tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18427865698714412582024-03-12T18:36:55.071-07:00Define ChaosMother. Teacher. Writer. Rebel.Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-28315083240407962142020-05-07T19:39:00.003-07:002020-05-07T20:30:06.644-07:00For My Fellow Humans<br />
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<span class="s2">I love you all, fellow humans: similarities and differences aside. I love you for expressing your beliefs and wanting what’s best for everyone because it means that you love your fellow humans, too. </span></div>
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<span class="s2">So let’s strive to be civil, supportive, and empathetic to the fears we all have. Let’s reference reputable sources when sharing information on social media and respect dissenting opinions by avoiding polarizing rhetoric. We are in this together and I will fight for you and yours regardless of whether or not we agree. Because you are my fellow human. And I am yours. </span></div>
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<span class="s2">There’s an overwhelming spread of [mis]information right now, and it’s hard to know what to believe. There are myths masquerading as science and science discredited as political strategy. And every “side” is to blame. Is COVID-19 a political weapon? I don’t know. But I do know I’ll do my best to consider your stance, whatever it may be. And regardless of the origins or purpose of this virus (or lack of purpose if it’s just a tragic, organically-borne disease), it is still real. </span></div>
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<span class="s2">People are still dying. For real. People are still scared. For real. And people are still relying on all of us to do our part to take it seriously for the health of our fellow humans. For real. </span></div>
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<span class="s2">Please don’t patronize those who prefer to play it safe. Please wear a mask in public places—even though you have the right not to—because it’s the respectful and pragmatic thing to do. Stay home because you should. And if you don’t, let it be out of necessity instead of a desire to protest something you feel violates your civil liberties. Our rights exist to protect our well-being. OUR well-being. Collectively. And while one person’s stance may not match yours, neither is any more or less valuable. </span></div>
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<span class="s2">Yes, our economy is suffering; it’s a tragic byproduct of this disease. And I’m angry that our government doesn’t have systems in place to support those most impacted. But our economy will no doubt suffer even further without healthy citizens to support it. If we put the cart before the horse, there will be devastatingly-fewer consumers left to revive what remains.</span></div>
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<span class="s2">Let’s all acknowledge this virus is a reality and do our best to curb its spread now. If you really believe this is a conspiracy tactic to assume political control, then it’s even more imperative that we prevent its impact. And when—and only when—it’s safe to do so, I’ll stand alongside you on the frontlines to make our voices heard. But we must first ensure there are enough of us left to speak when it’s time. </span></div>
Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-25163179963970923862019-09-17T10:48:00.004-07:002019-09-18T08:41:27.332-07:00Big transitions (and the fears that come with them)<br />
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We've been making big moves over here: new house, new school, new life, new beginnings. I decided that Quinn needed a school district with a track record of supporting students with special needs, so I bought a house in a neighborhood close to my own childhood home. I teach in the same district, at the high school down the street, so we're all close to home and close to each other. Despite these new comforts and conveniences, I was still apprehensive about how my kids would weather these changes. Atticus had established a close circle of friends at his previous school and Lucy was used to the small classes and personalized attention she received at The Rise School. And Quinn...well, I had dreaded this day since I learned about that pesky extra chromosome. This move was made in large part due to his needs, but had I done enough in other ways to prepare him for the academic, social, and emotional aspects of public school? Was he ready? Was I? As the time got closer, I realized that it was sink or swim. He was going to walk into that first day of school whether we were ready or not. So on our last day of summer vacation, I picked out their school clothes, packed their lunches, and then sat down to write the following:</div>
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<i>For Quinn, on the night before your first day of Kindergarten,</i> </div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>I’m won’t lie, kid. I’ve fretted over this day from the moment I
learned about your extra chromosome. I wondered if you’d understand the
rules, if you’d be included by your peers, if you could find your way to
the bathroom, if you could open your yogurt tube at lunch. And I still
worry about those things. But today your family met with your new team
of teachers, therapists, and administrators and felt excited abou<span class="text_exposed_show">t
this journey for the first time, well, maybe ever. We saw clearly that
they will support you and guide you and love you and teach you. They
will see you for the light you bring and the gifts you possess. And a
lot of that has to do with the teachers and therapists and
administrators who laid that groundwork for your success at The Rise School of Houston. And a lot of it has to do with the fact that
your awesome parents and grandparents moved mountains to get you zoned
to a school that is known to support ALL its students. But most of it
has to do with the fact that YOU, Quinn, are mighty. You are brave. You
are capable. You are a reminder to all of us that anything worth having
is worth working for, and that everyone deserves a shot at greatness.
You will do great things. I know it. Own it. </span></i></div>
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<i> <span class="_ezo" id="u_jsonp_6_1" style="color: #eb6575; font-weight: 600;"> </span></i></div>
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<i><span class="_ezo" id="u_jsonp_6_1" style="font-weight: 600;">Xoxo</span>, <br /> Mom</i></div>
</blockquote>
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There was something cathartic about writing a letter that he wasn't going to read (at least for a while). I suppose I don't really want him to know the extent of my fears at this point. But I want him to know that I believe in him<i>, </i>so putting my tumultuous emotions on paper allowed me to project the kind of support I thought he needed most.<br />
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He walked in on that first day, waved goodbye to me at the classroom door, and made a bee-line for the alphabet puzzle in the corner of the room. He never looked back. And I was ok with it. It was the best I could hope for, honestly.<br />
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As the weeks progressed, I noticed that his long-standing love for school was beginning to wane. Our mornings featured more complaints and, eventually, tears. He had to be picked up out of the backseat at morning drop off and led to his classroom, looking over his teacher's shoulder to call my name as I pulled away to begin my own school day. It was heart-wrenching to leave him so sad, but it was nearly impossible for me to ask why. Because I knew the answer already...<br />
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One afternoon I did what I had to do and asked Quinn if he liked his new school. He didn't hesitate when he said "no", his little face crumpling, his eyes cast down to feign interest in his untied shoelaces. Then I asked the question I was dreading an answer to: "Have you made new friends?"<br />
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<i></i>
"No mama. No school. The friends are mean to me."<br />
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I held it together long enough to give him a giant hug and the best words of empty comfort I could muster. But I crumbled as soon as I left the room. I could hear Atticus howling his own sad tears from the kitchen, realizing he had heard everything. My sensitive little boy may have been more devastated about Quinn's loneliness than I was.<br />
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But my job isn't to cry. My job is to act. Kindergarteners are 5-year-olds; they're not intentionally being mean, they just don't understand. And Quinn can come on <strike>a little</strike> strong at times. I knew I needed to find a way to communicate his differences with the other families in his class, so I wrote yet another letter, this time to the Kindergarten students at his new school, asking the parents to read and discuss it at home.<br />
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You guys. The response was amazing. <span title="Edited">I received so many texts
and emails and messages letting me know that they discussed it with
their kids. And then a few days later, many reached out to tell me that
their kids went out of their way to play with Quinn at school and that
they were excited to make a new friend. Turns out, a lot of these kids
were having a tough social transition to kindergarten, too. Turns out,
change is scary for everyone. But it’s a lot less scary with friends at
your side.</span><br />
<span title="Edited"><br /></span>
<span title="Edited">Upon reflection of this series of new transitions, I recognized that a lot of the fears I had were my own. Fears about solo home ownership, fears about how Quinn would be perceived by his peers, fears about the school system. But my kids went into these transitions without much fear. They jumped in, implicitly trusting that I had made the right decisions for them. And my own hang ups only served to project my stress onto them, fears that were erased once I employed open communication and advocacy. </span><br />
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<span title="Edited">Once I looked past the fear, I realized that I made the right choice to move into this neighborhood and to send my kids to a new school. I'm thrilled to be a part of a community of families who look out for and support each other. </span><br />
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<span title="Edited">I'm happy to report that Quinn no longer cries when I drop him off in the morning, Atticus is loving 4th grade, and Lucy is making lots of new friends in PK. But what warms my heart the most is that they're all loving being in school <b>together</b>. Atticus and Lucy have recess at the same time, but on different, adjoining playgrounds. Once Atticus figured this out, he started to write her little notes with pictures of things she loves<strike>---</strike>unicorns, puppies, stick figure kids holding hands<strike>---</strike>passing them to her through the chain link fence that separates the big kid playground from hers each day. I've started to collect them so they don't get tossed. Someday I'll pull these notes out so they can see how much love they had between them from the beginning. Someday I'll share all these letters, pictures, and notes with my babies to show them that, while I worried about their happiness, I was more amazed by their resiliency. But today I'll take these victories and stop worrying. Today I'll just love them in this moment and show them I believe in them. I'll show them that I <i>know</i> they've got this. </span><br />
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<span title="Edited">Because they do.</span><br />
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<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-25567539725989525922019-03-20T10:53:00.001-07:002019-03-20T11:17:42.282-07:00Is this Thing Still On?<br />
I'll be honest: I've avoided this blog for years now. And that's because for years now, I've been facing some pretty significant challenges and I haven't really been ready to discuss them or lay them bare for the world to inspect. And therein lies the problem of creating a life that's on display (even if it's only to advocate for your child with special needs): when things like divorce and crippling depression come calling, you never really know what you're supposed to say to this audience you've built. So you hide. You pull the covers over your head and hope everyone just walks away and forgets you exist, at least for a little while. And that's exactly what happened in the two-and-a-half years since my last post. <br />
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I wish I could say that I'm back because life got better after it got worse, but that would be a lie. Perhaps I'm back in the hopes that it will get better if I expose myself once more. I'm not really sure. But I have to give it a shot. I have to try <i>something. </i>Because I've tried everything else.<br />
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I'll give you the updates you deserve to read first: the kids are amazing. They're growing and changing and talking back and learning and eating me out of house and home. They love fiercely and hug tightly and fight loudly. They are smart and strong and beautiful.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6uBvFB8qMRU/XJJ7RyWBOyI/AAAAAAAACOI/jSH637E4goc83cB5HwYBveVL2act5tN4wCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1279" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6uBvFB8qMRU/XJJ7RyWBOyI/AAAAAAAACOI/jSH637E4goc83cB5HwYBveVL2act5tN4wCLcBGAs/s200/IMG_0026.JPG" width="159" /></a>Atticus is 8 now and will be 9 in June. He's finishing 3rd grade at our neighborhood school, where he has made some very close friends and has truly blossomed academically. He plays piano and baseball, loves minecraft, and is still the pickiest eater I've ever known in my life. He is also the kindest, most empathetic child on the planet. This is not an exaggeration. He is a GOOD KID who is doing a damn fine job of living up to his name. He does his homework without having to be asked, makes his siblings breakfast every Saturday so that I can sleep in, and moderates more squabbles between Lucy and Quinn than anyone his age should have to endure. And he does it all without complaint. I would not have survived the past two years without him.<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_menNo3NBq0/XJJ39j9sV1I/AAAAAAAACN0/439nkfNvR6sRzL0-zHUb70ALsNEoJsMbQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_5180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_menNo3NBq0/XJJ39j9sV1I/AAAAAAAACN0/439nkfNvR6sRzL0-zHUb70ALsNEoJsMbQCLcBGAs/s200/IMG_5180.JPG" width="200" /></a>Quinn turned 6 just before Christmas and we kept him in preschool one more year to give him a chance to catch up before he starts kindergarten this fall. I'm freaking out <strike>a little</strike> a lot about this transition. Is he ready? Will the other kids make fun of him? Will he have friends? Will he be able to keep up? Over and over and over, these thoughts consume me. But I have to remind myself that Quinn is actually doing pretty well. He understands nearly everything you tell him. He is potty trained, can follow instructions, and knows his letters. He is very difficult to understand in terms of speech, but he is speaking. Lucy knows Quinn's language better than anyone and translates often. But he's also determined to be understood, and will therefore use any combination of gestures, words, and/or sign language to get his point across. And if you STILL don't get it, he'll just grab your hand and drag you to whatever it is he wants and stand there with his arms crossed until you get it.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J-SKsJFFg6g/XJJ7-n5GpnI/AAAAAAAACOQ/EcS3RWHMqOoaDlY4fkbmtVa8OEL3J-38gCLcBGAs/s1600/lu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="744" data-original-width="744" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J-SKsJFFg6g/XJJ7-n5GpnI/AAAAAAAACOQ/EcS3RWHMqOoaDlY4fkbmtVa8OEL3J-38gCLcBGAs/s200/lu.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
