Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

May 12, 2006

Today’s announcements

A Happy Birthday wish goes out to our writer D.C. Green; miltonbarrels@yahoo.com

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Mother’s Day Stories

~**~**~

A Mother's Love, A Sister's Story

Dafna Yee

DafnaYee@aol.com

My mother, Roma, was faced with the ordeal of raising an autistic child before anyone, including the “experts” knew what autism was, let alone how to treat it. My brother, David, was born on March 29, 1953 and everyone rejoiced that he was a healthy boy, even though he was “bald as an egg”. They knew that he would grow hair eventually, just as they were certain he would lose his blank stare and odd jerking movements.

They were right about the hair anyway – David had beautiful dark blond curls by the time he was one. However, their predictions about other changes did not prove as accurate. While his tantrums did abate slightly, they didn’t ease when my mother attempted to comfort him; in fact, they seemed to get worse. Throughout his early childhood, the only person he would relate to was me (I’m 13 months younger).

My mother never forced her attentions on David. Instead, she used me as a mediator, hoping that someday he would be ready to admit her into his own world of his own volition. Then, when she couldn't get answers from friends or books, she started to take him to specialists. Because my father was in the Army at that time, her choice of professionals was limited. But, that probably didn’t make much difference in the lack of help given. Truthfully, few health professionals, even today, are qualified to treat non-verbal patients.

Although David's lack of socialization and his repetitive, senseless movements, didn’t fit the diagnostic criteria for mental retardation, the doctors’ declared that he was severely retarded. While it was a difficult diagnosis to live with, my mother adjusted quite well. She started reading about children with various types of mental retardation, and decided that she would just teach him as much as he could learn.

Her good intentions were put to the test, however, when David continued to refuse to interact with anyone other than me. Also, the information in books was belied by what she saw. There was no mention of repetitive movements or emotional withdrawal as symptoms of mental retardation. Even more puzzling, they all mentioned "those" children requiring enormous (and draining) amounts of attention. But, David couldn’t have cared less about attention; he preferred to be ignored.

Her one bright spot was the obviously deep love between David and me; our relationship only grew stronger as time went on. There was a total rapport between us long before my time of conscious memory. We always shared a world. It was a lifeline for my mother to cling to.

Family, friends and professionals used our relationship to reassure her that everything would get back to normal (as if things had ever been "normal.") They were all sure that David would soon expand his social circle to include her. When this did not occur, and David continued to only communicate with me, the rounds of doctors started again.

My mother learned of a child psychiatrist who was often referred to as "the best." With high hopes, she made the long trip from New York to Florida. The conditions were harrowing - she was pregnant, my father was unavailable (both emotionally and physically,) and I was extremely jealous of all of my mother's attention (except with David, luckily) but I had to come because I was her only link to David.

After keeping us waiting for more than two hours, the doctor spent, maybe, 30 minutes with David alone. My mother and I had to wait in another room (although I screamed the entire time that we were apart.) Then, she was called into the room to hear the doctor's words. "Autism can't be treated and since you are still a young woman and can have more children, you should put 'the boy' in an institution and forget about him." That was all he said!

My mother was totally unprepared. She had never heard of "autism" and began sobbing despairingly. At that, probably because I was so sensitive to David’s and my mother’s emotions, my screams started again. The doctor ignored the cacaphony; he merely called for his office nurse to calm us down as he walked away.

My mother did not take the expert’s advice, although, in 1955, when this occurred, a doctor’s authority was rarely questioned by anyone. However, my mother knew that "throwing a child away" because he was sick would be morally wrong no matter WHO said it, and she stuck to her convictions. She had a well-developed sense of justice, anyway, and was naturally softhearted. Our house always had stray animals that other people had abandoned; she couldn’t and wouldn’t countenance abandoning any child, let alone her own son.

So, she set out to do the only thing that she knew how to do – love him as much as she could. My mother provided an atmosphere that allowed David to grow at his own pace. So he continued to share his space with me alone, and through me, he never lost all contact with the outside world.

For about a year after seeing that doctor, any changes that took place were too subtle for me to remember, except one. Instead of including our baby sister in his world, as my mother had expected (or at least hoped) that he would, David was actively aggressive towards her. His singling her out for pinches and slaps was as inexplicable as his total acceptance of me. Most of my mother’s “free time” was occupied with keeping Cathy out of David’s way. Certainly, my mother would have been extremely frustrated as she watched David’s behavior for any signs of improvement, especially during these months when he seemed to be regressing.

