"So. Tell me a story."

My daughter was sitting on my bed, frustrated and slowly progressing to beside herself.  A draft of a report was due, and while she didn't mind doing the work, she couldn't understand her teacher's criticisms of her work, so she wasn't quite sure how to fix the issue so she could go back to getting her usual A's.

Me, being Mom, and trying to help without over-helping, and explaining at least some part of the writing process to her, so that she could become more comfortable with report writing, as the more she advances in school, the more report writing will become a huge part of her life.  Left up to her, she would do math and science all day every day, and skip all of the writing stuff.  But English, History, and Social Studies, with their associated long format, detailed answers, will begin to be a factor in a year when she begins middle school, so learning the basic, five paragraph essay format has been her quarterly project since the beginning of the 3rd grade.  Having not really learned this format until later in my high school career (shame, I know), and seeing as her current teacher also knew that I was a blogger, I was determined to help her get through The Writing with as much grace and elegance as a 4th grader could muster.  She loved the research portions of these reports, and printing pictures off of the internet or building models, but The Writing?  The Writing was like pulling bad teeth from an angry alligator.  Getting the work done without getting bit was perilous at best, and extremely hazardous to my (mental) health at worst.

I began by going over the outline the teacher had given the students,  giving them the requirements for the report,  as well as a rough idea of how to build it.  I pointed out that she had taken mostly all of the appropriate notes, so that put her ahead of the game.  All that really needed to happen was that she put the pertinent information together into clear paragraphs that supported her original point.  The words needed to flow in such a way that they were easily understood without seeming stiff, as little kids tend to write write sentences that are stand alone, and don't really lend themselves to leading to the next sentence or idea.  As I begin to explain narrative voice, her eyes glaze over, followed by a look of absolute panic.

" I am NEVER going to get finished, and even if I do, it's going to SUCK!"

I know I am going to need a way to keep her attention and still make sure she understands what I am telling her, so I grab a notepad and pen from the side of my bed, as well as an autobiography I had recently checked out from the library, but hadn't started reading yet.  I thumb through the book until I find a safe, descriptive paragraph, speaking to, of all things, a musician's songwriting process.  She read the paragraph, thought about it for a few seconds, then wailed that she would NEVER be able to write that well.

I was back at square one, and needed to save the situation before it got any worse.

"So. Tell me a story."

"Huh?  What kind of story?"

"Tell me what happened after the sitter picked you up from school today.  Tell me everything that happened between the time you got picked up, and the time you guys made it back to the daycare."

She gave me a weird look, but began to narrate what she thought were the mundane details of the daily pickup routine, punctuated by one kid messing around with the door handle, being told to stop, then doing it again anyway as soon as the van stopped, then nearly falling out of the van as soon as it got to the daycare.

I verified the details, then I sat and wrote for a few minutes.  I then handed her a paragraph filled with an exciting (I think, anyway) tale of pickups, and dramatic exchanges about homework, and a mischievous little kid and a van door.  She couldn't believe it was the same story.

This, I told her, was the essence of writing: stringing a series of facts and details together so that they were interesting and made sense to whoever was reading them. Write as if you are speaking to someone, just remembering to use your best grammar, and support everything you say with details.  And practice really does make perfect.  The more you write, the more comfortable you get with writing, hopefully the more you learn, and the better you get.

She didn't look completely convinced, but she slunk off to the living room to get back on the computer, and re-write her paragraphs.  She did end up getting a better grade than the project prior to that one, if I recall correctly, so I think it worked, at least a little.  Score one for Mom teaching.

Writing, like reading, is becoming a lost art among my daughter's contemporaries.  She has a few books that she likes, and I bring home books that I think she will like from my own childhood, but times and tastes change, and there are far more misses than hits.  She was fascinated when I finished The Corrections in 10 days, and can't understand for the life of her how I have the patience to turn off the TV and read a 300 page (or longer) book.  I tell her that if I am going to write, I need to read, and that reading calms me when the constant blare of the television gets too frenetic.  But what with the varied and non-stop lure of electronic entertainment, why should a kid pick up something as low-tech as a book?  Maybe because reading for pleasure, not just for assignments, might turn their minds to more intellectual pursuits than gaming, and the thumb typed, shortened messages that pass for writing now.  Also with reading comes a heightened ability to express yourself with more and better words, which can sometimes become a desire to write.  With more people writing, our world becomes larger as people begin to reveal their unique lives to us, painting a picture of the world colored by so many points of view, we may never be able to read them all, but somehow, it's comforting to know that there are so many stories out there, just waiting to be told.

