiniest Tiny long enough for her to empty her bladder and brush (and floss) her teeth because Aunt Claudia was a dental hygienist and I worry about such things, even when one falls asleep in the van on the way home from the state fair.

I think we earned this almost-last lazy day of summer, jammies and all.  We’re soaking up our final moments of freedom before the grind of a new school year.

This is an odd place for me to find myself.  You see, fall usually shares a spot with spring in a two-way tie for Favorite Season of the Year, followed by summer.  I totally get Kathleen Kelly and her bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils.  I was a school teacher, remember.  Every season has its splendor, but winter will always be my fourth favorite, or third if you consider the first place tie between spring and fall.

This year is different.  I’m rethinking my seasonal ranking system.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful Steven got the teacher I hoped he’d get, the teacher he wanted.  But the back to school struggle is real, no matter the teacher.  And it’s a great struggle, thanks to anxiety.

You see, it takes a bit of time for my guy to adjust.  That’s a big, fat lie if I ever did hear one.  It takes a loooong time for him to adjust, along with plenty of blood, sweat and tears and more than a few meltdowns.

I suppose if I were a different type of online writer (ah-hem, blogger), I would offer you bullet-pointed suggestions on How To Begin A New School Year Without Struggle And With Style.  But it would be a lie.  All of it.  And not just because I lack a sense of style.  I haven’t discovered the magical back-to-school checkpoints that promise to change life as we know it.  I’d follow them if such a list existed.  Yet out-of-the-box kids seldom comply.

What little I know is this: It works well to lay Steven’s clothes out the night before and pack lunches the night before.

It’s been a game changer to let Steven wake to his LEGO Ninjago alarm clock instead of his mama’s exasperated pleas to get out of bed and get out of bed already.

Oh, and everything depends on Steven getting to bed at an early bedtime, like 7:30 at the latest.  

Beyond this, I’ve got nothing.

Heading back to school will take nothing short of a miracle, a.k.a. our family putting in the hard work of adjusting to a new season, a new school year with plenty of meltdowns thrown in for good measure. Then ta-da, sometime around Thanksgiving, maybe even Halloween if we’re lucky, we’ll settle into our new routine, our new normal, which will be promptly thrown out the window in time for winter break, starting over again in January and again at Daylight Saving until school ends for summer vacation.

I don’t mean to be such a downer, really I don’t.  I’m an optimist, an idealist.  The glass is always, and I mean always, half-full.  Except when it isn’t.  I’m always looking ahead (while glancing behind, of course).

Which is why my former tied-for-first-favorite season is now firmly planted in fourth place.  I just want to be real with y’all.  I’m not southern, but Houston and southeast Texas is on my mind these days.  I’m sure you know why.

Yet admitting that I worry means lack of faith to some.

But I’m a woman of faith.  

Dwelling in fear isn’t a good place for anyone. However, I’m learning what a warped yet wonderful luxury it is to dip my toes just a little bit in worry.  Long enough to name my worries by writing about them.  Once I know what I’m dealing with (because I often don’t even know why I’m anxious or feeling tense), I’m able to give these worries back to the one, the only one, who can handle them.

I dived into Dr. Elaine N. Aron’s The Highly Sensitive Child a few months ago.  I never finished because, well, summer.  I also bought Helping Your Anxious Child, or something like that.  It’s waiting patiently for me in the new white bookcase.  Perhaps I should give it a peek before school starts.  It came as a recommendation from the Autism Center.  This was right after we found out that unspecified anxiety disorder, not autism, is Steven’s nemesis.

By the way, the bit about anxiety was an even greater ah-ha moment than when I first began to wonder if Steven was a child with high-functioning autism.  You can read about it here.  I guess the second greatest ah-ha moment has to do with me.

I’m discovering that I’m not just highly-sensitive.  Oh, no. I struggle with anxiety like my son.  Apart from salvation, this has been the single greatest ah-ha moment of my thirty-nine-year existence.

Are you a parent of an outside-the-box child?  Do you have a child with special needs?  Speaking of special needs, when I use this term I’m not just talking about special needs that are clear to the rest of the world.  I’m including special needs that are internal, unique and often hidden from all but the trained eye.

