First Few Weeks

 “Andie!” You are asking yourself. “How is the new job going?!” 

Or so I imagine, that you are beside yourself with curiosity. Thank you! I am flattered by your interest, and I will tell you. 

(Pictured: Me as Fear from "Inside Out", with a portrait a student drew of me)

I have been going full days since August 2nd. The first four days were New Teacher Orientation, first two days new to the district, last two were new to the profession. I got to hang out with our awesome new Cooper librarian the first two days, as well as my counterpart from Abilene High. This bubbly, outgoing person that took a Spanish 1 position at Cooper sat beside me and decided we were going to be friends; I love people like that, as I would have sat quietly and alone all week if no one took an interest in me. It was a literal wagon-load of information that I am still sifting through to find pieces that are relevant to me, but they have lots of people there that are happy to help you figure it out and answer questions so I am not super worried about it. 

In-service stuff started on the 9th, which was all on campus, which gave me a chance to get to know my team better. I am not going to talk about them too much as I do not want to violate their privacy without permission, but I can tell you: they have immediately endeared themselves to me, and I love them all to absolute bits. 

There is a pretty big sp-ed department here; I don’t know the chair that well yet, but there is time. I had met a great deal of them through my time subbing, particularly the coaches from the other side of campus. There is one that I covered for whenever she was out at a game, and her calm and confidence and experience has helped me build a lot of my practice for my own classroom. Sometimes I just seek her out to chat because she is has a revitalizing presence; she makes you feel like you can achieve anything. Which is probably what makes her such a good teacher and coach. 

But my room is far away, with a cluster of three teachers and a handful of paraprofessionals and a nurse that share a bucket of kids that rotate between us for the day. One of the teachers is kind and friendly, and has gone out of her way to make me feel welcome. Both her aides are sweet as peaches--one I swear the sunshine comes out just to shine on her, she is so smiley and cheery. She always wears these bright colors because she says they make her happy. The other is quieter but so good with the kids and so patient. I remember one kid was having a problem; she specifically asked to talk to that aide because she said “I know she won’t make fun of me or judge me”; that level of trust can be hard to earn with high schoolers. 

The other teacher is my mentor, and we call her the mama because she is the one that takes care us. I try not to, but I call her about a hundred times a day, going “okay, so -this- just happened; what am I supposed to do?!” She also has a son that has been through the program, so her and I can share stories about our kids and the other gets it. Oh, how I need that. She is so funny and fierce and competent and I have learned a lot from her. There is only one aide in her classroom, who is one of the best people I have ever met. She’s got the biggest heart and loves these kids like each one is her baby; she is witty and bright and generally makes life better for everyone around her. 

Which brings me to my classroom. I’ve got two aides and they’re -phenomenal-. We have got straight-up the dream team. First aide I told you a bit about: he is the only man on our team out there, and he is awesome. He keeps us laughing, even on the hard days, and can handle anything that comes his way with grace. The other aide is the active cutest; she loves k-pop and penguins and relates to Sadness from “Inside Out” (who we dressed up for on team dress-up day; I was Fear). I love the way she lights up when she talks about something she’s passionate about, and she is probably the most quotable person; we already made a t-shirt design based on something she said. (I will post it if we get it made) She is also going to college to become a special education teacher, and she is going to be amazing at it--she has a calming presence that radiates out from her that will serve her well, no matter what she decides to do. 

But what of the kids!? You say. 

I love them all already. 

Of course I do. I am the softest touch, you know, for a calloused old harpy. I can’t help it. They’re so good. Even if they can be crazy and chaotic sometimes, because they are children and that is how children are meant to be. Somehow you gotta be the quiet calm in the midst of all of it. 

A good chunk of them I already knew from last year, but of course we have some that transfer in or move or are baby freshman. 

Memorable moments from these past few weeks would be…

I was trying to explain that we would have lots of people coming in to observe me over the course of the year because it was my first year teaching. Somehow this led to the students asking how old I was. 

Student: In your 20’s! 

Different student: No, she’s in her 80’s! 

Me: So your guess is that I am somewhere between my 20s and my 80s? -considering- Well, yes. You are correct. 

We are having a lot of students who are making an attempt at flirting with me and the female aide. One day I had Mike bring up chick-fil-a, and I was drinking my lemonade. 

Student: did you get chick-fil-a for lunch?

Me: yeah, my husband brought it up for me. 

Student: WHAT?! You’re married?! This ruins all of my plans! 

Me: …-pointing to the picture of me and Mike prominently displayed by my desk- I wasn’t keeping it a secret.

The same student told me the next day that if your husband sighs at you, that means he doesn’t really love you so you should divorce him. I told Michael this, who promptly sighed heavily. 

The lovelorn nature of high schoolers is a prominent theme, and watching the drama between them has been at times entertaining and others exasperating. One student in particular has just too much love in his heart to give. 

Student: can I please go say goodbye to Kimberly? I love her so much, I miss her. 

Me: I am gonna go with a no there, babe. 

Student, forlorn: why? 

Me: Because you can’t care about her that much if you don’t know her name; there is no Kimberly in this program. 

(Do not feel too badly for the poor fellow; a short while later, Emerald came to my classroom to get a ride home for the day, and he immediately said “hey, can you tell your daughter I said hi? Please? Please?” My response was, “you are barkin' up the wrong tree there, champ”.)

Most days have been good so far, and the kids are good little ones. There have of course been missteps. I had a student flood the bathroom. I figured this was a failure on my part to communicate expectations, so we covered shared bathroom etiquette. When he did it again, we reminded him of expectations and had him help clean it up. There hasn’t been an incidence since. There is the eternal struggle of Teacher versus Cell Phone Usage, but with a verbal reminder most kids put it away and it doesn’t become an issue. Most things have remained calm and under control. 