So.  Tell me a story.

I first learned to ride a bike at the ripe old age of 16.  Up to that point, I had been to afraid to try, as I didn't like the thought of falling off or getting scraped up or bruised.  But once my uncle had me try out one of the many bikes he kept in his yard for all of us kids to ride, showed me how to start, balance, and stop, I was hooked.  Biking lets you travel faster than walking, obviously, but you don't travel so fast that you don't have time to observe the world around you, like you do in a car.  It's being outdoors, in motion, and still being able to love nature.  It is almost the best of both worlds, if you ask bike enthusiasts.

I had thought about getting a bike for years when I finally purchased one a couple of years ago.   My enthusiasm for the purchase was renewed by going on a long bike ride with friends (on a borrowed bike) along the beach on a path that took us from the industrial southern end at Dockweiler Beach to the beautiful Ports at Marina Del Rey.  Riding a bike along the beach path is the ultimate California dream, and the warm spring day on which we completed the round trip inspired me to plan my purchase for sometime in the near future. I like walking (when it's not my ONLY mode of transportation), and being outside, but I also needed a form of non-weight bearing exercise since I had completely hosed my knees and lower back in separate incidents.  Even after I started doing research, asking friends for recommendations, and doing multiple internet searches looking for the perfect bicycle, it still took me a couple of years to purchase one.  Where money is concerned, I always at least TRY to be careful with large purchase, although I don't always succeed.  Money was part of it, but there are always other considerations.

First and foremost, where was I going to put it?  Although at the time I was still sharing a garage with a neighbor, the key was missing somewhere in our house, and I had yet to receive another key.  My daughter's bike was in the garage, and we could only get it when the neighbor went into the garage, which was inconvenient for my daughter because that meant she could only ride her bike when we got lucky enough to catch the neighbor.  I wanted to ride for exercise, which meant riding on a regular basis, not on whims.  If I was riding on a regular basis, when exactly was I going to do that?  There were some weeks when both my and the kids church activities ate whatever time I had after I left work, and weekends tend to live on busy.

Even with all of my concerns, I found my bike, the white beach cruiser above, within the price range I was looking for from a re-seller on Craigslist, made the purchase, found some strange way to cram the bike into my then small car, and brought it home.  I then spent a little more money with the bike shop a few blocks away making adjustments and repairs to the bike so that I could ride it without being in pain.  Then I sat there and stared at it for a few month, riding only occasionally.  Being a big woman, I was entirely intimidated by the thought of long street rides where people could actually, you know, SEE me.  That was a horror that had to be avoided at all costs.  No matter what your confidence level, having strange people yell rude things at you while you are trying to get healthy is... disconcerting at best, and completely demoralizing at worst.

That changed one Saturday morning when I decided that, rather than waste gas driving to a meeting that was only a few miles away, I would ride my bike there.  I would be riding early enough (and the route obscure enough) to not make me seriously noticeable, and the route I chose also took me around any heavy traffic (a particular talent in Los Angeles).  As I rode along side a small regional airport at the longest stretch of the ride, and I realized that it didn't matter what other people might think of what I looked like riding.  I was taking care of my health, at my own pace, and I got to look around and enjoy myself in the process.  It was a beautiful day outside, and I amazed the other ladies at the meeting by riding my bike there.  I rode home completely uplifted both by the meeting, and by accomplishing something I had wanted to do for quite sometime.  I came home planning longer rides, and thinking of purchasing a bike rack for my car so that my daughter and I could take our bikes to the beach, and she and I could ride on bike trails, completely undisturbed by cars, and with more than enough room for both us and walkers.  I had my ticket to ride, finally, and my ability to do so was only hampered by time and finances.

I put off the rack purchase for quite some time because life dictates that business be taken care of first.  Bills before extras, needs before wants, etc.  I would take longer rides when I could, and I allowed my son to use my bike, as he didn't have one, and it was quicker for him to get to school with it.  Our deal was that so long as he locked it up and took care of it, I had no issue with him using it.  And our deal held for six months, until he forgot to lock the bike to the railing outside my sitter's house one Friday evening, and the bike was stolen.