Lucy is almost 4 but she acts like she's 14. She's so smart, you guys. So so so smart. And she knows it. She knows how to work a room and still hasn't come to terms with the old adage, "you can't always get what you want." She is precocious and stubborn and completely fearless, flashing her dimples and absurdly long lashes at anyone within eye shot. She does basic math and knows her letters and makes up silly little songs constantly. She loves to dance, cuddle her massive collection of stuffed animals, and change her clothing 3-4 times/day. She is her mother's daughter.<br />
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There's the fun stuff. Now for the tough stuff. Brian and I just didn't make it. We still care very much about each other and are working together to raise these babies, but we no longer work as a couple, and we know we aren't doing the kids any favors by staying together for their sake. We still own our house and the kids call it home every day. We take turns living there each week with the kids and will continue this arrangement for at least one more year. It was a sad decision, but the right one for our family. I wish I could speak about it more openly. But I can't yet. And I'm sorry it's taken this long to share this new reality with you. I will be taking a more active role on this blog from here on out. I hope you'll continue to stop in and catch up with our family.Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-81526989162358387802016-11-04T10:34:00.002-07:002016-11-04T10:34:24.891-07:00Updates<br />
I've really been an absentee blogger lately, and I know I've admitted this faulty behavior before. I won't even bother trying with half-hearted apologies this time; my loyal readers know it won't change the frequency of my posts. But since it's been so long, I promise to fill this one with great details about the babies and their recent adventures.<br />
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<br />
We're all just trying to keep our heads above water right now. With another school year came quite a few changes in our house. Given that Lucy and Quinn attend one school with relatively short hours (as far as preschools go) and Atticus is now in 1st grade at our neighborhood public school, the logistics of getting everyone where they need to be in the vast sprawl of Houston became impossible and I decided to teach part-time. I honestly though the transition would be a smooth one. I'll finally get to see my kids' teachers every day! I'll have so much extra time to run errands and make lunches and do laundry! I'll have less grading and an easier schedule! To be fair, all of these things are true, but it doesn't truly make my new schedule any easier than my previous, full-time schedule (which, I should add, was only feasible thanks to help from our nanny extraordinaire, who I'm missing terribly these days). Turns out, I'm a better teacher than chauffeur. The 60 miles a day I clock driving everyone where they need to be is taking a toll on my sanity and, in the end, the hours available to do all my other chores are just as meager as they were last year. I won't even touch the topic of part-time teacher pay...I'm pretty sure I could make more money flipping burgers. That said, I am a more present fixture in my kids' lives, which is the most important part of this change. And the joy I see when I pick them up from a school, a rare privilege in years past, makes it all worthwhile.<br />
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So enough about me...you guys are here for the kids and I like to give the people what they want...<br />
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<h3>
<b>Lucy:</b></h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-19jLPWvFaao/WBzDk-GmGGI/AAAAAAAAB8w/qtIp0ATnkkcDuko22feLpaPddJKHPzaXACLcB/s1600/Lucybeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-19jLPWvFaao/WBzDk-GmGGI/AAAAAAAAB8w/qtIp0ATnkkcDuko22feLpaPddJKHPzaXACLcB/s320/Lucybeach.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Miss Sassy Pants</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ah, Lucy. She is simultaneously my greatest joy and my biggest challenge. This girl's got OPINIONS. And she insists on keeping up with her brothers, so there's no slowing her down. Her personality and intelligence, coupled with her doe eyes, dimples, and curls means that this is a girl who will know how to get what she wants. And that's utterly terrifying if she's anything like I was between the ages of 16 and <strike>22</strike> 33. Despite these fears, I also don't worry too much about her. She's a smart and fierce little thing, and will stiff-arm her brothers if they get too close. Her language is emerging ahead of schedule and one of her favorite activities is to walk into a room and point to and list all the items in it. But her absolute favorite thing to do is to bring me a stack of books, cuddle up in my lap, and insist that I read each of them at least 20 times. I have a sneaking suspicion that she'll be reading them to us before too long.<br />
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<h3>
<b>Quinn: </b></h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paging Dr. Quinn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mr. Indepedent. This boy doesn't want help from anyone and that includes when he's running full speed across a busy parking lot, strapping into a carseat, or pouring his own juice. His speech is slowly but surely improving, but he still has a long way to go, so he gets frustrated when he can't communicate his needs or wants. This has taken quite a toll on the entire family, to be honest, as his defiance is both very loud and very time-consuming. But I can't be frustrated with him when I witness him becoming so frustrated with himself. We had a speech therapist for years who moved away last December and we never replaced her. Therapy is expensive and we didn't feel it was a good use of our time or money for what we were getting, but now that his speech is so severely delayed, we're back into looking at our [very limited with my terrible insurance] options. This time, though, we want to find a therapist who can focus on his oral motor development. Quinn's vocabulary is rather extensive, but his low muscle tone makes it difficult to understand him. For example, "juice" is "oos" and his favorite tv show, "The Lion Guard" is "gine gad". No one outside of our family would understand him, and that's a concern, especially as more language emerges. We need to find a therapist who can work on helping him develop the muscle tone and proper tongue and lip placement to make intelligible sounds. Hopefully we find someone soon and, when we do, I'll report his improvements here.<br />
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<h3>
<b>Atticus: </b></h3>
It's been fun to watch Atticus's talents emerge this year and we've learned that he's a math whiz, a reluctant reader, and has blossomed into quite the musician. He started piano lessons this summer and is learning to read music and can play a song independently with only the sheet music in front of him. It's pretty impressive, to say the least, and something I'm so glad we're encouraging. Music is always playing in our house, whether it's vinyl on a Sunday morning, a mid-week dance party fueled by Spotify playlists, or Mom, Dad, and a guitar. It's so exciting to add Atticus behind a piano to that domestic soundtrack, and I'm looking forward to the day when we can all play together. Here's a glimpse of him practicing his "Halloween Song." I love the way he sings the keys names aloud as he plays.<br />
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All in all, we're hanging in there and ready for the chaos of a new school year to slow down (you know, just in time for the chaos of the holidays to ramp up). Thanks for stopping in and I'll be sure to update more often. So tune in next time, same bat time, same bat channel.Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-24527358814307283022016-09-17T11:39:00.003-07:002016-09-17T11:39:59.458-07:00New music<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 17px;">I've always loved writing music, but lately it seems like time is hard to find. After spending all week forcing myself to sit down and write a little bit each day, it all clicked during Lucy's naptime today and I was able to get something on video. It's still a work in progress, but posting it here forces me to acknowledge that I actually enjoyed the process and should devote more of my time to it in the future. Hope y'all enjoy!</span><br />
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Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-27432219698676352092016-08-01T11:12:00.001-07:002016-08-04T09:41:40.817-07:00Taking a Historic Heights Bungalow from Filth to FabWell, I'll admit that this summer has been anything but relaxing. We were fortunate enough to take a much-needed trip to see my Dad in Colorado in June and attend a friend's wedding in Mexico last week, but in between those two incredible vacations, we've been knee-deep in renovations.<br>
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We live on a corner lot in an historic neighborhood in Houston and always joked that if the house behind us ever went on the market (and we won the lottery), we should buy it and double the size of our modest 5,000 sq-ft lot. The house itself was occupied by a family who was eventually evicted and, as luck would have it, Brian ran into the owner about a week after these tenants moved out. The owner had plans to sell the property and already had an offer on the table, but Brian gave him our number just in case that fell through. He was asking more than we wanted to pay--nay, more than we <i>could </i>pay--but there's always room for negotiations in real estate. We hadn't heard back from the owner and assumed we'd lost our chance, until a month later, when we got a call to tell us that the original offer fell through.<br>
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As I mentioned earlier, we had no business buying a house. We're barely scraping by as it is, but Brian thought our parents might be interested in an investment opportunity, so we showed them the property. We saw a diamond in the rough, but weren't sure that they would. In a questionable Houston market, this dump could be risky, but the neighborhood is desirable due its charm and proximity to downtown. That said, the place smelled like rotting death and looked even worse. <br>
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Charming, huh? <br>
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Clearly, we had a lot of work on our hands, and we were shocked but thrilled that after walking our parents through this hell-hole, they agreed to move forward. Our plan was to renovate the house and rent it out. The Heights is a desirable area and, with a little elbow grease and a LOT of paint, we could have it ready by the end of the summer. So that's what we've done. Everything inside was gutted. We installed new floors, cabinets, countertops, tile, appliances, blinds, light fixtures, and more. Every wall was cleaned (for the first time in what had to be a decade) and painted. And the outside got as much of an update as we could afford. The results have been nothing short of transformative, despite devoting our entire summer to the project.<br>
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As you can see, we're not completely finished yet. We still have towel bars to hang and faucets to install and all manner of other tiny items to address, but we're in the home stretch. Hopefully we'll have the place rented by the end of the month and I can enjoy at least a week of summer before I go back to work. Unless, of course, HGTV is looking for a new flip and rent concept for the upcoming season ;)Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-10260851276835183552016-07-29T15:12:00.000-07:002016-07-29T15:33:33.826-07:00Born This Way, Season 2<div class="s3" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2; margin-left: 252px; text-align: left; text-indent: 36px;">
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<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Last year, A&E made every family raising a child with Down syndrome squeal with delight when it aired its reality tv series, <i>Born This Way, </i>which chronicles the day-to-day experiences of seven adults with Down syndrome. What had me the most excited about this series was that, while I have become a part of close-knit community of parents raising young children with Down syndrome, it's not often that I get to see what life is like for adults with T21. The show was a success and was picked up for a second season, which aired this past week.</span><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sean and his family</td></tr>
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<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I was thrilled when Grace Hill Media, the publicity company doing outreach for the show, contacted me for a chance to interview one of the moms from the series! Sandra's son Sean is 22 and a self-proclaimed "ladies man". Seriously, his scenes are some of my favorites from season one and I can't wait to see what he's up to this time around. Sandra is a strong advocate for the Down syndrome community and a wealth of information for us moms new to the scene, so to speak. Below is the result of our interview, which is full of great information for you mamas raising kids with T21:</span><br><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"></span></div>
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<b><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">1. So often, the world paints us as martyrs for our children, constantly advocating for their education, health, well-being, and inclusion, but even in the 3 1/2 years I've had my son with Down syndrome, there are moments that I love that are exclusive to those of us raising children with special needs. What has been your most rewarding experience as a special needs mom?</span></b></div>
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<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">--I completely agree. The ‘only special parents get special children’ stereotype sets the stage that only a saint can love and raise a child with a disability—and that’s so not true. I have so many moments, but I have to say the way Sean can light up a room when he enters with all of his confidence and so bravely starts talking to everyone present. </span><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Seeing Sean grow into a confident, independent</span><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> adult is truly rewarding, and makes all the hard work in the past worth it.</span></div>
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<b><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">2. What goals/dreams/hopes for Sean's future did you have when he was a baby? How have those aspirations changed as he's become an adult?</span></b></div>
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<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">--as an only child with no close relatives I knew Sean would need to be independent…since none of us are immortal. As he has grown and as I have learned about the supports available his independence is still the goal, I just know he needs support and thankfully the services to provide that support are available. </span></div>
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<b><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">3. What advice do you have for those of us who are just starting our journey of raising a child with Down syndrome? </span></b></div>