The kids struggle mightily with my name. I have been called Ms. Wiggins, Ms. (other teacher’s name), Ms. Why, Ms Murdoch, Ms. Weirdo, and Ms. Wilson. Most of them call me simply “Miss”, and are then surprised when I don’t recognize that they are trying to get my attention. 

My biggest struggles are: 

-exhaustion. The first week, I fell asleep during dinner, right on my plate. You don’t really feel it during the day, but then you get home and you’re fully conked out. It has gotten a little better each week as I adjust, but it has been a big adjustment.

-Not getting distracted. It is so easy to get me off topic, especially if these kids start telling me stories. And they love to tell stories. There is this one kid, tells the most fantastical stories. With his imagination, he should write. Or I may write them down for him. Either way, I need to stop letting me get detracted from my lesson plans. But I keep telling myself, “what harm can it do? We have time to finish this. But I won’t get to hear their stories forever.” Which is partially true; we always do finish, and I won’t always have a chance. But it also teaches them that they can pull my focus if they ever don’t wanna do something, and that is not something I should be encouraging, probably. I saw this “open/closed” sign strategy one teacher used where if the sign is on “open”, the students can feel free to tell her whatever stories or non-sequiturs they want, but when it is on “closed” they have to stay on topic. I may try that. 

-emails. Oh my, but there are emails. There are emails about the emails, if you didn’t respond to the emails. There are emails for you and emails not for you but that you are on and emails that you must send so you have documented proof of the emails in your email. There are more emails than one can read in a day. It is like that pot of oatmeal where you forgot the magic word to make it stop, and now your whole inbox is full to overflowing and you’re trying every word to stem the tide, but it just keeps pouring. All the electronic communique, comin your way.

-attendance. Roughly seven times a day, you’ll hear a student ask “did you remember to take attendance?” and me saying “crumbs! Hold up…”. I am, slowly but surely, getting better at that one. I may make a sign that says “did you remember to take attendance” and post it on all four walls where I can see it no matter where I look. 

Today, I have covid. Though I am feeling worlds better than I was two days ago when it first struck, I still feel a tired deep in my bones. So I am going to go eat grilled cheese and take a chunky nap. Best to all of you, and I will talk to you soon (next time about my many and assorted children)--

--Andie

Time to Announce

 I figured: hey, it is worth a shot. 

I was getting my bachelors in education anyway. I needed a job, or at least an excuse to get out of the house and see people. Who knows? Maybe I will end up liking it. 

So last November, I started substitute teaching in AISD. My only rules were: I don't work Wednesdays, because that is when Amber and I do school work; and I only sub special education. I can't see myself in a gen ed classroom; it is not where my strengths or passion lie. 

Pretty confident I knew how this was going to play out. I had been a paraprofessional (aide) in a preschool class, so I figured I would end up with the littles. I was adamant: nobody taller than I am. But for subbing purposes, I wanted to visit a variety of campuses and programs, so I could get a better understanding of what I was looking for and what it would be like to teach. 

The first job I took was as an aide in an elementary SAP (special education behaviors) class. I would have loved it for the teacher alone--she saw that I was nervous, but she was so very kind and helpful. But the kids were so great, too. One colored me a picture of a wolf that I still have in my keepsakes (that keepsakes pile I accumulated during substitute teaching is getting quite out of hand). 

There were good days and bad days. Almost exclusively good days. I learned a lot. Like: always carry a book. The day that taught me that particular lesson, I ended up reading quite a bit of an unattended biology textbook. I learned how to handle behaviors, how to manage classrooms. Some I did better in than others. There were a couple of days that I was reassigned by well-intentioned staff into general education classrooms, which reaffirmed my very strong instinct that it was not the program for me.

One day, I saw there was an para/aide position open over at Cooper High School. This was fairly early in my new job, so I was more inclined to take para positions, even if they paid less, so that I could learn and observe from the teachers that were present. This was a self-contained PALs/ADAPT group. 

I just fell in love with it. 

The teacher was exceptional--I was shy at first and kind of quiet, but after a while I got to talking to her and the other aide in the class, and got to know them better. It was a Fun Friday, so there wasn't a ton for me to do, but I tried to find ways to make myself useful and helpful. We gave the kids a spelling test. Mostly, I listened to the kids and walked with them; we went to bell choir and I got to hear them practice for the Christmas concert. I still have notes in my sub journal from that first day; the students were very complimentary and so very sweet, and I bonded with them quickly. 

Spring semester, I made sure I was at Cooper as much as possible. I knew the Life Skills teacher for the special education program was retiring at the end of the semester. She got to work with those awesome kids, and she gets to teach some of the coolest stuff, including the jobs program and real-world applicable skills. She worked in a team that was strong, with two other teachers sharing the same students in a rotation, and a total of six paraprofessionals (two per class). One of the paras for the Life Skills class was retiring as well; she had worked with the district for decades and is one of the finest educators I have ever worked with. The other had worked near Stacia over at Craig the year before; right away, this guy and I figured out we could work together. He is calm and competent and excellent with the kids, and he's got a good energy I can vibe with. The whole hierarchy from administrators down was a system I felt I could fit into. 

So when that Life Skills teacher put in her retirement notification, I went to the principal and made it known that I was interested in the job.

I was not without complications. Though I had graduated, my degree was -checks diploma- a Bachelors of Arts in Educational Studies, Special Education and Elementary Education. I had planned on going through the licensure route, but I got through my undergrad classes more quickly than I had anticipated I would so I decided to forestall it and get my Masters. That is how I am currently enrolled; Masters of Special Education, which will license me...in 48 states. 

But not Texas.

Why not Texas? Because we are a finicky fellow who likes things just so, which means that we have our own tests and programs we would like you to get through, thank you very much. 