Earlier this year, I gave my son the money to purchase another bike for himself.  I have a car, and I didn't really need it to get around like he does. I walk around Downtown LA on my lunch breaks when I get the chance.  But it's not the same.  I honestly miss my bike.  I watch travel shows on tv, and see them taking lovely bike tours of other countries, and secretly long for my lost cruiser.  I drive along the beach, I see the bike trails, and I remember that warm spring day only a couple of years ago when I rode them, and I wish.  I wish to be back out there on two wheels, zipping along beach side, or planning a trip to see a City by bicycle.

One day, when I get caught up on bills (Song of the Single Parent!), there will be another bike.  Followed by the purchase of a bike rack so that my whole little family can go ride on the beach.  Then an actual vacation with a bicycle tour.  It'll happen.  Not immediately, as there are always other priorities, but I look at it this way.  Now not only do I have a specific goal to work towards, I have something to look forward to once I hit the goal.  Works for me.

If you can't tell already, I am in love with words.  I am also a secret romantic, with an unconditional love of the R & B ballads that I grew up with in the 70s and 80s that current radio refers to as Slow Jams.

On the outside I am very philosophical about love and relationships, but on the inside all I need to hear are the first strains of certain songs that bring me back to the romantic notions of my youth.  Back on Valentine's Day, I commented that I like to rock when I'm driving.  I didn't mean that to say that I don't like love songs.  I do, just not all of them.  There is something about the whispered promises of love and fervent declarations of devotion that move me when it concerns the music that played in my house during my younger years.

Not to be one of THOSE people, but a lot of today's love songs don't talk about love as much as they talk about sex, which is fine if that's what you're into, but it's not really for me.  I miss the sensuality of the suggestion, rather than the bold talk about the act itself.  My mother always taught us to "leave something to the imagination".  The sweet sounds of Ronald Isley's tenor, mixed with the vivid imagery of sailing away from daily cares and worries to "a paradise, out beyond the sea" propels "Voyage to Atlantis" by the Isley Brothers into a realm of romantic iconography very hard to reach by today's artists:

The demand for instant gratification that drives a lot of popular music is noticeably absent from Cameo's tale of longing and anticipation "Sparkle"

If you have ever felt insecure in a relationship, the opening assurances in Debarge's classic "Time Will Reveal" will soothe whatever doubts you have in the opening 30 seconds:

I used to wonder what drove me back to these particular songs for repeated listening.  Maybe it was the intensity of feeling that people are afraid to express for fear of not seeming aloof, which seems to be the prevailing sentiment today.  Not so in the early 80s, when the thought of potentially lost love drove someone to song to express it:

There was a time when artists were not afraid to show vulnerability in their lyrics.  They were unafraid to show fear, doubt, longing, love or any of a host of emotions with beautiful words meant to let the listener know that they, too, experienced the same situations and circumstances.  Artists related to the audience, and invited them to go down this road to love and romance with them.  Bravado and lust had their place, but it wasn't the default the way it is now.  Music is the ultimate relational tool, and even if you couldn't explain exactly how you felt, out there, somewhere, was a song that could help you express whatever was in your heart to someone who may not understand your own fumbling attempts.  Even I can't fully explain it.  

Then again, maybe I can just play you a song.

There were ten of us in the room that warm Thursday evening.

All mothers, of various ages and races, from every corner of Los Angeles County: From the middle class suburbs of the San Fernando Valley, to the hip, laid back Westside, to two of us from the working class South Bay.  

Although we were all drawn there by the promise of a few dollars for a couple of hours of our time, answering a few questions for market research, once we introduced ourselves and began to tell our stories, a feeling washed over the room that women like us rarely feel.

We realized that we were surrounded by people that we didn't have to explain ourselves or our children to.  When you have multiple children with ADHD, isolation is the norm, and you get used to it.  With each answer to each prompt, every time another one of us told a story of dealing with multiple doctors and their varying opinions, of school teachers and administrators only too ready and willing to write a child off, of struggling with the unknown, then the search for answers once you found out what you may be dealing with, you could feel the breeze from all of the other heads nodding in agreement.  We all knew all too well what each other was going through.  We had all been there at one time or another.

We had all felt the sense of panic of knowing there was something not quite normal about our children  I would watch my son exhaust himself, and everyone else, racing from one activity to another, never staying with anything for long.  Or if there was nothing else to do, he would just crawl around in endless circles on the floor, completely freaking me out.  I had heard of ADHD, but hadn't really done much research on it when I took him with me to a research study appointment at UCLA.  The research assistant quietly observed him for the length of the appointment, then gently suggested that I bring him to be screened for another study they were doing on a medication for children with ADHD.  I spent the next month or so reading everything I could get my hands on about ADHD, and the writing on the wall could not have been any clearer.  I was prepared to put in work, because this was not going to be easy.