I’d love for you to throw me your Back to School Tips for kids like Steven (and for me).  Really, I’d love to hear them.  And I’d covet prayers if you’re willing to throw them our way.

I don’t mean to tie up this little blog post/mini-essay/online-plea-for-help with a pretty bow.  Life is seldom like that.  But God just got my attention, which isn’t difficult when you’re an adult with ADHD and your mind is all over the place.  ADHD is a gift.  I see God everywhere.

You see, a short time ago I pre-ordered Gracelaced: Discovering Timeless Truths Through Seasons of the Heart by Ruth Chou Simons.  My friend Lindsey was on Ruth’s book launch team, and Lindsey’s recommendations are gold.  Anyway, the package with the book arrived this afternoon, the last Friday before the start of the school year, the day of the cucumber and faux-melon call to write.

I open Ruth’s book, randomly flipping through pages.  Her book is part devotional, part coffee table book, which is the last thing I need.  I still have Thomas Kincaid coffee table books from the late 90s.  Feelings of disgust flood my heart as I flip through my latest purchase.  Not at Ruth or her book, but at myself for failing in the self-control department.  Lindsey’s recommendation aside, I could’ve and should’ve reserved it from the library. Some women have a shoe fetish.  I buy books.  I just can’t help myself.

But then I came upon a page in Ruth’s book that changed everything.  I’ll describe what I found since posting an image of it here would most likely cause an uproar with the folks in Harvest House Publishers’ copyright department.  I’m a rule follower through and through.

A close-up appears of a water color image of three eggs, robin-egg blue in a nest (because, duh, they’re robin eggs).  On the opposite page Isaiah 43:1 is revealed in fancy pants teal lettering: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.”

Fear not.

(It always comes back to fear and anxiety, at least for Steven and me.)

Steven is Mine.  I have called him by name.

I tend not to capitalize words such as yours, him, his, he and mine.  You know, pronouns.  I mean no disrespect, really I don’t.  It just doesn’t feel right, and the English major in me just can’t take it.  It makes me cringe every time.  By the way, I always capitalize God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit as one should.

But truth remains.  Steven is Yours no matter how I write it.  You have redeemed him, you know him.  And You are his.

I know in my heart that the coming months of the new school year will most likely be difficult, but maybe not.  My prayer and declaration over my soon-to-be third-grader and his sisters is that God goes before and after them.

I don’t have the answers.  And God doesn’t promise it will be an easy adjustment.  But He (yes He with at capital H) is there all the same.  I praise Him for it.

I spend a lot of time and energy writing at this little spot on the web about faith and heartbreak and how through God and God alone (and maybe writing), I’m learning to be brave when life is hard.  Maybe you picked up on it, maybe not.  With everything I write, he’s reminding me that with his help (there I go using lower-case h), he is holding onto my son, teaching Steven the very lessons dearest to my soul: He is here.  He is not far off from the brokenhearted (and those struggling with anxiety).  And because he is here, Steven (and the rest of us) really can practice being brave when life is hard, even at the start of a new school year.  Amen and Amen.

Here’s links to the books I mentioned above.  They are Just Because links, or Courtesy Links, to make your life easier.  You won’t find affiliate links here. Maybe someday, but it doesn’t feel right for now.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?

The Highly Sensitive Child: helping our children thrive when the world overwhelms them

Helping Your Anxious Child, a step-by-step guide for parents

Gracelaced: discovering timeless truths through seasons of the heart

P.S. Since it’s launch day I’m sure Ruth’s pre-order bonuses have come and gone (if she had any).  Might I suggest the following instead, directly from Lauren?

Are you the Tiniest Tiny of your home?  Do you really just need one moment of silence to block out bossy big brother and/or big sister so you can eat in peace?  Well then you, too, can turn your cardboard Amazon package into an Instant Escape Mechanism, luncheon model, patent pending.

I should put in a request with Lauren.  I could use the mommy-version (coming soon!).  Except in a few days time the Twedtlings will be at school once again.  The silence will be deafening.  Sigh.  At least I’ll be able to snatch up glorious and uninterrupted writing hours.  First things first, I must search for the perfect cucumber-melon scented candle for my writing desk.