My options were: 

1) Forget about the job; get licensed through my Masters program, which would have me available for the 2023-2024 year. I could apply for reciprocity, but I would still have to take Texas special education test (as far as I am aware). Try then, if the job was still available.

2) Apply for an alternative certification program. 

The second one stuck in my craw just a bit, because it was a lot of money. Money after I had paid for college, taking relevant classes to this degree, and after I had paid for my Masters program which is also in the relevant career area. Money that did not include the additional fees I would have to pay, hundreds of dollars, to take the certification tests that the program was preparing me for. 

Finally, I weighed it: 

How much did I want this job?

There is currently a sign-on bonus for special education teachers through the district that would off-set the cost of the alternative certification program. It would be a lot of work. If all went according to plan, I would be teaching full-time (my first full-time job in many years), while getting my degree, and while completing this additional program, which is not insubstantial. 

But it meant enough to me to try. 

The principal said she would be happy to hire me if I got to the internship license state, which is where I am currently enrolled in an alt cert program and have passed the special education exam. 

Thus decided, I went to Region 14 and tried every angle to shave even a few dollars off the price. When that didn't pan out, I grumblingly paid for it, enrolled, took the practice sped test to prove test readiness, and registered to take sped exam.

I passed that with a 93%. 

First thing I did was contact Cooper and tell them that I was good to hire. But could not for the life of me get a hold of *any one*. Everyone was out at a training, it was summer. I tried to not fret about it, but I kept hearing others that had applied near the same time as me signing contracts and hearing about their placements. I learned that they had hired the other para for the life skills class; a more perfect candidate I couldn't have chosen. She is also a WGU student, going through the same program I just went through. We worked together last year while I subbed because she was a learning loss aide and her mom is a para out in one of the other classes; she is getting relevant experience so she can become a special education teacher too. 

Everything was perfect, but...I wasn't a part of it. 

Finally, getting frustrated and worried I wasn't going to get placed, I started accepting interviews at other campuses. I knew that I was only going to work one of three places: life skills, SAP, or DAEP. So when I got two interviews with SAP program right away, I was hopeful. That meant I had good options. 

My first interview was with Austin Elementary; my friend Christina was the assistant principal out there and I loved the campus and the program. The interview was with a principal that made me excited about the program: his energy and enthusiasm were contagious. The person overseeing the SAP programs was someone I had worked with as a sub, and she is so very good at her job and such a neat person that I knew I would have good support out there.

The second interview was over at Gabriel's old elementary campus; the assistant principal over the SAP program was a great selling point, because she is exactly what you want and need in an administrator overseeing a class like that. I had worked many days in the class and knew and liked the kids a whole lot; they were even the size that I had originally wanted, anklebiters the lot of of them. 

Absolutely hands down the best part of working in either SAP program would be the LSSP. This person has worked with Gabriel since he was over at Bonham, and genuinely respects and seems to like Gabe. That won me over, and I have been a huge fan ever since. When I got the privilege of working with him during a sub job, I like him even more--he's just a really cool guy. And I sincerely hope to see his rock collection some day, I am just trying to figure out a casual way to see pictures. I heard there were crystal skulls.

Both principals offered me jobs on the spot, to which I was incredibly grateful and flattered, and asked for a little time to consider. 

I called Cooper one last time to tell them I had other jobs pending, and to let them know that if they still wanted me, I was still interested in the life skills position. 

The principal lit up when she heard from me and said she was about to call me; apparently, there had been someone from downtown that was contending for the job, but they had just withdrew their request; if I wanted it, the job was mine. 

I sat and talked about it with my loved ones, and prayed about it a lot. It was a hard decision, and I feel so blessed to have had so many viable, quality offers. 

But in the end, I had to go with my gut: 

I knew I wanted to be at Cooper. 

There isn't always a reason I can articulate for why I am drawn to certain things; I usually don't question it. If it feels right, if I know inside that it is right, then I lean into it. Knowing myself and trusting in my own perceptions is something I rely heavily on. So I called the other principals and politely declined their offers, thanking them profusely for the faith they showed in me. Then I called and set up a time to meet with the administrator over at Cooper.

Today, I officially signed the paperwork: for the 2022-2023 school year, I am the Special Education ADAPT Life Skills teacher at Cooper High School.

Go Cougars! 

Unacceptable

 I remember so clearly the first time it happened. 

Fair warning: this post will focus heavily on menstruation, so if you are squeamish you might want to go on now. No shame in it; our society is very clear on the idea that this is not a subject we are to be open about. It may get graphic at times. But if in telling my story, I can prevent even one menstruating individual from going through this or feeling alone in it? Then overshare I will. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  

Back to it then. It was after I had Emerald. May have been about five months after the birth, early spring. I woke up in so much pain I couldn’t stand, couldn’t get out of bed. I called Michael at work, who sent my father-in-law Ken to watch Emerald while he took me to the campus doctor. At the time, I was still a student at Lubbock Christian. Michael had to partially carry me up to the second floor clinic; once in there, I sat on the floor and vomited into the trashcan in the room because the pain was so intense. 

The doctor did an exam and sent me to have an ultrasound at a place the school had a discount deal situation worked out with. Even so, we had to pay $300 that day out of pocket before they would see me. This amount of money would have been nearly an entire paycheck that Michael received from the school as a computer teacher, and half of our monthly income. But it was the only way we could be seen, and I had no insurance. 

That afternoon the clinic doctor called me and told me there were follicles on my ovary, indicating that I was going to start my period soon. He said that as though it was an answer. 

He then recommended I try some ibuprofen. 

And hung up. 