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<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br></span></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">--SAVE FOR COLLEGE! I had no idea the number of college programs that now exist would be available when Sean was a baby! So while you may need an ABLE Account (don’t save in your child’s name without it) or save in an account under your name, but save!</span></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<br></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<b><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">4. What do you think are Sean's greatest gifts and talents? What do you feel have been his greatest challenges?</span></b></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"><br></span></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">--Sean has the most courage of anyone I know. While his articulation isn’t perfectly clear, he still will stand up in front of hundreds, and in one case thousands, of people and bravely speaks. His outgoing personality and appropriate social skills are his greatest assets. His greatest challenge—listening to his mother…he still is in that stage where he thinks I don’t know anything. </span></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<b><br></b></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<b><span class="s5" style="font-family: "calibri"; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">5. If there was one thing you could change about special education, based on your experiences with Sean, what would it be?</span></b><br>
</div>
<div class="s8" style="line-height: 1.2;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="s2" style="line-height: 21.6px;">---I would love that there would be no ‘special’ education at all. Just EDUCATION and every student would receive the supports, services, accommodations and modifications necessary for them to succeed. Every student would be welcomed into any classroom any extracurricular activity and acceptance for every student regardless of their individual gifts and needs would prevail.</span></span></span><br>
<br>
<br>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="s2" style="line-height: 21.6px;">I can't thank Sandra enough for her willingness to speak with me and share her insights! <i>Born this Way </i>airs on A&E on Tuesdays at 10/9c. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8xA3btFwAU&index=9&list=PLcviVtB85dLxvPqcmPgAJN_ZgOnG0HT4M" target="_blank">And check out the trailer for season two here</a>! </span></span></span></div>
<div class="s8" style="font-size: 18px; line-height: 1.2;">
<br></div>
Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-46058646047068393322016-05-31T09:52:00.000-07:002016-05-31T09:58:58.833-07:00So you just had a baby with Down syndrome. Now what?<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L4dueNRCCuM/V03CuBiZaLI/AAAAAAAAB3g/Km3Kbiz7lVg0Su1b6OVmSOg7WCMaH_GwgCLcB/s1600/iphotos%2B182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L4dueNRCCuM/V03CuBiZaLI/AAAAAAAAB3g/Km3Kbiz7lVg0Su1b6OVmSOg7WCMaH_GwgCLcB/s400/iphotos%2B182.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Itty bitty baby Quinn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you’ve stumbled across this post, it’s likely because
you are about to embark upon a journey you never planned for. I understand and
remember that experience well. Learning halfway through my pregnancy that my
son would be born with Down syndrome was like stepping into another world. I
felt lost, isolated, and angry. I felt as if my life would never be “normal”
again. I remember worrying that I would never be able to keep track of the
different milestones, the doctor’s appointments, the therapy sessions. And to
be honest, these things were difficult in the beginning because I didn’t know
where to start. I also wanted someone to tell me the truth about my future; the
internet is full of sunshine-and-rainbow accounts of raising children with Down
syndrome, but I knew that couldn’t always be the case. Surely these parents
were devastated by their child’s diagnosis and exhausted from the extra time a
child with special needs requires, but I wasn’t seeing that on the blogs I
read. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Quinn was born, I realized that Down syndrome was not a worst-case
scenario, and despite my early misgivings, I wouldn’t change a thing about him
now. My son is a light in this world and, had I known what to expect from the
beginning, accepting his diagnosis would have been easier.</div>
<br />
So first and foremost, congratulations! We often get so wrapped up in the fear and grief that accompanies this diagnosis that a lot of people forget that a TINY HUMAN LIFE just entered the world (or is on its way, if your diagnosis came prenatally). Seriously, congratulations. This isn't easy, but I promise you, it gets better. Once that's taken care of, consider the following steps:<br />
<ol style="text-align: center;">
<li><b>Love your baby.</b></li>
<li><b>Love your baby.</b></li>
<li><b>Repeat steps 1-2.</b></li>
</ol>
<br />
Feeling better yet? No? That's ok. It's probably because you have no idea what you're doing. If this baby is your first, those feelings are likely multiplied by 100. Don't worry, none of us knew what we were doing either. Sometimes I still don't. But the most important thing you can do are steps 1-3 above. The rest will fall into place. When you ready to move forward, here's what you need to know:<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><b>Let’s start with the tough stuff…</b></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li><b>Medical Issues:</b> Kids with Down syndrome are more likely
to suffer from a myriad of health issues than typically-developing kids. They
are prone to heart defects, leukemia, vision and hearing problems, respiratory
issues, autism, and ADD. But before you wring your hands with worry, keep in
mind that they also respond very well to treatment for all of these issues. The
best advice I can offer is to find a pediatrician who respects your opinion as
a professional parent. You will likely become an expert at Down syndrome care
in the first year and you’ll be aware of the tests and screenings that need to
take place, often even more than your pediatrician. A good doctor will take
your research seriously and offer to help you find the right specialists and
make the right referrals. Also be prepared to spend the first year of your
child’s life visiting doctors who will rule out the aforementioned issues. My
husband and I always joked that Quinn was such a good sleeper (he slept through
the night almost from the beginning) because he knew how much we would need it.
And we did. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Developmental Delays:</b> If you’re a first-time parent, you
might not immediately recognize your child’s hypotonia (or low muscle tone),
but those with experience holding newborns will likely notice that a baby with
Down syndrome has less control over his body than a typically-developing child.
This hypotonia is responsible for delayed motor skills like crawling and
walking, and has a tendency to interfere with proper feeding and speech. As a
result, you want to sign up for Early Intervention Services as soon as your
child is born. These therapies will assist in the development of fine and gross
motor skills and eventually speech. Both insurance and Medicaid often help
families cover the cost of these services. To see who to contact in your state, visit: <a href="http://ectacenter.org/contact/ptccoord.asp">http://ectacenter.org/contact/ptccoord.asp</a></li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HekXuHFPOus/V02_qLd0cpI/AAAAAAAAB3M/KZR9ajBb3WcS95IbW1tNwPaBf39iJUTKwCLcB/s1600/Developmental%2BChart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HekXuHFPOus/V02_qLd0cpI/AAAAAAAAB3M/KZR9ajBb3WcS95IbW1tNwPaBf39iJUTKwCLcB/s640/Developmental%2BChart.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">credit: http://www.ndss.org/Resources/Therapies-Development/Early-Intervention</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</ul>
<b></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Other people’s perceptions: </b>This was the hardest for me.
Upon Quinn’s diagnosis, everyone suddenly became an expert on Down syndrome
because their brother’s friend’s cousin once knew a kid with Down syndrome.
These people’s well-meaning opinions and advice drove me crazy in the
beginning. I didn’t want people to “pray for me” as if I were suffering from an
illness, and I didn’t want to be told that “special people are chosen to raise
special kids.” I didn’t feel special, nor did I want to separate my child from
others as if he were already being labeled and isolated. There’s no easy answer
for coping with these comments except to remember they’re coming from a good
place. Remember that your child is an individual and is not like everyone else
with Down syndrome. </li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u>But here’s the silver lining…</u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<ul>
<li><b>My life is “normal”:</b> this was a pretty significant fear
for me in the beginning. Would I suddenly become a social pariah because of my
child’s disability? Would the time needed to care for him take over my life?
Would my other children’s’ needs be met? Could I still work? When Quinn was
born, I still worried about those things, but I can honestly tell you that my
life is not any less “normal” than a parent with a full-time job and three
young kids. Quinn is very much like any other child, though he is a little slow
to meet major milestones (for example, when he was 12 months old, he was just
starting to crawl, while my other kids were/are walking at that same age).
Truth be told, some days these delays affect me and other days they don’t. The
most important thing for me is that he’s treated the same way as everyone else.
He receives just as much love and discipline as every other child his age. No
one turns him away because of his disability. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Your child will light up a room:</b> Atticus and Lucy are
beautiful children. They have giant brown eyes with impossibly-long eyelashes
and winning smiles. They know how to receive attention and deliver laughs. But
none of that compares to the reaction I get from strangers when Quinn is around.
I’ve seen women run from across a crowded store to fawn over him. And Quinn
smiles brighter than any child I’ve ever known. He’s content, easy-to-please,
and generally even-tempered. Except when he’s not. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>You will make new connections with other parents:</b> When we
received Quinn’s prenatal diagnosis, I was introduced to many people in my
community who are raising children with Down syndrome. These people have become
my support system, my resource, my family. Their children inspire me as much as
my own, and together we are a force that advocates for acceptance, inclusion,
and awareness for the Down syndrome community. We’re also friends who get
together often for picnics, parties, and play dates. I’ve found that most of these
people would be dear friends even if we didn’t share this special commonality;
it’s as if our children brought us together. </li>
</ul>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The journey you’re taking is slightly different than the one
you planned for; this news is initially devastating to face. But it gets
better. I can honestly say that I love my son fiercely just the way he is. I
once read somewhere that we are sent here to learn, while those with Down
syndrome are sent here to teach. I’m not usually one for the hokey message of
fate and spiritual intentions; that type of euphemism tends to rub me the wrong
way. But I can’t deny the person I’ve become since having Quinn. His existence
is my greatest accomplishment. I’ve learned more from him in less than two
years than I’ve learned from anyone in my entire life. He has taught me
patience and perspective and helped me realize that the life I wasn’t planning
for (a life that many actually take steps to avoid) is one I would choose to
live all over again.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9nHwBlnkpS8/V03AYI5gBFI/AAAAAAAAB3U/1sSZmxyUJ78919bFvG6SzjWuI9qwXpOoQCLcB/s1600/gap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9nHwBlnkpS8/V03AYI5gBFI/AAAAAAAAB3U/1sSZmxyUJ78919bFvG6SzjWuI9qwXpOoQCLcB/s400/gap.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How can you not love this face?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<![endif]-->Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-27058888523082049932016-05-26T07:55:00.000-07:002016-05-26T08:57:10.884-07:00Happy Birthday, Lucy Louise!One year ago today, my daughter came screaming into this world, ready to make her mark. As we navigated the flood waters of Houston, breathing through contractions and dodging cars going the wrong direction on I-10 in the pitch black 5am darkness because the other side of the freeway was underwater, I should have known Lucy was the kind of girl who would blaze her own path. She was ready to make her debut that morning, and no rising waters were going to get in her way. And as the year has progressed, her personality has blossomed before our eyes, dazzling us with her dimpled smile, demanding attitude, and ceaseless curiosity, all of which I saw coming that morning I went into labor. I knew her before she arrived, and yet now that she's here, she keeps surprising me. <br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-buwtV5un4fY/V0XvgOZxnXI/AAAAAAAAB2U/lW6C_PorlZwDiGo242kbNhaCKEMc6P3PwCLcB/s1600/one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-buwtV5un4fY/V0XvgOZxnXI/AAAAAAAAB2U/lW6C_PorlZwDiGo242kbNhaCKEMc6P3PwCLcB/s640/one.jpg" width="425" /></a>One year ago today, I gave birth to my last baby. As a result, I've done my very best to cherish every snuggle, every milky warm breath on my chest, and every milestone, knowing it would be the last time I'd experience this list of firsts from one of my own. But a part of me is anxious and impatient to watch her grow. I adore clumsy toddling on chunky legs, and Lucy is getting closer to walking each day. I love when those first few words arrive, and we've had a slew of them over the past month or so. Lucy is a clever little thing, learning things at a rate I didn't realize was possible for a child her age. She is thoughtful and observant. She soaks it all in and turns it over in her tiny mind, figuring out what it all means. She loves to play with shoes and doors and blocks. She loves to put things in her mouth. She loves to babble and imitate and bang toys together. Most importantly, she loves to laugh these huge belly laughs that fill the whole house with such happiness that I fear the windows might break from trying to hold it all in. And while there will come a day when I will mourn the loss of baby toes and fluttering eyelashes, I acknowledge that time stops for no one, not even a mother desperate to cling to the final stages of babyhood.<br />
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We celebrated this little lady last Saturday at Gamma and PopPop's house. My mom outdid herself making the event a special one and all my favorite people here in Houston were able to join us. Even as a storm rolled during the "Birthday Song" (which is fitting, given the day she came into this world), I was still snapping pictures while her brothers swiped frosting from her pink smash cake. It was a special moment that I'll cherish forever, made even more special by the ones who helped us celebrate. <br />
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Happy birthday to my sweet lil' Lu. We are so happy you joined our family and made it complete. Your brothers adore you and your parents are in awe of you. I can't wait to see the strong, intelligent, and selfless woman you'll become someday, but only after we get a few more years of those chunky baby thighs. <br />
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<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-62792023943340247972016-03-21T10:02:00.001-07:002016-03-21T12:22:37.507-07:00World Down Syndrome Day<br />
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Today is 3/21, which means that it's World Down Syndrome Day, in honor of the 3rd copy of the 21st chromosome. Our community chooses to celebrate in many different ways, from <a href="https://worlddownsyndromeday.org/lots-of-socks" target="_blank">wearing crazy socks</a> to posting pictures on social media of our loved ones with Ds. I usually make some basic statement about what Down syndrome means to our family under an Instagram picture and consider it done. But since I a) haven't posted to the blog in ages (sorry; I also realize my last post was, ironically, about my New Year's resolution to write more) and b) have a bit more to say today than usual, I decided to make it a full-fledged entry. I haven't written about Down syndrome in a while, so there's quite a bit of commentary I want to get off my chest and it's not all pretty. But keep reading; I like to end on a high note.<br />