Giving David the freedom to remain apart from others eventually bore fruit, because by the time David was three years old, he was not only talking (though mostly to me and himself), he had learned to tolerate my sister’s presence and he was reading and doing sums as well. This was especially significant because it was definitive proof that David was NOT mentally retarded.

Nobody knows how David learned to read or use numbers correctly; however it was obvious that he learned to talk as a result of his reading rather than listening to other people’s speech. Indeed, he always spoke as a deaf person would, in a monotone and in a pedantic manner. In a way, I suppose he was deaf. Certainly, he did not hear or listen to the world around him.

The next major change took place when David started depicting my mother in his drawings as something solid, with three dimensions. His drawings of her started to show facial expressions, instead of being amorphous and undefined. He began to recognize her as “Mommy” when she was in the same room. A few months later, he began to seek out her company occasionally and sometimes even joined in when my mother and I had our frequent talks. Unfortunately, he did not do this with any regularity, so it was hard for my mother to be sure of any real progress.

He stopped pulling away from my mother’s frequent shows of affection and he became quite demonstrative with me. He would even agree to hug my dolls, sometimes. But, the months passed without David ever initiating a hug or kiss with my mother.

Finally, the day my mother had dreamed about for years came at last. It would have suited the story to say that the day was bright and sunny, but, actually, it was a very dreary, wet day on a morning in May shortly after David turned four.

My mother was engrossed in a book, when David tapped her shoulder and stared down at her face. Her first absent-minded, “What is it, Honey?” gave way to astonishment when she realized that David was looking intently AT HER. She held her breath, and David said the magic words that she’d waited so long to hear. “I love you, Mommy,” echoed in the room as she gathered him in her arms.

~**~**~

We're Helping Mommy

Dafna Yee

DafnaYee@aol.com

Don't underestimate the desire of your children to be helpful. It is the most natural thing in the world for them to seek your approval. However, their interpretation on the helpfulness of their activities and its connection with reality is often far apart. That is when a sense of humor becomes mandatory. Take it from someone whose permanent lop-sided smile can be blamed on being a parent (other people attempt to explain away their gray hairs; I just point to my daughters.)

A classic example of how children try to be helpful, is when they want to wash the kitchen floor. Now, that sounds like a harmless-enough activity, right? Not for my two daughters! When they decided to help out, they did it with flair and originality.

I had just had major abdominal surgery two weeks before and my husband had returned to work. I had someone scheduled to come and help me with my daughters (aged one and three,) but of course, something unforeseen interfered with those plans and I was left to carry on as best as I could.

I was quite groggy from the Demerol that I had taken and my reactions were definitely slow (just the opposite of what is needed with toddlers.) While I was lying on the couch, I heard some strange noises that I could not interpret coming from the kitchen; they were interspersed with the giggles that I could readily identify (but were still suspiciously loud.) I tottered over to the doorway, and I could not believe what I saw.

At least an inch of VERY dirty, sudsy water was spread over the entire kitchen floor and the two little girls were totally soaked. The noise came from the large bath towels that they had taken from the laundry basket and were still being swished back and forth. Upon closer inspection, I realized that Roma, the three-year-old, had taken a pot that had been used for macaroni and cheese the night before and had been soaking in the sink. She had emptied an entire bottle of dish soap into the dirty pot (the evidence, in the form of an empty liquid soap container, was right next to the pot on the floor.) Doubtless, she had managed to work up a lather, as the bubbles still clung to her arms. Then she apparently had poured the entire mess on the floor, with Kathy's enthusiastic help I have no doubt.

I do not remember what I said when I saw them; it is unlikely that whatever it was had coherence or clarity anyway. However, upon hearing my voice, they both looked up and gave me enormous twin smiles. Roma then exclaimed proudly and enthusiastically, "We're helping Mommy."

~**~**~

Mother’s Day Poetry Section

~**~**~

Lament for a Teddy Bear

Dafna Yee

DafnaYee@aol.com

She gave away her teddy bear

And asked for spray perfume.

My little girl, my youngest little girl,

Is growing up too soon.

I didn’t mind the others

Putting childish toys aside.