Since my period had started when I was 13 years old, in eighth grade and the very last time I ever wore jean overall shorts, it had been two things: very light, and very predictable. Two and a half days, mild symptoms, every 28 days like clockwork. Looking at Amber who was so different and basically incapacitated by hers, I felt lucky--I figured it was due to the same hormones that gave her curves and left me a two-by-four. It wasn’t something I really talked to my mom about; I think I would have rather curled up and died than hear her discuss it. Nurse Haney gave us The Talk in fifth grade and I lived in fear of it ever after until it occurred, then it was mundane but still humiliating. 

It was completely unobtrusive and inoffensive, until I had my first c-section. And then it was a nightmare. Bleeding so heavy that I would leak out on people’s furniture; I had to sit at home because I had to be very close to a bathroom at all times. A plethora of unexpected and intolerable symptoms for half the month or more. And the pain…oh, the pain took me out of the fight. 

This absolutely unacceptable situation persisted irregularly over the course of the last fifteen years. 

Not long after that disaster day at the doctor, I got pregnant with Gabriel so was thus granted a reprieve from the painful periods. The easiest of all four pregnancies physically, I actually appreciated the break. Maybe the pregnancy and birth of Emerald messed things up in there and a second baby would set me back on my normal track. 

It did not. The bleeding became uncontrollably heavy. I remember Michael dropping me off at Walmart to get groceries; he hadn’t even made it back to the house when I was calling him to come back and get me--an unexpected gushing start had left me standing in a puddle of my own blood in the bathroom. 

The problems were varied. Sometimes I would start and go for weeks and weeks until I had to go to urgent care and get examined for a miscarriage; when they realized it was anovulation, they would give me a huge hormonal shot that force stopped the period; the shot made me violently ill, so I would lay in the backyard vomiting and crawing away from it all day until Michael would come carry me in for bed that night.

Other times I would pass clots so big it physically hurt moving through me. Each time I would count back to my last period and wonder if this was a failed pregnancy, but it was so sporadic and unpredictable that I had no idea. There was no rhyme or reason, nothing that I could pinpoint or track. I’d have to go to my obgyn and they would scan me for free because I was this sad, broken poor woman they felt for, I guess. They would never give me a name for this misery, never indicate that this was even potentially out of the ordinary. They would reassure me that it was “normal” and suggest the two standard options: either go on birth control, or get pregnant. The only other thing to be done was management; had I tried a hot water bottle, or perhaps an ibuprofen?

So I tried all the birth controls. Pills that gave me blinding migraines and with which I threw up every day. Implants that caused volatile mood swings, depression, and significant weight gain. They said I was a poor candidate for the IUD, as I had never gone into labor and was “so thin”--they said it would be very painful to put in and I would likely feel it constantly. (Somehow my thinner sister-in-law could manage it, but maybe that’s because she didn’t have c-sections like I did). 

After Ben, we tried the Nuva Ring. The office would give it to me free once a month, I just had to go and pick it up. They were insistent after the last birth that I not get pregnant again for quite some time, maybe ever, as my uterus had torn open like wet tissue paper when they tried to deliver the infant. So I went and got the rings and used those, 27 days in, three days out for period, put a new one in. 

This gave me some sense of predictability, but the pain increased. It was particularly bad about halfway through the month. I mentioned this to the doctor, who did a scan and found that I was having cysts in my ovaries, alternating sides based on ovulation. One had grown rather large; he thought it would need to be removed through surgery, but he wanted to give it one month on a progestin only birth control pill to see if we could diminish it. 

Over the course of the month, the pain transformed from acute to a deep chronic variety. It was, to this day, the worst pain I can recall enduring (and that’s including the c-sections I wouldn’t take pain pills for after). I became so weak, I remember struggling to lift a folding chair. The fatigue was debilitating, and I spent most days on the floor letting the kids play around me. 

The scan when I went back in revealed that the cyst had indeed gone away, to be replaced by a large mass blocking the entry of my cervix and holding it open. This visit was an interlude while Emerald was in the hospital with DKA; they scheduled me the next morning for a d&c to remove the mass and get me back on my feet, but the doctor said it was likely a stop gap until I could get a hysterectomy. 

My mom drove me the next morning. I remember waking up after and being sore, but feeling so…empty, in the most beautiful way. It was remarkable how much better I felt so quickly. The doctor told mom he had removed as much material as he would have in a miscarriage. 

During this whole time, no one mentioned a diagnosis. They just acted like this was just how things sometimes went. 

After that, we moved to Abilene and on a whim I tried the whole vegetarian thing. I wanted to see if it would help my migraines; not only did my chronic migraine condition go away, but my period problems became more and more manageable. I stopped having (among other things) painful urination and sore bladder, debilitating cramps, nausea and vomiting, lower back pain, and diarrhea. The first day of my period was still so heavy that I had to plan on sitting for most of it, taking that recommended ibuprofen to stem the tide every four hours, but it got back into that predictable routine without hormonal birth control interventions. It felt like I was improving. 

There isn’t always a rhyme or reason for what I do, except that I trust my instincts. When I started turning away from alcohol consumption, I figured it was maturing and became a very light social drinker at best (on most occasions; there were still some choices made in Tulsa). Cutting the caffeine helped with the restless leg, so I didn’t even feel bad about that one leaving. Doing yoga and running felt good so I picked up the hobby.

I had no idea that I was subconsciously treating myself for a condition they had only just named: endometriosis. 

The rates of this condition are higher after c-sections, though no one had ever broached the topic as a possibility. I was dismissed, treated as though I was exaggerating or dramatic. That this was all perfectly normal, acceptable period symptoms that millions of uterus-bearers endure each month all around the world and throughout time. 

So why was I struggling so much with it?