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The purpose of WDSD, which began in 2006 and was recognized by the UN in 2012, is to promote awareness for individuals with Down syndrome. There's something very special about a community coming together with one voice to advocate for our children, brothers, sisters, and friends. We want desperately for society to recognize the worth of individuals with Down syndrome and that they can play vital roles in their communities. But sometimes I worry that days like today paint an unrealistically rosy picture of families raising kids with Trisomy 21. We need a day of awareness <i>because</i> Down syndrome means we have hurdles to jump and struggles to overcome, but I've learned that it's frowned upon to admit that raising a child with Down syndrome is challenging. And there are members of this community who will roast me for this comment, especially on a day of awareness and celebration, but sometimes Down syndrome is hard.<br />
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Until now, it was a part of my son that necessitated extra doctor's appointments and early intervention. But as I watch Quinn move from toddlerhood to legit preschooler, his delays in speech and cognition are making life more difficult for him and it breaks my heart a little. Quinn is typically a happy little guy, but I can't help but blame Down syndrome for the things that upset him. Down syndrome is the reason that he can't express what he needs. Down syndrome is the reason that he isn't potty-trained, that he doesn't know his colors or shapes yet, that he has to have yet another surgery on Friday (it's just a routine tonsillectomy, but this is his 3rd surgery in as many years, and Down syndrome is the reason we'll likely have to stay overnight when other kids receiving the same procedure will sleep in their own beds that night. Down syndrome makes it difficult for Quinn's oxygen saturation to normalize after anesthesia, requiring additional observation). And in the grand scheme of things, these are minor issues. Quinn will catch up, he will learn to speak, he is relatively healthy, and he has a support system that will ensure his well-being both now and in the future. But as any special needs parent will tell you, our lives as parents are different because of Down syndrome. Our decisions are always made with Down syndrome in mind, from something as simple as where to eat dinner to as complex as where to live and send our kids to school. And just because we put on a brave face and act like it's no big deal, sometimes Down syndrome is overwhelming. <br />
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On this day especially, I want<i> </i>people to believe that my kid is capable of living a fulfilling and purposeful life, that he has so many things to contribute to society. I <i>need</i> people to believe this. But it also makes me feel like I'm not allowed to discuss the challenges we face. Sometimes these moments of awareness gloss over our needs and make us feel like we we're not allowed to doubt their future success, which isn't really fair because I have the same concerns and worries for Atticus and Lucy, too. Why can't I worry about Quinn out loud? If we spend all our time advocating for how much our kids are like everyone else, people might forget that there are a unique set of obstacles before us, and that we need support as much as we need acceptance. The future of special education, quality healthcare, and community advocacy groups all require adequate funding and support, none of which will happen if we keep convincing everyone within earshot that Down syndrome is the best thing to ever happen to us (yes, I have read those words many times). <br />
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I'll be honest; I wondered if I should even post this. I know there are readers out there who are considering termination after a prenatal diagnosis. I'm terrified that this post will sway your decision and I implore you to keep reading. There are readers out there who just had a baby with Down syndrome and you feel lost and scared. These words may have offered you little comfort, so I beg you to make it to the end.<br />
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While there are times that I hate Down syndrome, there are times when I love it. I love the community of support that comes with this diagnosis. If you are new to this world, you are now a part of our family. And we're pretty freakin' awesome. I love the pure, unadulterated joy that radiates from Quinn. He enjoys his life and we enjoy him. He loves those around him with such willful abandon that I know his soul is pure and I have grown as a person because of him. Quinn has made me more patient, more understanding, and more kind. Quinn is a magnet for attention, too. We can't go anywhere without strangers fawning over him because he's cute. I mean really, really cute. I suppose we can thank Down syndrome for that as well. And for all the things that make our lives more challenging, I wouldn't trade it for a Quinn without Down syndrome. Because that extra chromosome exists in every cell in his body, which means that it is a part of his sparkling personality, his beautiful blue eyes, and his stubborn, yet resilient charm. Those things will serve him well in the future and, while they might not erase the challenges caused by that extra chromosome, they do make it all worthwhile.<br />
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<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-61585746980877746692015-12-30T08:25:00.001-08:002015-12-30T08:25:42.352-08:00New Year's Resolutions for the Whole FamilyNew Year's Resolutions are becoming harder for me to make. With each passing year, I watch myself make and break the typical goals of cleaner eating, more hours at the gym, and less screen time. According to a <a href="http://www.forbes.com/sites/dandiamond/2013/01/01/just-8-of-people-achieve-their-new-years-resolutions-heres-how-they-did-it/" target="_blank">2013 study by Scranton University</a>, only 8% of people keep their New Year's Resolutions. Given my track record, this comes as no surprise. My gut reaction when I hear the word "resolution" is to roll my eyes and question the point; by February the only action my running shoes will see will be collecting loose french fries on the passenger seat of my car.<br />
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But this morning, while watching television and decidedly not exercising, my 5-year-old overheard the morning show news anchor discussing resolutions and, being the curious child that he is, he asked me what that meant. In explaining it to him, I not only remembered the importance of setting goals to better one's self, but it also dawned on me that the one way I might meet my goals for the new year is if my kids hold me accountable (and they might learn a valuable lesson on personal growth in the process). We discussed the concept of New Year's Resolutions and I told him that every year I try to eat healthier foods and get more exercise, but some other people choose different goals depending on how they want to improve their lives. Since I've never been very good at keeping the aforementioned resolutions, I decided to ask my son what resolutions should I make for myself. Perhaps he knew a better way to a better me. Given that change doesn't come from doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, I shouldn't have been so surprised by his answers:<br />
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1. Take me to the park more.<br />
2. Don't clean the house so much.<br />
3. Be silly.<br />
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And he's right. I haven't been very good at those things on the list. I found myself trying to give excuses for my behavior. The weather hasn't been very nice for the park lately. Our house is small and crowded, so it needs to stay clean. I'm tired when I get home from work. But what good are excuses in the face of 5-year-old honesty? These are the things that matter to him and, quite frankly, these are pretty easy changes to make. So my goals for 2016 will center on ways to be a better person in my children's eyes. Considering I'll have more influence on their lives than anyone else, I should take it seriously. And no one can hold me accountable better than my kids.<br />
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But the lesson doesn't end there. I told my son that he needs to think about choices and changes he can make to improve himself in 2016. The list he rattled off was far longer than the one he made for me. I find it interesting that we develop our sense of good versus bad, helpful versus harmful at such a young age. Granted, one of his resolutions was to improve his Lego Star Wars video game performance, but the rest of his goals were quite indicative of his moral development. They include but are not limited to eating more vegetables because they're healthy, practicing soccer with Dad, and earning a 100 on all his spelling tests for the rest of kindergarten (yes, there are spelling tests in kindergarten; I could hardly believe it myself). What was even more surprising was that his list didn't require a great deal of thought; he knew immediately what was important to him. Perhaps that's the key. Perhaps we need to make our goals simpler, more attainable, and relevant to our immediate needs and wants. Or perhaps he wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible because his favorite show was about to come on TV. I'd like to believe it was the former.<br />
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This exercise was about more than setting important goals for myself; it helped me to realize what's important to my kids. It helped me remember the value of personal growth and that it's never too early to start thinking about ways to become better. But most importantly, it allowed us to create resolutions that will bring us closer together as a family. The years of raising small children is exhausting, but it's temporary. I have a feeling that when I blink and they're teenagers causing all sorts of rebellious trouble, I'll wish I spent more time cherishing these innocently messy years. And if I can instill in them the importance of self-reflection and self-growth, then maybe I won't have to drive them to court after an especially rowdy mailbox-smashing joy ride when they're 16. It's a win-win.<br />
<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-80438981575047636892015-12-18T09:10:00.000-08:002015-12-18T09:16:02.522-08:00Happy Birthday, Quinn!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BVhKlQqnW-M/VnQ3-WD9X1I/AAAAAAAABnU/dralk7d2hUQ/s1600/bday1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BVhKlQqnW-M/VnQ3-WD9X1I/AAAAAAAABnU/dralk7d2hUQ/s320/bday1.jpg" width="240" /></a>I'm having a hard time wrapping my brain around the fact that Quinn is THREE years old. Seriously, where has the time gone? Nevermind. I know the answer. It's been spent chasing this kid up and down the stairs, telling silly stories, making convincing and often-terrifying dinosaur sounds, and reminding him to use soft hands with his sister/the cat/my eyeballs. Time flies when you're having fun, I guess. But this year's birthday snuck up on me. In years past, I've found myself agonizing over the birthday milestone and remembering that Quinn was still so very far behind developmentally. This year, that hasn't even crossed my mind. Not because Quinn doesn't still have those same struggles; he's very different from a typically-developing three-year-old, but he's thriving and happy and a true joy to be around. And that's really all I want for my kids. They don't need to fit into some mold of perfection that we create when we become parents; they just need to be happy, dammit.<br />
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And there's been a lot of talk lately about Quinn's happiness. At the age of three, kids with special needs qualify for services through the public school system, including speech therapy services and even in some cases full-time early childhood education. We waived our right to the latter since Quinn's best placement is at The Rise School, but it puts an added emphasis on this year's birthday since we need to start thinking about what we want for his educational future. As we approach these last few years of preschool and his graduation from The Rise School looms in the distance, we have to make a choice.<br />
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Do we:<br />
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A. Push him to be a self-advocate in the sink-or-swim world of public education? Do we fight for an inclusive setting where he'll likely be one of the few kids--maybe even the only kid--with Down syndrome, but where he'll learn autonomy and have a fighting chance to attend college, get a job, and function independently as an adult? If we go that route, will he become fodder for inspiration porn? You know, those viral videos of the kid with special needs being voted Homecoming King or victorious in wrestling match that the "typical" kid threw simply because his opponent has Down syndrome. You guys, I HATE those videos. My kid is not a mascot. He's not here to make other people feel better about themselves. But he does have an opportunity to help other students understand and respect differences, and there's a great deal he can learn from typically-developing peers.<br />
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Or do we: <br />
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B. Continue with private education where he's surrounded by kids like him? A place where he'll be safe and comfortable, where he'll receive the intensive interventions he's been receiving at The Rise School, but which also might prevent him from learning to interact with the world outside his special needs bubble? Will he even need those interventions beyond the early childhood classroom? Rise's model is based on the hope that he won't, and he is truly thriving there, but is he thriving enough to join a typical kindergarten classroom when the time comes? Will that social comfort be stunting to him as he gets older. Will being around his siblings and their friends be enough interaction with typically-developing peers?<br />
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All these questions come out of a genuine desire to do what's best for Quinn. I want him to determine his own path based on his goals for himself, not mine. But I highly doubt Quinn will know his goals at age 5, when these decisions must be made. The extent of Atticus's goals at this same age are to build the latest and greatest Star Wars Lego and to get fruit snacks when he gets home from school. So it's up to us to figure out what's best for him for now. We have time, but with every birthday, we get closer to that decision-making deadline.<br />
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While we weigh our options, we'll also soak up these years and enjoy the time we have with our fun, mischievous, hard-to-catch little boy. In that spirit, here's a fun glimpse at Quinn now:<br />
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<li><u><b>Likes</b></u>: dinosaurs, Lucy, anything Atticus likes, books, running to be chased, taking off his shoes and socks when we're already late and insisting that he be the one to put them back on, school, dancing, and ketchup.</li>
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<li><u><b>Dislikes</b></u>: when there's no ketchup.</li>
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<li><u><b>Words</b></u>: ketchup, mama, daddy, Elmo, sock, dino, "ucy" (for Lucy), "caca" (for Atticus. I know, it's tragically funny), book, car, truck.</li>
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<li><u><b>Skills</b></u>: running, jumping, kicking a ball, drinking from an open cup, using scissors to cut a straight line, drawing circles (though he has zero interest in this skill), following multi-step instructions, completing puzzles with little assistance, stringing beads, and walking up and down stairs.</li>