I watched them gaily, fondly,

With just a touch of pride.

But then my little one, my baby,

Threw “Teddy” on the floor,

She said, “I don’t want him, Mommy.

I don’t want him, anymore.”

Am I crying? Don’t be silly.

Do you really think I care?

About a worn-out, much too ragged,

Dust collecting bear?

~**~**~

Letter To Mama

Leona Ebling

wwjdleona@aol.com

You know oft times I wonder how it would be to talk to you on the phone

Or how would your touch feel? How would your voice sound?

As I say “Hi Mom. How are you, or to hug you, or kiss your cheek.

What would you answer, when to me you would speak.

Would your eyes light up when to visit I came

To share time with you to call you by your name

Mom!  Mama!  I never got to say these words to you.

as a baby or a toddler, or as a grown-up daughter would do.

I never felt you comfort me in touch or word I guess

You know I wasn’t old enough to remember much at 11 days, but I confess;

There is times when I look at my daughters and relate in things they face in this life

But I can’t say I got to experience ‘Mom-Daughter’ fun, or words shared in love or even in strife.

But Mom while writing this morning in March 2003,

I am 65 now, a mom 5x and grandma x 22 or 23

Even great grandma and still I miss you mom, I do!

As never knowing how it feels to have a mom here on earth

I want to say “I love you mom, Thank you!”

~**~**~

Letter to my Mom

Leona Ebling

wwjdleona@aol.com

Dear Mom,

I’m not sure how to write a letter to you.

Telling you I have learned some things, some facts, and some truths.

People would say I haven’t been with you since

That cold September day when you told my daddy

“Love I have to go away”

but mom

I know now that you have touched me

You have been there all the while

In the care my grandma gave me

In the sweetness of my children’s smiles

In the touch of my husbands hand

In the cold, the sun, the dew

Mom you have been there all this time for me

And I never even knew it was you.

Mom when I am lonely, when I just need to feel

That I’m really needed, I’m important, or that our God is really real.

You must whisper to the Lord, saying “Father she needs a touch today”

Then He touches me with so many blessings in so many different ways.

In the love of my dear children, with a “hi grams, I love you,”

On the screen of my computer, smiley faces, hugs and a word or two.

In the many shared cups of coffee with my family and my friends

Yes! Dear Mamma you have touched me and love me now as well as then.

Mamma my time is drawing near, life for me will soon be o’er

I can hardly keep up with it’s dragging me across life’s dance floor.

But with your love, your touch, sent to me by God along my way;

I’ll make it home, and leave here happy

I’ll meet you in heaven some sweet day.

There will be angels singing Glory!  Glory to the Lamb

Whose blood has saved and cleansed us. Oh, it is He who holds my hand.

And though there will be tears from those I love

When saying our ‘good-bys’ down here;

Please just whisper to them dear Jesus

“She’s with her Mama, have no fear.”

So Mama Thank you for your touch and for loving me so much

Sent to you at your home above

I’m closing this letter to my momma,

signed from me, your daughter,  Leonia, with love.

This is a tribute to my dear little mama who left this world at the young age of twenty seven years leaving us six siblings with only stories for the youngest (myself) to remember and know.  How blessed I was to have such a wonderful heritage of love shown to me from my mama and the dear little grandma who raised me (mama’s mother-in-law.)

I, too, wish to leave a heritage to my children and theirs as my published book “Dancing With Life” with stories of my own childhood and marriage through out the years telling of the courage, faith and love inherited and shared as it takes me through the rough places and happy ones as well.  I am the author and publisher of this book with the financial backing of a daughter Nancy and her husband Rick Thompson.

“Dancing with Life” may be purchased online at Barnes and Nobel, Amazon, Wal-Mart, Border Books, as well as AuthorHouse and others. This book also has some family pictures and several blank pages throughout the chapters for writing in your own memories which are jump-started as you read.

~**~**~

Senior Writers

Chief writer: Sharon Bryant

                                     Chief researcher/historian: Hartson Dowd

Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet; Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Goodier, Steve; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy Anne; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan; Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.; Whirity, Kathy;

Wainland, David; Westerfer, Clara; White Robert;

Storytime Tapestry Staff

Carol Roach - Founder/publisher

Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder, Moderator

Clara Westerfer – moderator

Bob Johnson - moderator