The lifestyle changes gave me relief, but they weren’t a cure. The issue was still there, and it had been getting progressively worse over time. When I was subbing, I knew I couldn’t work the days around the first day because sciatic pain would get so bad I had trouble standing and walking, even with dedicated stretches.  The nausea was back with significant food aversions; I was barely eating. My hips ached so much that my runs slowed down into walks until it became just waddles around the neighborhood with my elderly dog. 

The last few months, it’s been to the point of distraction. For two weeks before, my hips had me curled in on myself. It hurt to pee, and I had bowel issues. I knew that first day would be hell but if I could get through it, I’d feel better. It felt like someone had kicked me right between the legs, and I was sore all the time.

I told you it would be overshare. But there is a reason for that. So that I can tell you if no one else has:

It’s not supposed to be like that. 

It’s unacceptable. And you shouldn’t have to accept it. 

I sure as hell will not accept it any more.

A couple weeks ago, I called my obgyn and said I needed to be seen as soon as possible. They got me in later that week, and I had a frank discussion with the nurse practitioner. I told her I wouldn’t live like this. She talked over treatment options, and we got a game plan in place: we were going to run tests, including an endometrial biopsy, blood work, Pap smear, and an ultrasound so we can gather the information needed to make the best possible treatment plan. Surgery is highest on the list, either to remove the adhesions and foreign tissue (which runs the risk of forming more adhesions) or performing a hysterectomy and oophorectomy. This will permanently solve the issue. Less permanent solutions are birth control and hormonal therapies, but my faith in those are very low. I’m tired of feeling this way, of having this condition control my life.

The biopsy I was nervous about. They said it could be very painful and traumatic. It is not performed under anesthesia or with pain management; I was once again suggested ibuprofen. Apparently it has been a wonder drug in front of us the whole time. They also prescribed me two Xanax so hopefully it would ease my anxieties and I wouldn’t remember the procedure. 

I had it done this morning.

Amber drove me there and back; it only took about 15 minutes, but I’ve been sore and sleeping off the meds all day. It was sent to a specialty pathologist in the metroplex for analysis, so I should get the results within the week. I will let you know what next steps are. 

Until then, I will continue to be hopeful.

—Andie 

(As a moment of levity, here is what Amber said I was like on Xanax:

Shame in Struggles

I recently read Brene Brown’s “The Gifts of Imperfection”. It was my first by her, and an unusual reading selection from me, but I decided to branch outside of my comfort zone because if Coach Lasso suggests an author, she just might be worth looking into. A lot of it didn’t resonate, as I tend to keep such books at a distance for fear of accidentally engaging in some self-reflection, but there was one theme that hit a little uncomfortably close to the mark. 

She talked about shame. How shame is one of the great motivators in our lives.

For the most part, I think of myself as fairly shameless. Having Emerald as a toddler helped me develop thick skin;  their outbursts were as public as they were overblown. Either way, when I discovered the other day I had been walking around in shorts that were completely see through for the better part of an afternoon (thanks Amber & Mike), my reaction was “well, I hope they enjoyed the show”. Events that formerly would have sent me into a desperate shame-cycle now barely register because I am both too tired and too inured to humiliation to waste energy being upset about it. 

It could also be that what causes me shame has changed as I have gotten older.

Amber made me do the enneagram a while back; I don’t know how much stock I put in it, but I will say it hit my fear on the head: being perceived as incapable or incompetent. (Five, if you are wondering, with a strong wing toward 7 in stress. Go figure.) No one likes being viewed in such  a way, but it is my greatest insecurity and the one I put the most time and effort into combating. This is what I try and hide, those breadcrumbs that reveal that I may not be good enough, may not know enough on my own to…to what? Make it? To be a useful, productive member of society? What is the great fear there, in seeking the help and counsel of others? 

For those of the Christian persuasion, there is the two-hit combo response: God won’t give you anything you cannot handle (or at least tempted beyond what you can endure, 1 Corinthians 10:13; our creative interpretation of that one gets a little stretched sometimes) or if He brings you to it, He’ll bring you through it (not sure on the origin of that one except our love of pithy little sayings). I know that we are social creatures, that we are designed to live and function within a society, so that no one of us need be enough to endure the painful reality unaided. Intellectually I understand this, but for someone that is as fiercely self-reliant as I am, it has been so difficult to reveal the depths of my inadequacies and ask for help or advice or even just someone to listen and commiserate with me. 

Ms. Brown didn’t just name the problem, though--she offered a solution. Shame dies in the light. It can’t thrive when brought out in the open where we are forced to confront it, realizing that the ugly little voice inside that is terrified of people finding out is wrong: most people care, and want to help. Nobody is judging you. Well, no one worth listening to, anyway. Some people just suck.

So here I unburden myself because I don’t want to carry it anymore. I do have a request of you, though, if you do not mind:

Hear this as my friends going through this too would hear it. 

When a new parent comes to you and complains of how tired they are because that little baby needs care every couple of hours, the response is one from shared experience. You may laugh a little and recall your own similar experiences. There is no shame because there is no pity, no helplessness--only community and camaraderie and understanding. 

It is often hard to share my stories because while they are so commonplace for so many others, they remain atypical for many families, too. They aren’t universal, though they happen so often. We keep our stories in our communities because we still seek that validation and community, because the tales we tell form the stereotypes that alienate and “other” our family members in a shroud of fear and misunderstanding. It is a perfect dank underground for shame to grow of situations we have no control over and humanity that deserves fearlessness. 

So I ask you to hear this as my friend Sara would. Nothing I could say would shock her any more than if I was talking about a car problem. She would say “HA! Look, let me tell you…” and launch into her own experiences with what I am going through. Because I think that is really what I need: to know above all that I am not going through this alone.

That there is nothing to be ashamed of. 

