When Autism is part of your life you can either laugh or cry, and I prefer the former (most days). Good Things About Having 3 Kids with Asperger Syndrome 

• I finally have an answer when people say, “What about the third one, does she have it too?” And they’ve stopped asking me, “What causes it?” Instead they just eye me suspiciously.

• If I’ve made salad, broccoli or asparagus for dinner I can have it all to myself. In fact, I can sit by myself as well.

• Our children are never embarrassed by their siblings’ bad behavior in public. If they even notice their brother or sister is flopping around screaming on the floor in a restaurant, they don’t find it distressing…or even unusual.

• I have three people who can remind me what The Rules are at all times in case I forget. Such as, it’s wrong to drive over 55 miles per hour and I should not litter. If I am especially lucky, someone will throw in an explanation about global warning too.

• After one trip to the grocery store with the kids, my husband believes me and will pick up anything I want on his way home from work.

• I can hide candy in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator because no one will EVER look there.

• The school secretary knows my voice even before I say my name.

• Because none of my children can stand the sound of their classmates singing in music class, we are not required to attend boring school programs.

• When the small town newspaper mentions a 300% increase in the number of children with autism in our school district, I can personal pride in the fact they are specifically talking about my family.

• I never have to wonder if I have bad breath. Someone always tells me.

• And best of all: All those medical deductions on our income tax return mean a big fat refund check—Legoland here we come!

-Kristi Sakai

From page 30 of my book: Finding Our Way: Practical Solutions for Creating a Supportive Home and Community for the Asperger Syndrome Family, available from the Autism Asperger Publishing Company www.asperger.net

In the wake of the ABC News/Nightline segments being aired my inbox is full, my phone has rung off the hook both from friends offering their positive tidings and families seeking support. An added little bonus to national exposure is exactly that–exposing yourself in a national forum to be judged. I have to admit it stings a little at times, but I can’t help but find my sick sense of humor running away with me a little. For example, on the comments section of the Nightline report people freely expressed their opinion including one loudmouth, er, I mean, on EXPRESSIVE individual, who said “Please stop having children! 3 autistic kids enough for you???” Among other ignorant insulting remarks.Rather than pointing out that my third child was already 9 months old when our first was diagnosed, and that Asperger Syndrome was virtually unheard of up until that time so we couldn’t possibly have known, I grinned and thought of one of my all time favorite movies, “Parenthood.” Steve Martin and his wife have a son, Kevin, ”with problems” (their words). Poor Keven is incredibly anxious, cries, is bullied and, according to the school takes 15% of the teacher’s time causing his classmates to “fall behind”. So when Steve Martin’s wife becomes unexpectedly pregnant with their fourth child he says, “Oh THAT’S JUST GREAT! Let’s have FIVE. Let’s have SIX! Let’s have a dozen and call them donuts!!!” So to the person who said, “3 enough??” my impulse was to respond perfectly seriously, “No. I’m going to have 9 more so I can call them donuts.”

I didn’t have a clue that ANY of my children might have autism. There was no family history, neither my brother’s kids nor my husband’s siblings children have it. Had I known it was a certainty would I have still had children? I don’t know. But what a shame that would have been because I cannot imagine my life without them. As challenging as my life is, as my children’s lives are, they are precious, priceless, they have given me my life’s purpose and they are a gift to the world. Is it hard to meet their needs? Yes. Has it made me a better human being because I have had to learn how to meet their needs? Yes. But it goes beyond my children helping me understand THEIR needs, they have also helped me develop deeper empathy for others who are struggling or suffering in whatever challenges they face and to reach out with compassion. My children are my greatest teachers, providing new insights every day. They are beautiful, creative and intersting. They hold a unique perspective that sometimes I am honored enough that they allow me to glimpse. If I’m going to have donuts, I’d rather have them have sprinkles and surprising filling. I’d rather have my Asperger kids than any others. They fill up my heart and my life. I’m grateful.

So maybe I won’t actually have a dozen, three is plenty for me. Not because there is something ‘wrong’ with them, but because I can only take so much rich abundance in one lifetime.