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<li><u><b>Adjectives to describe his personality</b></u>: stubborn, social, loving, and energetic.</li>
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<b>Happy birthday, Quinn! We love to pieces! </b></h3>
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Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-48695381359882882572015-12-01T08:18:00.002-08:002015-12-01T08:18:57.515-08:00#GivingTuesdayToday is #GivingTuesday, a time when we take a break from elbowing each other in the groin on Black Friday to save $50 on a new TV or spending the entire workday shopping Cyber Monday deals when you should be answering emails. It's a time when we consider the causes that are important to us and give what we can to help those in need.<br />
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As you know, Quinn attends The Rise School of Houston, a preschool for children with and without disabilities. It is, without question, the BEST place for his development and early childhood education. At Rise, Quinn receives speech, physical, and music therapy. He shares a classroom with 9 other children and 4 teachers (one of whom has a disability), and together they learn the skills needed to be independent, social, and ready for kindergarten. But, as the Rise website will tell you:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>$24,000 – that’s the true cost to educate a child in Rise Houston’s
intensive, highly effective program each year. A small price when the
long-term payoff is so great. Yet the price is still out of reach for
most families. To keep Rise affordable for families, tuition is set at a
portion of the real per-student cost, about $1600 a month or $19,000 a
year in 2012-13. Two-thirds of our families apply for and receive
scholarships of 20%-70% off full tuition based on their needs, but every
enrolled family pays something.</i></blockquote>
<br />
Without the help of donors like you, Rise would be impossible for many families, including our own. Can find it in your heart to give, even just a small amount, to make Rise a reality for deserving families? If so, you can <a href="http://www.riseschool.org/givingtuesday.html" target="_blank"><b>donate here</b></a>. <br />
<br />
If you're still not convinced, just watch this video to see all the great things this school is doing for kids like Quinn, Atticus, and Lucy. We are so fortunate to have this amazing program in our area and are eternally grateful for the donations that make tuition and attendance possible for my children and all the others that make our great Rise School family.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-53430250224610644902015-11-18T10:22:00.000-08:002015-11-18T14:47:34.822-08:00More Love, Less Hate<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Back when I first started this blog, I wrote <a href="http://meganmennes.blogspot.com/2011/02/social-media-are-benefits-worth.html#more" target="_blank">a post about the impact of social media on the political and social climate</a>, specifically during
the Arab Spring of 2011. I argued that after tens of thousands of Middle Eastern
citizens in countries like Egypt and Syria took to social media to organize
protests against oppressive regimes, Facebook could save the world. I
argued that social media was a platform for voices otherwise silenced. Now,
I'm not so sure. Now, there’s too much noise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the recent attacks in Paris, everyone with a profile
picture is suddenly an expert on how to stop ISIS, how to deal with Syrian
refugees, how to properly honor victims of terrorist attacks. I recently read
<a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/got-a-french-flag-on-your-facebook-profile-picture-congratulations-on-your-corporate-white-supremacy-a6736526.html" target="_blank">an article that congratulated me on my “corporate white supremacy”</a> after changing
my profile picture to the colors of the French flag. Apparently I am not
mourning the loss of life properly. Apparently I am an enemy worth fighting, as
if we don’t have enough of those already.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In times of war, our fear and anger have a tendency to mask
our humanity. I’ll be the first to admit that I have strong opinions on the
world’s most recent crises and I cringe when I see fear drive the political
climate at home and abroad. And I won’t claim that these opinions never make it
to my Facebook profile, but I try to do so in the hopes of starting a logical
and respectful dialogue. Unfortunately, the recent vitriol and polarization of social
media, mainly among Americans, is enough to make me close my account forever.
Suddenly everyone has a soapbox, but most people don’t have the research or
facts to do much but ramble up there ad naseum. I’ve read misguided opinions
that we should drop nuclear weapons on an entire portion of the world. I’ve
listened to interview clips from so-called experts comparing Islam to Nazism. I’ve
seen memes so racist, they would make a Klansman blush. But, most
disturbingly, I’ve seen people that I know and love spew hate-filled and angry
rants with anyone who has the gall to disagree with their opinions. </div>
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<br></div>
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The beauty of our freedoms as Americans is that we have the
right to disagree with one another. We have the right to uphold different
values and opinions. Hell, we even have the right to be complete assholes to
each other, but that doesn’t mean we should, because we also have a responsibility
to care for one another. And if you want to stop a terrorist regime bent on
hate, then we’re not going to do it with more hate. Or as a divided front. ISIS
wants us to attack each other, they want us to make each other the enemy. They
want us to hate Syrian refugees, to steer our focus towards our own
differences, so that we’re not paying attention before they strike again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I ask that we all take a moment and consider the future
we want for our children. I want you to stop before you reply to a random
person’s comment on a Facebook page and pretend that you’re talking with your
mom, your best friend, your coworker. You’re talking to another human being,
very often on the subject of other human beings. And regardless of where you
stand on the Syrian refugee issue, please remember that 99.9% of these people
are risking their lives to escape our common enemy, many of whom have small,
hungry, and traumatized children in tow. So don’t call them monsters or terrorists hell-bent on killing us. I want
you to remember the reason we’re all so opinionated on the matter: because when
attacks like what happened in Paris, in Beirut, in the Egyptian skies occur, it
means that hate is winning. And I, for one, would prefer the alternative.
Perhaps we should start at home.</div>
Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-22151069090982523412015-10-19T10:32:00.002-07:002015-10-19T10:33:48.433-07:00Fall Photo DumpHouston, meet October. October, Houston. Glad you two are finally acquainted because before this past weekend, I was ready to leave this humid swamp pit behind. And then a glorious fall front made its way down South, sending swarms of impatient Houstonians to a place we've only dreamed of since April: outside.<br />
<br />
We decided that the pumpkin patch of Blessignton Farms in Fulshear was a good way to spend the afternoon, so we loaded the kiddos into the car and took the scenic drive west of town. I'm almost tempted to abort this post altogether, as Blessington Farms might be the area's best-kept secret and I don't want to be fighting throngs of people next year when the cat's out of the bag. But at the risk of giving too much away, I'll just say that the $10 admission includes tons of family-friendly activities without obnoxious lines, overpriced concessions, or insufficient parking. Thanks to them, we snagged some pretty adorable pictures on our visit without too many tears or complaints.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mP0CyC6a_E8/ViUn8hWWELI/AAAAAAAABgA/NJYj2SSBY48/s1600/boys_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mP0CyC6a_E8/ViUn8hWWELI/AAAAAAAABgA/NJYj2SSBY48/s640/boys_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brothers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tCg3PgFZS5o/ViUn7_tjWJI/AAAAAAAABfo/9-n1anPmJCQ/s1600/aandlcollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tCg3PgFZS5o/ViUn7_tjWJI/AAAAAAAABfo/9-n1anPmJCQ/s640/aandlcollage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tAC5T8bdhaA/ViUn8zz7BXI/AAAAAAAABf4/-gnOgyFvI0M/s1600/chickencollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tAC5T8bdhaA/ViUn8zz7BXI/AAAAAAAABf4/-gnOgyFvI0M/s640/chickencollage.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quinn's dream of holding a farm animal IN HIS VERY OWN HANDS becomes a reality.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IbSin-nvQ2A/ViUn8wc-DwI/AAAAAAAABfw/_Vu3h9xhyoQ/s1600/brianand_l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IbSin-nvQ2A/ViUn8wc-DwI/AAAAAAAABfw/_Vu3h9xhyoQ/s640/brianand_l.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E77uvQsKa1o/ViUn71_1xfI/AAAAAAAABfk/u_J8diUrneE/s1600/Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E77uvQsKa1o/ViUn71_1xfI/AAAAAAAABfk/u_J8diUrneE/s640/Collage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6OYpgU_H6zw/ViUn9jkvEgI/AAAAAAAABgE/n9OaQyDijXg/s1600/lucy_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6OYpgU_H6zw/ViUn9jkvEgI/AAAAAAAABgE/n9OaQyDijXg/s640/lucy_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prettiest pumpkin in the patch</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tMXWgUy2iNk/ViUn75ickWI/AAAAAAAABfg/B4AvKYtcCXE/s1600/QCollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tMXWgUy2iNk/ViUn75ickWI/AAAAAAAABfg/B4AvKYtcCXE/s640/QCollage.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left: while eating popcorn. Right: upon realizing he ate all the popcorn.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-713084545579903352015-10-01T08:19:00.001-07:002015-10-19T10:34:07.936-07:00Why, hello, there; it's been a while.Apparently three kids are enough to render even basic tasks so complicated that significant strategic planning is required to take a shower, make a sandwich, or get the mail. It should be noted that I haven't had much trouble finding time enough to pour the wine, though. My priorities are appropriately aligned. Nevertheless, I sincerely apologize for my absence. It's been far too long since I delivered an update on my motley crew.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-auxCXkPTsMQ/Vg1JhHugJiI/AAAAAAAABeU/ZUhSM_-YVnU/s1600/ablog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-auxCXkPTsMQ/Vg1JhHugJiI/AAAAAAAABeU/ZUhSM_-YVnU/s320/ablog.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>Atticus:</b><br />
<br />
Atticus started kindergarten last month and has been killing it. He already has a girlfriend (ha, whatever that means. I expect their interaction begins and ends while she opens his yogurt at lunch, but we roll with it and treat it like a real thing). He's making friends and loves his teacher and has homework every night, which is about as good as I had hoped things would be in big-kid school. We're currently trying to figure out how to illustrate his favorite book character on a paper plate, which will take ages because Atticus is surprisingly meticulous, almost painfully so. If he makes a mistake, no matter how small, he wants to start over completely. He also cannot stand glue, marker, or dirt on his hands. So homework takes too long to complete and involves many trips to the kitchen sink, at which point Brian and I pour another glass of the aforementioned wine and try to convince him that Harvard could care less about his macaroni art and it won't be a part of his transcripts.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Quinn:</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QRlLjyrjyBg/Vg1MB1kqtpI/AAAAAAAABeo/TRVKB19RKFw/s1600/qblog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QRlLjyrjyBg/Vg1MB1kqtpI/AAAAAAAABeo/TRVKB19RKFw/s320/qblog2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Quinn is...how do I put this?...hard to catch. He's always on a mission, which includes but is not limited to: climbing up the stairs with no ability to get down alone, dumping every toy out on the living room floor, repeatedly (and with no regard to our requests to do otherwise) bringing half-masticated crackers to his little sister, and stealing and hiding everyone's shoes so that we can't leave the house when we want to, forcing us to search every possible nook and cranny until hours later--oh, look!-- they're in the washing machine. Needless to say, he's a busy little boy. But he's also unfailingly curious, which will serve him well when he's older. So we'll just hold on tight and try our best to enjoy the ride.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kdka-omPd8E/Vg1JhGvUkvI/AAAAAAAABeM/lxE75Gi80jw/s1600/lblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Kdka-omPd8E/Vg1JhGvUkvI/AAAAAAAABeM/lxE75Gi80jw/s320/lblog.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>Lucy:</b><br />
<br />
You guys, this kid is CUTE. She has these dimples that just melt your heart and is almost always smiling. Of course, when she's not smiling, she's screaming her bloody lungs out. We joke that she has #fomo (which stands for "fear of missing out." Don't worry, I had to ask someone, too). If she isn't being held or in the middle of the action, she's not happy. When we lay her in her bassinet, she pushes her little shoulders forward like she's trying to sit up and will babble at you incessantly. We assume this means she'll be a busy little chatterbox. Considering the boys were pretty quiet and super-chill babies, it's a definite change of pace. While it means that we'll have our work cut out for us, she's also one fierce little lady who will hold her own one day, and for that I am grateful.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b><br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VfL0y8i7GJg/Vg1O0lXvF1I/AAAAAAAABe4/xmh0F29k_x8/s1600/us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VfL0y8i7GJg/Vg1O0lXvF1I/AAAAAAAABe4/xmh0F29k_x8/s320/us.jpg" width="320" /></a>I'm back at work and honestly struggling to juggle the absolute insanity that is my life right now. I love teaching. Love it. But I'm starting to question whether or not the classroom is the best place for me at the moment. My kids are at three different schools/daycare situations and it requires a small village to get them to and from their respective locations. Atticus attends an afterschool enrichment program because I can't pick him up when school lets out at 3:15, and we have nanny who takes Quinn, Lucy, and another Rise student to our house until I get home from work. When it's all said and done, I'm essentially working so that we can afford to send Quinn to Rise and I'm ok with that, but I wish there were an alternative. I wish the tuition was less or the hours longer. I wish we could win the lottery and I could stay home with Lucy, walk Atticus to school in the morning, and be a more active part of the parent community at Quinn's school. I wish I wish I wish. But this is our reality right now and I'm doing my best to make the most of it. Someday I might be in a position to run the PTA bakesale, at which point I might curse my domesticity anyway...the grass is always greener.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-91246053413019324172015-08-03T11:55:00.002-07:002015-08-03T12:25:15.540-07:00My babies keep growing (and it's breaking my heart a little)There is one inevitability in motherhood: our babies will leave us
someday. We spend most of our time as mothers teaching, nurturing, and
preparing our children for this reality, but the thought of it still
haunts me as I watch my babies sleep at night. But honestly, what's the
alternative? I want my children to embark upon their own journeys, armed
with the love and knowledge I've passed along to them from infancy. I
want them to be brave, to take risks, to suck the marrow from the bones.