With that in mind, enough stalling. I am having trouble venturing out lately, for four distinct problems. (No, not the children. Well...nah, it’s not the kids). Some problems I have limited control over, some are behavioral that we are in the process of correcting. None of them were particularly unforeseen and the only way through it is through it, a frustrating and comforting thought I suppose. 

Of all the places in particular I want to go, church has been the hardest one and that makes me so sad because I love church and I love the people there. Two Sundays ago after service in which I gathered quite a bit of attention, I was surrounded by hugs and words of support and love and welcome; last week, an elder went out of his way to let me know how glad the whole Bible class was that I was there. And I know any of my church family that is reading this would not hesitate to reassure me or offer support, and that makes me all the sadder because it makes me love them more, but I am in the middle of the storm with no land in sight. I have to hunker down and weather it for now. At the very least, I wanted to offer some insight into my spotty attendance lately. 

Light of my life and absolute beautiful soul that he is, we all know I am talking about Gabe. 

We all recognized there would be issues around puberty because that’s how it goes, you know? What parent is sitting looking at that sweet chubby faced cherub and going “I literally cannot wait until you are my size, full of hormones and hatred for me”? Psychopaths, that’s who. Nobody anticipates their sweet lovely child becoming the most irrational, unpredictable creature on earth. Kids with special needs are no different--the same rush of hormones that transforms neurotypical kids will (usually) cast a curse upon our houses, too. The problems that arise are predictable, at least to our community as we have been commiserating all this time with others going through it. First hand experience is different and we are still taken quite aback. Knowing it is coming doesn’t make it any easier to cope with. 

The first problem is that Gabe is enormous and his diapers leak. There is no control over that--his size as a teenager is in between incontinence supplies for children and adults, which means it is difficult to get ones that fit just right. Further compounded by his diabetes that makes him urinate more than usual, I simply don’t want to make messes wherever we go. Valiant efforts this year have shown great strides in his toileting skills, but he still lacks the depth of bodily awareness that would allow for a true level of control. Wherever we go, Michael and I are chasing him around with changing pads and Resolve, apologizing profusely and struggling in vain to avoid catastrophe before it strikes. At least when he is in our house, all his bodily fluids are on things we own; it is still traumatic and stressful, but it takes the element of apology and shame out of the equation.

The second struggle is as adorably named as it is incredibly frustrating and terrifying: absconding. There are two main motivating factors that we consider when we discuss problematic behavior (at least with children on the spectrum): seeking or avoiding. What he is doing is either because he wants something and is trying to obtain it (seeking), or it is something causing him pain, discomfort, or distress that he is attempting to escape from (avoiding). We often have no freaking idea what the cause is, because running is always the solution. It happens at home and at school, when he sees an opening and seizes it. I feel like it would be more spontaneous if it weren’t so calculated--he will cause ruckus or watch until he thinks we are distracted, and that’s when he will take off. 

Several weeks ago, Tula came in to where we were sitting and told us, “Gabe is in the street”. He had figured out how to open the garage door and just left. In the two to three minutes it took us to follow, he was no longer in sight. I was wandering the streets calling out his name, Michael was driving around in the car frantically trying to locate him. 

The problem is, he might still be outside but he may just as well found an unlocked door and gone inside--he has done it before, scaring poor little old ladies half to death. Where we live, he is lucky he didn’t get shot as an intruder. In this instance, a woman and her daughters pulled over and asked if I was looking for someone, and told me to get in because they would drive me to where they saw him. This is how true crime podcasts start, but I got into the car because I was desperate. Across North 10th from where we live, about a mile from the house down on Cedar Crest, wearing nothing but a shirt and a diaper (no pants, no shoes) and running for all he was worth was Gabe. 

If those people hadn’t picked me up, I am not certain we would have found him. By the time we thought to look past N 10th, he could have made it even further, or gone into someone’s house. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about. My dad was right: you can’t take your eye off of him for a second. 

But heaven help me, sometimes you really want to. 

The next section, I debated telling. I don’t want to shame Gabriel. He is capable of the emotion--when he was acting up in church the other day, he made eye contact and kept playing “worried about what everyone else thinks of you” on repeat until I reassured him “buddy, nobody thinks anything bad about you. You’re doing just fine.” He’s still a teenager and he still worries about how others view him. No one is immune to shame.

But it is happening. And I have to deal with it; Mike has to deal with it. His school has to deal with it. If we are around you, Mike and I are going to put in heroic effort to make sure you don’t have to deal with it, but it is still the middle of the storm so sometimes we are going to fail. 

….Gabriel is a teenage boy with teenage boy interests and activities. He just doesn’t know to keep those activities and interests private. 

That is a delicate way to put it, right? I was taught a healthy amount of shame revolving around certain topics, so this all feels very indelicate to broach. But as a form of stress-relief for an overstimulated person or just because it feels good and is fun, it is something that in our world all too often expands beyond the privacy realm and becomes a very much public concern. (Remembering that we are hearing this as my friends would hear it, I was lamenting to my friend Elba the other day that I had to use the phrase “you can’t watch Barbara Manatee, son--you know what she does to you” aloud to a human person, and she laughed and told me her similar experience.)

It is human and natural and I would say there is nothing to be ashamed about, but now I want to say there is at least a *little* we should be ashamed about it, enough so that we put it away when our mother walks in the room. I take active psychic damage every time I turn around and witness such a crime scene. 

Because that’s kind of the less light-hearted issue with such a struggle, isn’t it? There are laws regarding decency that prohibit such exhibitions. I don’t want to see that; you certainly don’t, and neither do your kids. While we offer frequent reminders of “holy hands” and watch him like a hawk, sometimes you glance over and get an eyeful, and honestly I don’t think I could take the shame of that should it occur to anyone else. It is a crime under Texas penal code 21.08, though no court would likely convict him as he has no intent toward any persons that happen to be around him. Whether or not he would face prosecution regarding it doesn’t make it any more okay. A crime is still a crime.