Peace. -kristi

                  Although pretty much everything is still MY job, Nobuo a.k.a. “Mr. Mom” has been slowly taking on bits of responsibility. But you know how men are–they think they know how to do a woman’s job better, more efficiently…less expensively.

               Lately my husband has started doing some of the grocery shopping and has decided where I shop and the items on my list are too expensive (I tend to buy a large supply of the below mentioned items when they are on SALE). So, instead of Nobuo coming home with Odwalla bars, suddenly there are enormous boxes of “granola” bars coated in chocolate, the organic peanut butter (one of the sole items in Kito’s diet) has been replaced by Jiff and the low-sugar with no artificial colors cereal I used to buy is now but a hollow memory and instead there is big bag of artificially-colored-heavily frosted brand in its place. The kids, far from complaining over the change, have decided they are quite fond of super-sugary replacements (I usually only let them have sugary-things for rewards—it makes them a highly effective incentive). There are other changes in our buying practices.
 Until recently I bought gentle detergent that smells lightly of lavender to wash my children’s very soft spun cotton underpants, but Nobuo, in his newly-minted Mr. Mom-wisdom decided this was an unnecessary expense as well so he rounded off the regular grocery shopping with a trip to Wal-Mart to buy an enormous jug the size of an oil tanker of Tide detergent. Because he’s also kindly been doing some of the laundry I didn’t catch on for a couple of days. The first thing I noticed was Kaede’s irritable mood and eventually I realized it coincided with tugging at her underpants, followed by ever-increasing frantic inappropriate public itching episodes. By the time I’d put all of these clues together, investigated and discovered my one gallon gentle liquid detergent had been replaced with a five gallon bright red container the damage had already been done: her bum was the same hue as the Tide detergent bottle. I sent my husband to the store to buy our regular brand detergent and then sent him back AGAIN because he bought another cheap brand, and then I re-washed all of our children’s clothing. But more importantly, I began trying to treat my poor daughter’s little red fanny. First I tried aloe wipes and diaper rash cream ($10). These didn’t help at all. This was followed by Benedryl ($6) and calendula ointment ($10), which helped a bit, but not quite enough. So then I tried Colloidal oatmeal bath ($5.99 for a box of five) and this helped the most. I bought the Halsey store’s entire stock of four boxes, until we ran out and I finally figured out how to make my own version with oatmeal and chamomile tea ($8). Poor Kaede was unable to attend her own birthday party at the park on Sunday because her bottom still hurt, but she was at least comfortable in the tub so that’s where she largely resided for a few days. But you know what happens when your immune system is not healthy due to eating plenty of junky sugary foods (“granola bars” and Jiff peanut butter, for example) and you sit in lukewarm bath water for days on end? A painful thing called a urinary tract infection. The last 24 hours have been hell for her—and me. So right now I’m waiting for the doctor’s office to open. Assuming we can get an appointment, that means $25 co-pay, followed by a $30 co-pay for a prescription. Add in at least $5 for yogurt in order to avoid getting thrush from the antibiotics I’m sure the doctor will prescribe. Add to that, Kaede is an extremely irritable itchy little girl who is shrieking constantly, “It hurts! It hurts!” compounded I’m sure by the fact that Benedryl seems to void out the effectiveness of her meds.
 So, it would seem the gi-normous jug of detergent from the evil Wal-Mart didn’t save us a dime. The lesson here is…

 The value of an experienced mother: priceless.

Kristi Sakai 2007

• Three hours to get my daughter ready for and finally delivered to school. This involved cooking her a breakfast she wanted and then didn’t want, reminding her of rewards, cajoling, peeling her clothes off against her will and re-dressing her in an identical (but clean) dress and underwear which she insisted was ITCHY!, followed by soothing and rocking her for an hour before she fell asleep in complete exhaustion. While she slept I ate her cold leftover poached egg which she over salted and the half-soggy half-stiff toast. She woke happy, leapt up and was ready to go to school                                           