And they'll have to leave this nest to do so.<br />
<br />
I
still have lots of time. Loads of it. I see the years stretching before
me almost endlessly; years of carpool and science projects and piano
lessons. And there will be times in which I will feel like it will never
end.<br />
<br />
But then it will. And it breaks my heart.<br />
<br />
I
know what you're thinking. My kids are so young. My youngest is only
two months old! And this is true. But last week I packed away her
newborn clothes, pausing because I wasn't quite sure what to do with
them. In the past, I stored them away for the next baby, but Lucy is my
last. There will be no more babies. So I started a pile to give to my
friend who is expecting her first, a girl, this fall. She and her
husband are entering a phase that is ending for me. Not that I don't
have years of mothering ahead of me, but no one will place a squalling
newborn on my chest in the delivery room again. I will never again gaze
into the eyes of my child for the first time. And those newborn clothes
will never be needed in our family again. They belong to someone
else.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lLKEEhKrK_0/Vb--kvRdnYI/AAAAAAAABb8/6usBydOmpjI/s1600/tuck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lLKEEhKrK_0/Vb--kvRdnYI/AAAAAAAABb8/6usBydOmpjI/s400/tuck.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atticus at his Pre-K graduation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I can imagine that the bittersweet pill would be
easier to swallow if my first baby weren't starting kindergarten in a
few short weeks. Just like that, he's off to school. Just like that
he'll drag his Star Wars backpack (which is about two sizes too big for
him, but will likely be snug on his shoulders by next year) to and from
his classroom loaded with letters and permission slips and homework
he'll be thrilled to complete in those first weeks and then will become a
chore by October. Just like that he'll make life-long friends and form
lasting memories that will stay with him forever. Even as an adult, I
remember nearly every detail of my first day of kindergarten. So it will
be for Atticus. And while I remember that it was my father who dropped
me off on the steps of that portable building that housed Mrs.
Thompson's classroom, I remember the rest of that day as an experience
completely separate from my parents. It was my first step towards
independence, small though it was. It was the beginning of something
greater, an adventure that led me to who I am today more than any
experience that came before it. Just like that.<br />
<br />
And so it will be for Atticus. So it will be for all my children.<br />
<br />
And
while it's heartbreaking to watch them grow so quickly, to see these
years of infancy slip away before they've really begun, it's exciting,
too. Here are these little people (PEOPLE) that I've created, becoming
their own little selves and it's so freakin' beautiful I just want to
soak it all in. I can't wait to see the adults they become. I can't wait
to see what they deem to be the beginning of their lives. It won't be
as squalling newborns placed on my chest; that was their beginning for
me, but not for them. Their beginnings might be that first day of
kindergarten or college or marriage. It might be their first day as
parents. The key is that I give them the space, the love, the confidence
to find their own beginnings.<br />
<br />
It has nothing and everything to do with me. Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-72819785984857772982015-06-01T09:33:00.001-07:002015-10-19T10:33:48.436-07:00Lucy Louise is here!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KZauIejInd8/VWyHYJJ75MI/AAAAAAAABZk/BMu7Zp_zywY/s1600/lulu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KZauIejInd8/VWyHYJJ75MI/AAAAAAAABZk/BMu7Zp_zywY/s320/lulu.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Lucy Louise</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Born May 26th, 2015 </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
7 lbs. 13 oz.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
19.5 inches long </div>
<br />
Born amidst historic flooding and with the cord wrapped around her neck twice, Lucy arrived happy and healthy. Our drive to the hospital at 5am was harrowing experience, as much of the city was underwater and abandoned vehicles blocked our path at every turn. Brian did a fantastic job of maneuvering the dangerous conditions and finding what we can assume was the only route to the hospital that wasn't underwater. Labor and delivery itself was relatively uneventful, except for the aforementioned cord issue, which delayed progress and put us awfully close to a c-section. I was determined to avoid that scenario, though, and mustered all my strength to push her out in just a few short minutes. Everyone is now recovering and we are working to adjust to our new reality as parents of three beautiful, but demanding children. What this house lacks in sleep, it more than makes up for in love. Thank you all for your well-wishes and congratulations! More pictures to come soon, I promise. Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-35340270532641181902015-05-21T07:16:00.002-07:002015-05-21T07:17:06.401-07:00Pregnancy update: she's still cookingToday I am more pregnant than I have ever been. I feel like someone should hand me a balloon bouquet and a cookie cake in honor of this momentous occasion, but I couldn't fit even one bite of that damn cookie in my mouth. In fact, I made the mistake of eating dinner last night. You know dinner, right? Sure you do; you're not 39 weeks pregnant. I haven't eaten dinner in weeks, except for last night...and I paid dearly for it. I was up in 30 minute intervals popping Tums and stretching and coaxing the food and the baby to get the hell out of my ribs, thankyouverymuch. At a certain point, I realized sleep was futile, so I took my 287th shower this week and got ready for work. At 4am. There is no need for such preparation, especially during the last two weeks of school, a time in which my students fake it 'til they make it. I want to fist-bump them on their way in the classroom and say, "solidarity, man," but that would be wholly unprofessional of me, so I give them work and grade it and hold them accountable until the bitter end. At least it gives me something to do until this baby decides to arrive.<br />
<br />
But at this point, day-to-day interactions are becoming painful. Yes, I am still here. Yes, I know I am huge (thanks, asshat). Yes, I too am disappointed that she has not been born. No one is more disappointed than I am, I assure you. No, I will not do jumping jacks down the hallway, drink castor oil, or deliver the baby in the stairwell. But if my water breaks spontaneously, I hope it's all over your shoes.<br />
<br />
I'm a little pissy (see lack of sleep above).<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4cjeV8kgL9E/VV3oqrwl-kI/AAAAAAAABYg/5-Rci_pELnc/s1600/baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4cjeV8kgL9E/VV3oqrwl-kI/AAAAAAAABYg/5-Rci_pELnc/s320/baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The reality is that this level of discomfort has shattered all previous records and, even though I am not due until next week, I'm already thinking of planning an induction for the very near future. Those who knew me well even 5 years ago realize how ridiculous that sounds coming from me. When I was pregnant with Atticus, we hired a doula, took every step possible to avoid unnecessary medical intervention, and knew that the baby would come when he was ready. We even tried to plan a water birth with a midwife, but our insurance wouldn't cover it. Now I'm willing to perform my own elective c-section if it means I'll no longer be pregnant. I'm joking. Kind of.<br />
<br />
So to those of you waiting for me to announce that the baby has arrived, I'm sorry to disappoint. She's still taking her sweet time. But I promise to post here when she does (and it will be riddled with typos due to lack of sleep and one too many margaritas). Until then, please stop commenting on my size, asking if she's here yet, or giving me the sad eyes as I waddle down the hall like an obese penguin. Seriously, I love you, but stop.Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-18412371609988204482015-04-25T05:51:00.001-07:002015-05-21T08:11:38.874-07:00VW Vans and Walmart Parking Lots: A Love Story<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. Not falling
asleep, but staying that way. 35 weeks into pregnancy means I’m up at least
twice each night to use the bathroom, and getting comfortable enough to drift
back off is becoming impossible. So I find myself lying awake, thinking.