Just like assault is. 

I have always prided myself on being able to control Gabe. As long as he is medicated properly (which is a big stipulation, but he needs the medicinal intervention because of his condition), I have spent his entire life making sure I could contain him and that he respected my authority as his mother. The mom voice alone almost always stops him in his tracks, and I watch him closely enough and know his cues well so that I can start redirecting, replacing, or removing as needs be. Sometimes it goes beyond my control, though. 

In the past few months, Gabe has far outgrown me by seven inches and at least thirty pounds. I have no idea if he is done growing, but I can reasonably assert that I am. For the rest of his life, he will be bigger than I am. And for the vast, vast most part, he is a temperate, nonviolent, sweet boy that wants hugs and kisses and to be left alone. The biggest threat he poses is when he sits on me because he still thinks he is small enough to do so. 

Then there are sometimes that he attacks me on the zoo field trip and it takes four adults to pull him off of me. 

I need to establish two things: he is not a threat to anyone else. Hell, he is barely a threat to me. That day was particularly bad because there was a mix-up with his prescription and he was unmedicated, there was a substantial change in his routine, and I felt so much shame around this classroom full of people and zoo staff that I didn’t respond like I should have. He headbutted me so hard he broke my glasses and I had to go the rest of the trip with them drunkenly hanging off my face and him walking like nothing happened. I was fighting back tears and half afraid of my own son and we all had to pretend like nothing happened. 

Because that’s the other thing--he only gets aggressive under specific circumstances. That seeking and avoiding earlier, that is far easier to track when it comes to his aggression--it is directed at the person that is causing him distress, and it stops when whatever is distressing him stops. Miss Stacia or the occupational therapist asks him to do work, so he pulls her hair to show that he doesn’t want to work because it is hard. We say no tablet when he wants tablet, so he smacks his head at us and maybe tries to pinch us. In the zoo instance, he wanted out of that unfamiliar room and out into the zoo--he was no longer going to be aggressive because we left the room, so there was no need to dwell on the action. In the special education world, they might have what’s called a Manifestation Determination meeting to see if the behavior is caused by his disability; if it is, the punishment has to reflect that. Speed running that meeting, yes his frustration and aggression are symptoms associated with autism, we move on. Maybe make a behavior plan, but more likely just try and watch for those cues and take him out before the situation devolves. 

That’s what I had to do last Sunday. We had made it through class pretty well, even though he started uncontrollably giggling thirty minutes in; I did compressions on his joints and whispered to him, gave him his headphones to block out noise and drinks, but when he hadn’t calmed down after ten minutes, I took him outside to run it off. He was instantly calm and stayed calm through picking up Tula. When I tried to take him back in to service though, he got aggressive, headbutting me and pinching me and grabbing at me, yanking my hair and on my arms. I knew it was going to get worse if I stayed, so I bundled up the kids and we went back home without getting to attend service. 

(The end of that story was that when we got home, Gabriel was still agitated. Michael met him in the hall and Gabe tried to headbutt him in his frustration. He cracked his forehead against Michael’s and I guess it made him see stars because he had to sit down after that for a while. Hard-headed is sometimes a compliment.) 

It’s exhausting. Friday I had taken all four kids to the zoo to celebrate the end of school and he got aggressive because the wait for the train was too long. Saturday I took him to Walmart to do some shopping and he got aggressive because he saw a ball he wanted. This was the third day in a row, and…I was just tired. Bruised and sore and tired of fighting this fight. 

I’ll keep fighting. And girl, you know I am going to win. I don’t have a choice--he is not going to beat me. Lately it has been hard because Michael works on Sundays, Jarrod moved away, and Amber started going to another church so I don't have the extra support. Most days, I don't need it. I don't know if you know this about me, but insecurities aside I am an actual boss. Certified tough stuff.

Sometimes, it is too much though, and I need to go back home. We’ll try again tomorrow. 

--Andie

How Far I'll Go

I graduated April 6, 2022 with a Bachelors of Arts in Educational Studies, Special Education and Elementary Education from Western Governors University. 

October/November of 2020, I was talking to my sister, who had just enrolled at WGU. She was undertaking a degree in Information Technology, because that is where her strengths lie. We were both wary of an online program, me especially as Michael had bad experiences at DeVry for which lawsuits continue to this day in the periphery of our ether. Amber had put in the work though and vetted this place, noting that the price was manageable, it was regionally accredited, and appeared relatively free of scandal. She applied and was accepted into the program and hit the ground running, having a wildly successful first semester.

At the time, I was seven months into a lockdown that seemed like it would never end and I was fading fast. The kids were here all the time, making noise and needing me. The mess was accumulating mess faster than I could clean it, a decided blow to my mental health. All the years I had spent trying to keep the burnout at bay was catching up with me; the Andieness was disappearing, being replaced by the robotically functional MOM unit.

So I thought…what the heck. Let’s give it a go.

A bit to know about me: I buy and accumulate used textbooks to routinely, in my free time, read and take detailed notes for funsies. I like to learn. It is part of the reason I am such a voracious reader--there is so much information out there and I want to take part in it. But my disastrous and fizzled end at Lubbock Christian left me with a mountain of debt and a crippling doubt in my intellectual abilities. 

Growing up, school ran kind of the gamut from me. From special education services early on to strong performances in UIL to setting the curve to being second-string on the lit crit team, I was an inconsistent performer to say the least. There were shining moments where my work garnered praise and people started to take notice, but the attention would cause me to panic and I would sink back into mediocrity. It was around middle school, really eighth grade, where I couldn’t hide anymore. There were three teachers in particular--Mrs Beedle (history), Mrs Willis (English), and Mrs Greer (yearbook/newspaper) that recognized something and started asking “why aren’t you in advanced placement classes?” They wouldn’t let me fade into the background anymore, but gently dragged me in the light. I spent high school as a bottom achiever for the higher classes, graduating precisely in the middle of the pack. Unspectacular, unremarkable. 