• Husband drives our daughter to school while I raid children’s reward candy stash          
• Drive to Eugene to FedEx video to ABC (ah such glamour). Gasp that it costs $27. Quickly mentally calculate bank balance and cross fingers.
• Begin writing my proposal on puberty for the ASA conference I spent nearly an hour trying to find the word “Pe-ew!” on every online dictionary. I tried every variation I could think of, but it is apparently not a real word even though I have used it nearly every day since my son entered puberty.  
• School calls and tells me that our middle son didn’t eat lunch because his home lunch was crushed in his backpack. In a hurry I run to the store on my way to the school, bought a lunchable and delivered it.
• Eat my son’s smashed but perfectly good crust-less peanut butter sandwich  (Note: I already at the crusts when making the sandwich the night before)
• Try to focus on writing about sex while being distracted by unemployed husband aimlessly wandering around the house, crashing into things and asking me questions. “Did you pay the electric bill? I’ll go get the mail. Hey look, the Cabella’s catalogue. What are we having for dinner?” (I secretly plot revenged)
• On the way to pick up my kids I scrape together change in the bottom of my bag to buy bread and milk. Cashier asks me how the Nightline interview went. I try to figure out who he is and how he knows about this.  
• Pick youngest children up at school, both insist they are STARVING. While they exclaim over the collector cards rewards they have received (which I can ill-afford) because they had a great day at school (thus I can’t afford NOT to buy them), I cook each of them a pork chop, trim off the fat and cut it into pieces. Eat trimmed part.  
• Oldest son arrives on bus wailing. The bus driver and all occupants are cringing. Investigation reveals that he is crying because his best friend forgot his backpack at school and he’s “worried about it.” Thirty minutes lying down to rub his back, soothe him and help him calm down.  
• Middle son is upset by older son’s meltdown and resultant attention I’d directed toward him so this is followed by thirty minutes of lying down with him listening to Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince. Find myself wishing Snape would just hurry up and kill Dumbledore already and get it over with (but keep this thought to myself).
• Having already served the pork chops I’d intended to make for dinner I make (canned) chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Cut all the crusts off the sandwiches before serving. Eat the crusts.
• Very cranky daughter needs Mama to lie down with her to go to sleep. 
• Get up and discover my husband has not only eaten my slightly healthier sandwich (which contained the rarely seen but much desired—by me anyway—veggies), but also the one I’d intended for our oldest son’s lunch. Make another toasted cheese sandwich for his lunch, cut the crusts off and…eat them.  
• Clean up kitchen. Rather then throwing it out, eat the cold leftover chicken noodle soup.
• 8:00, everyone is asleep. Flop into chair and watch America’s Next Top Model while scraping the last of the freezer-burnt ice cream from the bottom of the carton. Vow to go on a diet tomorrow.  
• This morning:  I can’t believe those kids didn’t eat their breakfast! Sigh, and eat their cold leftover eggs.

Kristi Sakai 2007 All rights reserved  

          As promised, the doctor sent my husband home as soon as possible and so here he is the day after THIRD surgery (in three months). “Don’t be alarmed at the size of the wound when you see it,” he warned. I steeled myself and indeed, the abscess that was the size of a goose egg is now a cavity the size of a goose egg. I’m generally not squeamish, but after I cleaned it Nobuo immediately inquired about dinner and I had to say, “Give me a minute” while I waited for the tingling in my hands and feet to subside. However, the OCD side of me is pleased that if nothing else it is a clean goose egg and that alone is reassuring. While it may be vulnerable to bacteria in its current state, nevertheless there’s no place for them to hide from me and my fiercely wielded q-tip. Most shocking is not the wound though, but the change that has come over Nobuo, invigorated, reborn as if released from being tortured by the demons of hell. His spunk, in short supply as of late, sprang to life pretty quickly after the surgery. Last night the nurse expressed a slight concern over his blood pressure being a little on the high side and he replied, “Oh, do not worry, it is only there are so many pretty  nurses here!” as he winked. I leaned over and suggested conspiratorially, “If he gets out of line, just go ahead and smack him.” Those of you who have met Nobuo know just how benign my  gentle aging husband is, so this kind of light teasing was met with a great deal of giggling from the nursing staff that might require being put in his place.