Sometimes these nocturnal thoughts are simple musings on day-to-day tasks, the
kinds of things all moms think about: did I pack Atticus’s homework folder for
tomorrow? Will I have time for a quick load of laundry between work and speech
therapy? Did I turn in the signed permission slip? But then those thoughts take
on a more significant theme: when did I become such an…adult? Legally, it’s
been a while. But I’ve felt relatively young until the past year or so. And
now, not so much. So then I find myself comparing my current circumstances to
those of, say, 10 years ago, 15. Was I that different then than I am today? In
many ways, yes. But what has made the past decade slip away so suddenly? In
large part, I think it’s been the constant presence of the person dearest to
me, the person who makes the mundane more exciting and the exciting all the
more fun. Sharing all the moments of my adult life with this one person makes
it all feel like one shared experience, like nothing has changed in our lives,
even though so much has. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">we were just BABIES!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Brian and I fell for each other in a flurry of chaos. He was
about to move from Austin to Los Angeles at the time and, considering we had
just met, it didn’t seem right for him to change those plans. We got to know each other over the phone, which in 2003 meant
astronomic long-distance charges since “unlimited minutes” didn’t exist quite
yet. I was finishing my senior year of college at UT and he was working long
hours at a retail job at REI in Orange County. By the time he got off work in
California time, I was ready for bed, but always willing to stay up late and
get to know this man who, even at the time, I knew was going to be a
significant part of my life. Eventually the miles between us felt too far, and
Brian showed up at my doorstep barefoot and disheveled, with a single backpack
and a giant burlap bag of rice (which served as his only source of nutrition
for practically his entire time in LA. On payday he’d add tuna fish. It’s odd
what we considered luxuries once). My roommate probably thought he was
homeless, which, now that I think about it, he was. I told him he could stay
with me until he found a place of his own. We’ve been living together ever
since.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blueberry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When he was on the West Coast, he sold his small but
functional truck in order to buy a 1971 VW bus, which he had left behind in a
rush to get back to Austin. It wasn’t ready to drive yet and I somehow thought
that graduate school tuition in California made sense, so we both flew back a
couple months later to visit college campuses and pick up the bus. What was supposed
to be a five-day trip became ten. The bus, it seemed, had other plans for us
and broke down twice along the lonely stretch of I-10 in West Texas. The first
was the result of a busted fuel pump that took two days to repair. So we rented
the cheapest hotel room within walking distance of the dusty El Paso service
station where the bus was being repaired. We stayed up late drinking Tecate
from the can and playing Gin Rummy. The other breakdown occurred after being
pulled over in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason. The officer
approached us to let us know that the light over the rear license plate was
out. Except that it wasn’t. After a quick question-and-answer session about
drugs and guns (we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> in a VW bus
in conservative West Texas, after all) and a half-hearted apology for pulling
us over for no real reason, the cop hopped in his car and sped away, leaving us
at the bottom of a hill in a questionably-reliable vehicle. About halfway up,
it was no longer questionable. Blueberry, as we came to name her, threw a rod
and needed to be towed. Of course, it was nearly midnight and we spent a few hours
stranded on the side of a quiet highway before eventually being towed to a
Walmart parking lot in Fort Stockton, where we spent the cold November night in
the back of the bus, eating cereal and listening to an old Willie Nelson
cassette tape on loop. I’ll never forget how the sound warped during “Pancho
and Lefty,” creating an odd distortion when Merle came in. We never figured out if this intermittent resonance was the result of the tape or the tape player; that was the only cassette we owned in 2003 and the bus was the only place we knew to play it. We eventually had to
rent a U-Haul large enough to tow Blueberry home, where Brian got her working
again, at least for a few months. Most of her life was spent collecting leaves
in the backyard of our first house, where Atticus loved to store sticks and
Legos in her tailpipe.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a> </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stranded in Fort Stockton</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we made it back from that trip, it was pretty clear
that Brian and I were well-suited. What would have been a disaster for most
couples or an excuse to argue and nitpick in a less-than-perfect pairing was
actually a comical love story for us. So much so, in fact, that the experience
showed up in each of our wedding vows to one another. There’s nothing more
romantic than Walmart parking lots, I suppose. </div>
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<br />
I’ve been thinking a lot about those early days with Brian
lately and I can’t quite figure out why. It’s an experience that seems
simultaneously like yesterday and a lifetime ago. Perhaps it’s because we’re
about to give birth to our third child after 12 years as a couple. Or maybe
it’s because those circumstances of our early relationship have changed so
drastically over the years. If you had told me then that I’d be where I am now,
I wouldn't have believed you. I wouldn’t have believed it could be both so easy and so
busy at the same time. Brian and I are incredibly happy together, and despite the chaos of our current lives, we can always count on each other to be the constant. We will always have each other and even on the rare occasion when we disagree, we’re on the same page when it comes to raising
babies and hell. Today marks our 7<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary, and I’m
honored to call this man my husband, the father of my children, and my very
best friend. </div>
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Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-62647545323658177662015-03-06T12:07:00.001-08:002015-05-21T08:11:02.218-07:00Our culture of parenting: the fine line between support and meddling,independence and negligenceThe other day, I picked the boys up from school and headed to the unholy land of Target, the one place that usually has everything on my list. I want to buy local, I really do. But I also want to pay the mortgage and spend less than 6 hours running basic errands. So Target it is. We have Atticus on what we call the "star system": good behavior earns him stars, while rotten behavior means we take stars away. Once he's built up 5 stars, he gets to pick out a new toy (read: Legos. It's always new Legos). This particular afternoon the boys were in especially good spirits for obvious reasons, and the sun was warm and shining for the first time in weeks. We traversed the aisles jovially, making small talk and singing songs with one another in our quiet voices so as not to annoy the many 20-something hipsters that frequent this particular central-Houston Target, and we were having a very low-key and low-drama excursion.<br />
<br />
While we're in line, I notice a woman about my age with a toddler in the front of her cart (with one of those shopping cart covers designed to keep the germs away from precious Johnny's little hands), happily munching on organic, non-GMO mountain-air-popped corn and dressed in what I can only assume cost hundreds from the local baby boutique. If you've got it, flaunt it. No criticism here. But just as I'm realizing how put-together this darling pair appears compared to my dishelved brood, Quinn has decided to lick the safety bar on the shopping cart (which is decidedly NOT covered in an adorable Pinterest-worthy cart cover) while Atticus sings "Everything is Awesome" using fart noises instead of words. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
I realize how we must look to outsiders: I am enormously pregnant, carting two small and noisy children, one of whom has special needs, around a relatively crowded store with no makeup on while the boys are still wearing half their lunch on their clothes. I should be more frazzled than I am, to be honest. Most days I would be, but as I mentioned before, we were having a good afternoon and all was right with the world. So when the well-dressed mom raced over to me in the parking lot, I was a bit taken aback.<br />
<br />
Apparently, Atticus was standing up in the <u>back</u> of the shopping cart while I was strapping Quinn into his car seat and this mom was dreadfully worried for his safety. Keep in mind, Atticus is almost 5 years old and has no intention of swan-diving onto the asphalt, nor did his standing incite the level of maniacal fear this woman was exhibiting as she raced across the parking lot to "save him." And my first instinct was to be terribly insulted by this parenting interception. I felt like she was trying to say, "I'll keep an eye on your kid since you clearly can't." As soon as she explained her sudden presence, she told me that parenting is so hard and that my kids are adorable and she just wants to make sure they stay that way. And with a "you're doing a great job, mom," she walked away, leaving me confused and teetering between insult and gratitude.<br />
<br />
I think this woman was sincerely trying to help, but I couldn't help but feel like my parenting was being criticized and her comments were condescending. Was I being too sensitive? Proabably. The reality is that most days I would have been immensely grateful for her intervention and her kind words, but today I was pleased with how well I was handling it all and her very presence made me feel like I must look less together than I felt.<br />
<br />
I spent most of the evening rethinking the entire experience...was I that frazzled working mom always covered in food-stuff and trying to keep myself from driving the whole damn thing of a cliff at any minute? I know I'm not, but is this how the world perceives me? And if they do, how much should it really matter? I was pondering this and more of life's little quandaries when I came across the recent Washington Post article, <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/parenting/wp/2015/03/03/would-you-call-911-on-another-parent/" target="_blank">"Would you call 911 on another parent?"</a> If you're a parent and you haven't read this yet, you should. For those of you too lazy to click the enclosed link (*eye roll* You're no better than my high school students), I'll summarize it for you. Briefly. Because you deserve no better:<br />
<br />
As the title implies, many parents are getting flack from other parents for their parenting. So much so, that authorities are being called to respond to what these meddling citizens see as child negligence. These are the instances you've likely read about in the news: the mom who let her 9-year-old play on a playground while she worked at a nearby McDonald's because she couldn't afford childcare, or the 10- and 6-year-old siblings who are allowed to walk home from school on their own (which I did, by the way, for most of elementary school). These so-called negligent parents are having to defend their choices because other parents felt like they knew better and the cops should be called. But how helpful is that? Wouldn't it be more helpful for these concerned citizens to offer to keep an eye on these kids instead of report them to authorities? Shouldn't we parents do a better job of supporting each other? We all know how hard it can be sometimes. And if a mother can't afford childcare for her 3rd grader because she's trying to support a family on minimum wage, how is a battle with CPS going to make her any better in the eyes of those most critical? It's a waste of resources, a waste of energy, and a waste of the time this mom should be spending with her family. <br />
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After reading this article, it hit me why I couldn't figure out how to feel about my encounter with posh parking-lot mom: I was irritated by her overprotective nature, but simultaneously pleased that she was willing to step in to help and support instead of wrinkling her nose at my "poor" choices. She was trying to build a community of parents who look out for one another and raise each other up. She <i>genuinely</i> wanted to prevent Atticus from loss of life and limb, even if she did silently judge me for my lax parenting skills, and went so far as to tell me that my kids were darling. If anyone here is the jerk, it's me for being offended.<br />
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But can we talk about helicopter parenting for a second? Just so you can see where I'm coming from...I teach anywhere from 140-165 high school sophomores every year. Of those kids, most of them are well-adjusted and able to handle the rigors of an advanced curriculum. But there are always a handful who repeatedly fail to complete their assignments or study for their quizzes, or are chronically absent due to a tickle in their throat. And while these kids make up a small percentage of my students overall, their parents make up 100% of those who are a pain in my ass. These are the parents who email me daily, sometimes multiple times a day, to ask for clarification on instructions that their child never bothered to listen to or write down, to beg for an extension on a paper they've had weeks to write, or to ask me for extra credit because their little angel is too embarrassed to ask me himself. These are also likely the parents who wouldn't let their teenager walk three blocks home from school on his own, let alone when he was 10 years old. These might very well be the parents who are judging (or even calling the cops on) the rest of us who are trying to muddle through while also giving our kids the independence they need to handle their own problems, nurse their own wounds, and get back up and try again when mistakes are made. And I'll admit, it's a delicate and difficult balance. I don't ever <i>want</i> my children to get hurt, but that might be the only way Quinn will ever learn to stop pilfering cans of soup from the pantry and dropping them on his toes. Because telling him "no" just isn't working well enough.<br />
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<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-78531200332117145402015-02-24T08:38:00.001-08:002015-05-21T08:10:15.622-07:00The Waiting GameI've learned something about myself this past month that everyone else probably already knew: I am a control freak. And lately, my skin is crawling with all the things I can't control. We're in a strange limbo land, where all major decisions and events in our life are completely out of our hands, and we're forced to wait for answers to our most burning questions:<br />
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<b>1. Where will Atticus go to Kindergarten? </b>The answer to this question is hinged almost entirely on the results of the Houston ISD magnet lottery system, a game that sounds way more fun and Vegas-y than it actually is. Our top schools have anywhere from 900-1500 applicants, but less than 30 spots each, meaning we'll likely send him to our neighborhood elementary school. It's not a bad choice, but also not our top one, so we wait...<br />