It didn’t help that the position of Smart Child (™) had already been taken in our family. I was always the little sister trying to catch up. So when I got to college, I had a lot to prove to myself. 

I enrolled at LCU as a PreMed major. I got so organized, with this expanding file folder that held all my assignments. Each semester, I would take the syllabus and work through all the assignments listed and put them in the slot so that, worst came to worst, I had something to turn in when it came due. I’d set in with my textbook and write my notes, because I wanted to be prepped for that class. This way, walking in all I had to do was modify the assignments and add to the notes as I learned new information from the teacher, but I could really give my focus to the lecture. Even so, I was not absorbing the information in some classes as quickly as I needed to—history and English classes were still my strong suit, but my major classes in the sciences I was only middling in. I figured I wasn’t working hard enough.

This worked well for the first little bit of college, but then the strangest thing happened...

With baby Emerald, I was still in the fight. I changed my major to business so I wouldn’t have to worry about labs; those were my struggle areas anyway. Business went better—I had a knack and interest for business law, and the other majors classes seemed more or less like common sense. No matter how nice the teacher in Spreadsheets was, I was still at a complete loss in that one, because Excel and I are not on the friendliest of terms. This time, the hardest blows came from business math though. All throughout school, math wasn’t my strongest subject which left me with less and less confidence in it, until I started dreading going. Having a friend that was a math major and very pro-math, I should have just asked her for help. But I was embarrassed to be struggling, and at this point so tired.

When Gabriel came along, I couldn’t do it anymore. I had been holding on for four years and felt no closer to graduation than when I started. My student loans were piling up, and the great punchline of it all was that...I doubted I would be able to work. We were just figuring out that Gabe was autistic and was going to need a lot of support and care. Childcare costs are cost-prohibitive; one was bad enough, but two was even more out of reach, and here I am expecting a third. My grades slipped too far and I couldn’t summon the energy to care—there was already so much else that demanded my time, and it was not like college was going to help me. I left and never looked back.

I felt so self-conscious about it though. Like my opinion, my viewpoint, was worth less because I was just an uneducated housewife. The metric by which I judged myself, my grades, reflected the same inconsistency as I had ever achieved, but all I saw were those failures. From that I drew the conclusion that I was ignorant—I had peaked in what I could learn and that was the ballgame.

So when Amber went back and was doing well, I thought...why not. The worst thing I could waste is my time, and right now, I got a lot of it. I tossed my application into the ether...and got denied. They said my scores at LCU near the end were too low for acceptance into WGU, so I would have to go through WGU Academy first. It is a month-by-month program where you pay a small amount and take a few classes, basically teaches you how these online classes will go.

When I saw that rejection, I just wanted to take the L and go home. It reinforced all those bad thoughts, all those doubts I had about myself, and I had a very low tolerance for rejection or criticism. Michael and I talked about it though, and I decided...okay. I checked the Facebook page and found out a lot of students had to go through Academy; it wasn’t a personal slight, just a formality. Amber didn’t have to go through it though, so I was still very uncertain and sad about it. I enrolled anyway.

There is this class, I don’t remember what it was called, but it was required where you had to actually attend on zoom once a week for five weeks. It talked about study techniques, time management, how to organize and prioritize once you got into school so that you would be most set up for success. They also talked about mental blocks and self confidence issues, a lot about your mindset and how you handle disappointments. I didn’t know it, but this class would be very important to my continued success.

Academy was hard because I had two difficult classes I had to get through before I would be admitted to WGU. The first was Intro to Communications. It apparently did not transfer in from LCU because it had been 150 years since I took it and things have apparently changed since then. This was a study in overcoming my fears because while I could handle the final exam just fine, I had to record myself giving three speeches and publish them on YouTube. These videos are rough, guys. I am visibly shaking and my voice is cracking. The evaluators might have been able to tell as well because they graded leniently.

The second was Stats. I was facing head-on my biggest insecurity, math. Every day, I got up hours before anyone else was awake and studied in my little closet-office. I took and retook the practice quizzes provided again and again until I got 100%. I filled notebooks with my detailed notes and practice problems. I watched YouTube videos and used Khan academy; I had the kids “grade” additional work I found online and printed off.

I crushed the final exam.

After two months in Academy, I graduated and moved into WGU proper, feeling more capable. I could do this. Already I had tackled these two daunting courses and had prevailed; I was here to have fun and to learn, so there was no way I could fail unless I stopped having a good time. I applied for and received a scholarship so now I was getting paid to be at school—this freed me of all guilt associated with financial burden or the responsibility to translate this education into earnability. With that in mind, I picked education. It felt like it could help me in my work with REACH and navigating Gabriel’s special education needs.

WGU allows you to take as many courses as you want in a six-month term, and is competency-based which means you can test out of a class when you’re ready. It is a point of pride for me that out of all the tests in Academy and during my time at WGU, I didn’t ever fail or have to retake a test. That first term that started May 2021, I got 50 credits completed. I worked like a whirlwind, delighted in that feeling of productivity and achievement again. Remembering why I liked learning so much.

The second semester, I got through another 41 credits; combined with what I had already completed and what I transferred in, that was enough to graduate. I could have held on and did student teaching, but as quickly as I had finished, I was looking beyond now—maybe I could go in and get my masters. Or what about nursing? That could be helpful with the now three diabetics I have. The point was, now I felt like...I could. My potential wasn’t reached, it is only just blossoming.

And there is no end to what I can do.

--Andie