          A puddle of relief, I’m finally able to take a breather and reflect on recent days. Nobuo’s family left the day before the surgery. Every last moment was bittersweet as only those who love each other but who are parted by enormous distance and unknown quantities of time can know. Every word hangs in the air, every touch lingers, each laugh hung onto and tucked away to savor in later memory. I sat bemused and occasionally tearful as I watched Kaede and my mother-in-law cling to each other and remembered I am personally responsible for teaching my in-laws to hug. They didn’t know how. The first time I went to Japan and hugged them they stood like mannequins with alarmed expressions, not quite sure what to do with themselves (and definitely didn’t know what to do with the likes of me.) Only my then newly acquired niece, Yumiko, who was my little sweetheart clung to me like a baby koala. Over time I conditioned this clan. They have decided they like it and automatically put up their arms open wide to be hugged with big smiles like expectant children waiting for a treat they know is coming. This trip Kaede began kissing Obaachan on the cheek and she absolutely glowed as she soaked them in. She’d never been kissed before. Not ever. Not even by her husband when he was alive. It wasn’t something Japanese people used to DO back then. Conversely, in co-mingling of cultures, as is traditional Kaede has been sleeping with Obaachan. And, as grandchildren often do—she would also bathe with her if Obachan’s bath water wasn’t hot enough to boil lobsters. This close- knit bonding is referred to as “skinship”. One morning while Kaede was sleeping in Obaachan’s futon I tried to awaken her for school  by nuzzling, tickling and blowing raspberries on her, Obaachan was laughing so hard, her eyes crinkling until they disappeared. Unable to restrain herself she gave it a try too, much to everyone’s absolute delight. The two of us nuzzled her simultaneously as my daughter giggled and sighed contently knowing she is loved. Later I saw Obaachan shyly peck Kaede after she gave her some snuggling and “lovin’s” (as we refer to them). I didn’t send Kaede to school that day as I had planned to. I managed to get her reluctantly ready, but when it came close to time to send her she cried so hard I didn’t have the heart to separate her from Obaachan. I knew their hours together were few and then there would be no more.

        The last day was filled with meaningful moments both of the mundane variety that family members share, and those that starkly stick out and will be forever cherished. In the afternoon I put a roast in the oven and as it filled the house with a savory aroma, I ironed kimono and then we began to dress for pictures. First was Kaede, a little too chunky for her 3-5-7 kimono, however, instead of being critical Obaachan exclaimed with pride over how healthy she is. (Having lived in Japan during WWII she saw plenty of starving children). Together we attached small Velcro dots to pull it together and cover her little pooched-out tummy. Next it was my turn. I stood, or rather awkwardly scrunched low enough for her to reach me while  in my Japanese underwear thinking it wasn’t the least bit odd to have my mother-in-law dressing me, because after all it was not the  first time—only the last. On our honeymoon 16 years ago not only did I have occasion to be dressed, but I got to know my female in-laws on quite an intimate basis bathing naked together as they poured water on me, washed my hair and scrubbed my back at the hot springs. (Hot springs, I should add, I found out later was particularly known for its powers of fertility and undoubtedly chosen with this purpose in mind for the new bride.) These were my amused thoughts as she tugged at me and yet again tied my obi incredibly tight and tucked in a plastic board to flatten me as no American woman could ever comfortably be (particularly as one as curvy as I). It’s a wonder anything was ever conceived in Japan, I thought. When Kaede complained her obi was tight I whispered, “Just be glad you don’t have breasts yet” and she giggled, young enough to be glad she doesn’t have that added inconvenience to contend with.

        Although we were equally concerned about Nobuo, there was no question he would wear kimono as well, although we did leave out most of the layers, fussing and strict details to keep his fatigue to a minimum. As he knelt alone against the shoji for the first picture with a typically somber Japanese expression I was sure I knew Obaachan’s thoughts. Not morbid, but practical–whether it is in five or fifty years, this is his death picture that will hang in a black frame watching over his children and grandchildren with gray curls of incense swirling around them as they clap their hands  together and ask for his guidance. This tradition is so engrained in Japanese culture that if someone dies without a good picture in dark kimono, their head will be cropped and pasted to look as if they did, sometimes the body and head grossly out of proportion with each other. Thankfully with this picture my husband will have his head on his own body, which I find quite reassuring. Next was Tom, who exclaimed with alarm as Obaachan used a pink cotton cord to first secure his yukata before covering it with the silk obi. “Pink!” Kito was already hopping up and down for his turn, and I soon learned why as he quickly concealed his Spiderman webshooter  beneath the wide sleeves. “Can I wear this to dinner?” He asked.  (He did.) All dressed and sweating due to the oven from the roast I went to load the camera with the film I was sure to remember to buy only to discover the camera battery was dead. Kito came to the rescue with his toy camera, but we settled instead on using my
 camera phone to snap family photos to memorialize this joining and parting of generations.