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<b>2. When will this baby be born? </b>Atticus was two weeks early, Quinn, five. According to my doctor, this means that Little Miss will arrive early as well. Or not. It depends. And <i>when</i> she arrives affects my decision to stay home for the first part of the next school year or start right back up in mid-August (as does whether we can find a daycare spot for her since our current preschool won't take her until she's 6 months old). Added to the stress of what-ifs is that we are supposed to attend three separate out-of-town weddings for dear friends/family in April and May. Given that Quinn arrived so early and quickly, my doctor will deliver her final say on whether or not I can travel to attend these events, but she hasn't said definitively yet. So we wait...<br />
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<b>3. What will we name her?</b> We have 4 different names picked out, but I honestly can't decide on any of them! We figure we'll know which one suits her when she's born and we see her sweet face, so we wait...<br />
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<b>4. Where will all these tiny humans sleep?</b> When we bought our house last spring, we had no intention of adding to our family for at least another few years. Our house is small and the layout is awkward. Our master bedroom is a converted attic space with low ceilings that works, but isn't ideal. The boys each have their own room, but will be forced to bunk up when Little Miss is born, as this kid has to sleep <i>somewhere.</i> But Quinn isn't ready to share a room or give up his crib quite yet, so the nursery remains his. And I remain impatient to decorate a girl's nursery, paint the walls and store the few things I have that will belong to her. So we wait...<br />
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<b>5. To remodel or not to remodel?</b> Given the aforementioned tiny house issues, Brian and I are considering remodeling our home to make it more liveable for our soon-to-be family of five. But tackling this project in a historically-protected neighborhood is no easy feat. First, we have to gain approval from an extremely strict historic preservation board and, second, we need to gain permits from the city itself. Then we need to find financing. The planning process will take just as long as the remodel process, and each step hinges upon the next, so we can't really approach this in small steps or phases. We meet with an architect tomorrow, who is drawing up some sketches of our plans to present to the historic commission with the hopes that they'll allow us to make some modest changes to our front elevation. But we need to be prepared for them to deny the entire project. Either way, it's going to take time. So we wait...<br />
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<b>6. Will I ever stop feeling like crap?</b> This pregnancy has been pretty rough on me physically. I had terrible morning sickness in my first trimester and managed to catch two different cases of gastroenteritis so far (the most recent of which was last week, when every member of my family had it for a FULL week...it was a nightmare). Now that I'm entering my third trimester, I've become pretty darn uncomfortable. I'm only 5'2" and have a really short torso, so there's nowhere for this baby to fit. My organs are squished awkwardly under my ribs, which are bruised and sore. I'm having trouble breathing due to said organ-squishing and I'm already starting to swell in my ankles. I still have a looonggg way to go, though, before she's born and I feel any relief, so we wait...<br />
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I know, I know. I should stop whining. I've got it good. A fact that has not escaped me in the slightest. I've got a great job, a warm house, and a stocked fridge. My husband is amazingly supportive and has done a nice job of replenishing my Cadbury Cream Egg supply on the daily, and my kids are sweet as pie lately.<br />
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Mmmmm....pie...<br />
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But the lack of control in my life, the waiting game, is wearing on my nerves. Even so, I'm confident that I'll look back on this time and wish my babies were still so close to me instead of starting their own lives. I'll long for the days when I need to rock Quinn to sleep, or read Atticus just one more book before bedtime, or feel this little girl squirm inside me. She hasn't even left me yet and I already see her slipping away someday, along with both my boys. It's part of parenthood, to simultaneously keep them close and teach them to be independent. It's harder than I thought it would be to even imagine, much less experience in a future that will come sooner than I ready to accept. So I should embrace the waiting game, which feels a lot like time is standing still. Maybe that isn't such a bad thing after all, given the alternative...Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-91386444434675588152015-01-30T12:37:00.000-08:002015-01-30T13:02:53.034-08:00On parenting girlsI've always wanted a little girl. Probably because I am a girl and was once a little one at that. But after nearly five years of raising messy, noisy, yet sincere little boys, I'm starting to panic a little. Part of it is the sheer terror that comes when I realize that someday she will be fifteen and I will probably hide from her when her ex-best friend decides to steal her boyfriend or her favorite pair of jeans didn't get washed and the world is over. But I have a lot of time before those days, right? I think right now I'm more terrified of the things that will be projected onto this precious little creature, whom everyone assumes will be sugar, spice, and everything nice. Will people coo at her in high-pitched voices or treat her more gently than they did my boys when they were babies? Will her closet look like someone took a bottle of pepto bismol to the dresses and skirts and bows that line the shelves? Will she become obsessed with princesses? Barbie dolls? Beauty pageants?<br />
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Maybe it's because I was a bit of a tomboy growing up, or because I'm now a bit of feminist, but these prospects terrify me. And yes, I know I sound like the cliche modern hipster screaming "gender neutral!" and "girl power!" over the pleasant hum of my own satisfaction, but I'll be damned if my kid ever says that Legos are for boys. So how do I avoid what seems to be an inevitable fate? How do I nicely tell people not to buy her little toy vacuums and Disney princess-themed attire?<br />
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No, seriously. How?<br />
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This isn't some lead-in to my solution for little girls everywhere (and their parents) to avoid the stereotypes that keep them thinking they have to be soft and sweet and gentle. I'd rather prefer my daughter to be hell on wheels. I know. Famous last words. But I don't have the answers except to say that we'd like to instill in our daughter the sense that she is just as strong and fierce as her brothers without erasing the femininity that naturally exists in most girls. I'd like her to grow up believing that there are no "girl toys" and "boy toys." That the damsel-in-distress act in far too many princess stories is both silly and dangerous. That she doesn't have to like the color pink. That her interests, her skills, her <u>future</u> should in no way be determined by her sex. <br />
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And when she becomes a teenager, I hope she doesn't fall victim to the cliquish nature of many young women. I hope everyone is her friend. I hope she doesn't gossip, or take duck-face selfies, or worry too much about what other people think. I hope she enjoys reading and sharing ideas with her peers and playing an instrument and being goofy without being vapid.<br />
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I can't help but feel like parenting a girl will be much more challenging than parenting a boy, not because girls are so much different than boys, but because the attitudes we have about girls are so different than the ones we have about boys. And while we've come a long way since the 1950's, we still have a long way to go. Maybe my kids will be part of the first generation to embrace true gender-neutrality. And maybe, as a way to get the ball rolling, I'll dress my boys in something pink tomorrow. You know, for good measure.<br />
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<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-25167195840333158072014-12-21T15:04:00.001-08:002015-01-30T12:38:25.285-08:00I'm growing a tiny human GIRL!In all the excitement of the holidays and Quinn's birthday, I forgot to share the most exciting news of all: #3 is a girl! More details to come, but in the mean time rest assured that we are over the moon, despite my still-frequent bouts of nausea and recently-developed thunder thighs. Thanks, little miss. I still love you.<div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Y4VCnCCzlDQ/VJdSArybc5I/AAAAAAAABTw/bg4COKiQ_TM/s640/blogger-image-1336531636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Y4VCnCCzlDQ/VJdSArybc5I/AAAAAAAABTw/bg4COKiQ_TM/s640/blogger-image-1336531636.jpg"></a></div><br></div>Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1842786569871441258.post-47726406142096319622014-12-17T12:34:00.002-08:002015-05-21T08:15:01.856-07:00Quinn is TWO<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today my baby turns two years old. Two. And it's with bittersweet emotion that I type those words; bitter that the days are slipping by too quickly, sweet because there was once a time when we weren't sure we'd be celebrating two years with Quinn. There were so many "what ifs" and "how longs" in those early days before he arrived, and when he got here, I couldn't stop holding him. Now he's too busy to stop and be held. And for that I am thankful.<br />
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But there's something that happens when you raise a child with special needs that I try so hard to avoid. In fact, I hardly admit to myself that I'm doing it, but today it feels like it's very much at the forefront of my mind.<br />
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I compare.<br />
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I compare him to other kids his age. I compare him to his brother. I compare him to other children with Down syndrome. It's not fair, I know. But I do it anyway.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c9mq8F9P8eQ/VJHol2VCiHI/AAAAAAAABSw/E2awSGa2oyw/s1600/atticus%2Bis%2Btwo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c9mq8F9P8eQ/VJHol2VCiHI/AAAAAAAABSw/E2awSGa2oyw/s1600/atticus%2Bis%2Btwo.jpg" width="320" /></a>Here's Atticus on his second birthday. He's standing on a chair next to his cupcake. He blew the <br />
candle out all by himself and even sang the words to "Happy Birthday." I remember how he carefully licked the icing from his cupcake and then peeled the liner away to take little bites before he tore from the table toward his pile of presents, impatiently awaiting permission to rip each one open. When he did, he thanked the giver before turning to the next one. These were gifts like toy golf clubs and remote-control cars, art supplies and soccer balls. In other words, typical gifts for a typical two-year-old. And I was blissfully unaware that the celebration would ever be different.<br />
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Yesterday I brought cupcakes to Quinn's class to help celebrate his special day. We had so much fun stuffing sugar-laden icing into our mouths and singing "Happy Birthday." But I also can't help but feel a twinge of sadness that Quinn really didn't know it was his birthday. He couldn't walk to the sink to wash the chocolate from his face without someone's help. He couldn't sing the words to the songs. Instead of daintily dissecting his cupcake, he shoved the whole thing, wrapper and all, into his mouth. To be honest, it looked more like a first birthday than a second one. And when we open presents this weekend, the gifts will be toys from the baby aisle that light up and whir and sing songs. <br />
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I'm far enough in to this special needs parenting gig to let those differences roll off my back. I can take it. And Quinn is downright awesome. But even the twinge of sadness at his development makes me feel guilty, which makes me feel ungrateful, which makes me feel even more guilty. That damn guilt is stronger than anything, really, and it seems to be a prevalent theme amongst my mom friends walking similar paths. We want our children to be the exception, and when we're disappointed that they're not, we struggle with the accompanying guilt. Or worse, we always feel like we aren't doing <i>enough</i>.<br />
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And it's at the moment when I'm reeling that my mom sends me a copy of the <a href="http://www.chron.com/news/houston-texas/houston/article/Having-an-ability-to-overcome-disability-5955744.php" target="_blank">Houston Chronicle's article on Ezra Roy</a>, a young man with Down syndrome who just graduated Magna Cum Laude from Texas Southern University with a Bachelor's degree in art. I've read quite a few stories about individuals with Down syndrome attending special programs on college campuses, but this is the first time I've read about someone with Trisomy 21 earning a true bachelor's degree. And I smiled to myself (ok, I also cried <strike>a little</strike> a lot) because Ezra's parents likely worried about his development and felt guilty when he didn't reach their lofty expectations every time. But maybe that worrying and guilt paid off, because it meant they never stopped encouraging him to achieve greatness. And as a result, Ezra proved that he's not to be underestimated. He's not to be labeled according to his disability, but rather his many abilities. And from what I understand, he is a talented artist and a dedicated student. Ezra has the entire Down syndrome community buzzing in celebration of his success. But more importantly, he has the academic world taking notice of just how much our kids can accomplish.<br />
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So, yes, Quinn is behind most two-year-olds. He's not walking or talking yet, but I'm going to spend the rest of his birthday thinking about all the things he CAN do, and the list is quite impressive:<br />
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<li>Quinn can light up the whole room with his smile.</li>
<li>Quinn can bang his chest and grunt when he sees a picture of a gorilla.</li>
<li>Quinn can shove an entire cupcake in his mouth in one swift maneuver. But he can also use his pincher grasp to pick up individual cheerios and eat them one-by-one. </li>
<li>Quinn can communicate using sign language to let us know when he's hungry, thirsty, tired, or just plain over it.</li>
<li>Quinn can crawl on his butt faster than most grown men can run. Trust me; I've seen my husband try and fail to catch him when he's on his way somewhere dangerous/important/forbidden</li>
<li>Quinn can give the best hugs and will pat your back with his little hand when he does. And he can make you melt in that one move.</li>
<li>Quinn can tickle his brother to the point of uncontrollable laughter.</li>
<li>Quinn can point to his nose, toes, eyes and mouth. He can sneeze on cue.</li>
<li>Quinn can say, "dada," "dog," "all done," and "more."</li>
<li>Quinn can make me slow down and enjoy the moment.</li>
<li>Quinn can build a tower of blocks for the sheer enjoyment of toppling them over.</li>
<li>Quinn can stand up on his own and take 4 steps at a time.</li>
<li>Quinn can steal the remote and use it to turn the TV on and off repeatedly.</li>
<li>Quinn can throw one helluva tantrum.</li>
<li>Quinn can entertain himself for hours if he has a tall stack of books.</li>
<li>Quinn can make people realize that different is good.</li>
<li>Quinn can forgive faster than any child I know.</li>
<li>Quinn can make our family happier than I ever thought possible.</li>
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<br />Megan Davies Menneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10794716952518941335noreply@blogger.com15