We talked of diagnoses, and the medication merry-go-round.  All of us had gone through a minimum of two medications and multiple doses before hitting on that perfect combination that worked.  Then realizing, for those of us with more than one child with ADHD, that the same magic combo that worked for Child One was highly unlikely to work for Child Two.  There is the ultimate juggling act of keeping up with Doctors, appointments, meds, school-related issues (and believe me, there are many), and the sneaking health issues that come up on the side.  Two of us have children that are perpetually underweight, (inviting scrutiny from the pediatricians) both because they are naturally small people, and because the prescribed medication kills their appetite.

We knew each others stories, and when the facilitator stepped out of the room, the relieved laughter started.  We were finally with other women that weren't judging us because our kids weren't hitting all of the same milestones at the same time as other kids.  And that was okay. We could admit that while we loved our children, we were glad to be away for a little while.  These kids require exhaustive micromanagement, and although this is entirely doable, none of us kid ourselves.  These children are WORK, with a capital W, and it gets tiring. Not that we don't love our children, obviously we do.  We were just realistic about the demands on our lives.

As we were leaving, a few of us talked on the way to the elevator.  It was nice escaping for an hour or so, and making a little extra cash to cover the endless extra expenses associated with child-rearing.  It was also nice to decompress from always having your guard up when talking about your children.  No Judgy McJudgerson mothers here, ready to alternately snark or condescend  at the mere mention of difficulty, or the slightest indication of any small triumph. The mother next to me was happy not to have to say "No" for an hour, and planned to extend her time away to the actual time she said she was going to be home by making a solo trip to the mall.  Not to buy anything, mind you.  Just for the quiet time alone.  We all understood perfectly.

This is the way of the parent of the child that needs a little more parenting than average.  There is always one more: one more teacher to talk to, one more form to fill out, one more evaluation to complete, one more medication to convince them to try.  It is a train in constant forward motion, often speeding, that just might change directions on a dime, frequently.  And as a parent, it's all you can do to try to keep the train on a set of tracks, any tracks, long enough to complete a trip.  All the while keeping your own train on track, just barely.

My son, my daughter and I all have some level of ADHD.  My daughter is the only person on any type of medication for it, as my son refuses to even consider it anymore, and I figured out how to deal with the worse parts of it before I knew what it was.  Not to say that any of us deals with it all particularly well, but we deal.  I finally admitted to myself once my daughter started elementary school that anything not written down was lost, and Google Calendar was a Godsend for a person who consistently forgot about appointments.  A friend taught me years ago how to create simple budgets that tracked where my money was going, and once combined with budget tools provided by my bank, I finally got control of my finances.  I am still broke all the time, but at least now I know where it all went.

My son has good intentions, but is struggling.  Even if he remembers daily tasks (going to class), details (assignments and due dates) escape him, and he refuses to write anything down. I understand that he wants to live without what he sees are crutches, but my role in this is to make sure that he realizes that real men DO get help when they need it, and there is no harm in admitting that you can't do everything by yourself.   He is also dealing with an LD related co-morbidity called Auditory Processing Disorder.  Meaning that what people say, and what he hears are often two entirely different things.  Oh the misunderstandings that arise from not hearing EXACTLY what was said!  Just learning to double-check verbal instructions and directions, and just follow normal conversations, has been a hurdle that took years to overcome.

My daughter is an extremely intelligent ball of energy, and having learned my lesson with my son, I make an effort to stay on top of everything going on at school.  Academically, there are no issues, but her occasional emotional outbursts, and out of left field health issues, keep me glued to my phone during the day, as I never know when THAT phone call will come, and she will need to be picked up immediately.  I find that teaching her to manage sudden change (and her emotions regarding those changes) is almost a full-time job.  Anyone that has ever worked with a highly strung child will agree that having to be on your toes at all times gives you the balance of a ballerina after several years of managing these children's fragile emotions.

But we manage.  All of us.  The women in that room, and parents around the world that have children that for some reason or another, require just a bit more work that the usual amount.  Especially when we ourselves take additional self management just to get through the day. We appreciate the little accomplishments because of the almost herculean effort it took to get to that point.  We finally get a little something we can celebrate.

And for a brief hour in a conference room in West Los Angeles, we got a moment to let go of all of the work, all of the hassle, and all of the judgement, and just breathe.