        With the exception of Kito, everyone went back to their normal attire, the pot roast was packed to take to my niece’s for the last dinner without Nobuo who wasn’t feeling well enough for the outing.  Too soon it seemed, it came time for mother and son to say their last good-bye. In the past, Obaachan has parted with almost a hard shove to get it over with, but this time was different. She delayed and lingered, her eyes following her son with a depth of emotion I can only imagine as a mother myself. I whispered to him, “Hug her.” He ignored me. My back to Obaachan I growled quietly “Hug her.” “We don’t DO that.” he said. I softened, “She wants you to.” He glanced down at her and knew what I said was true. He tossed an arm awkwardly around her shoulder while patting a little too roughly, but she reached up and clung to him for the briefest moment, her eyes shining as he turned away to hide his own tears. He trailed us outside and helped her into the car, again her hand resting against him more for a last comforting touch than for actual aide. As I pulled out she frantically pawed at the window looking for the button to push it down, so I lowered it. She called out “Gumbare!” (Do well! You can do it!) Nobuo hobbled following the car as long as he could with one arm outstretched in farewell. Tears flowing Obaachan reached through the window her hand grasping  at the air in her son’s direction until he was out of sight. As her shoulders shook with sobs I barely heard her as she softly whispered, “Sayonara.”

  Kristi Sakai May 2007 All rights reserved 

          Having returned to the rural area in which I grew up means that I run into old schoolmates, childhood neighbors, and people who did business with my folks when I was “knee-high to a grasshopper” and who exclaim with surprise “you’ve grown up!” (I’m 40).

  

But when you live in any area for a length of time there is the continuity of nodding acquaintances: the clerk at the grocery store who you exchange pleasantries with, the UPS guy who knows to leave the package on the back porch if you aren’t home, the woman at the pharmacy who knows your name and can hand you your waiting prescription as you walk up to the counter. While you probably have little information about them and have only made the slightest small talk, these are the people who make up part of the daily grind of life.

  

There is comfort in the continuity of familiar strangers. The day you realize someone new is delivering your mail, or there is an unfamiliar face at the pharmacy counter, a tinge of sadness may pass through you as the comfort of familiarity is broken. And if you move away from your home community, and especially when you travel, along with your own anonymity, there is an absence of familiar faces. There are only strangers.

  

Having traveled a fair amount and lived in new communities I’ve taken note of this, and perhaps it is even a significant reason why I moved back to my childhood town. More recently, as I’ve traveled to present in other cities and states on autism spectrum disorders, I’ve learned there is a different kind of familiar stranger who make it my community everywhere I go. I do not remember their names, and it is unlikely I will ever see most of them again, but they stick with me.

  

In my heart I now carry the mom in St. Louis who began to cry in frustration over her relationship with her child’s school and the beaming dad in Nashville whose son rocked back and forth while telling me about Yu-gi-oh ( a common special interest of my own children). There have been so many, the moms and dads who approach me at the break to quietly whisper their private concerns about their sons and daughters, the proud grandmothers who pull me aside in the ladies’ room (yes, even there!) to share an accomplishment of their grandchild.

  

Then there are those who stand around uncertainly, waiting as I pack up my equipment after a presentation. I know they want to talk with me, but they’re not sure if their question is too private or their situation is too unique to be understood. But to me their problems, their worries, are easily understood; their concerns are so familiar, often painfully familiar because I share them. I know their heartfelt grief, their deepest hopes and dreams for their child because they mirror my own. I recognize all of these people because they are shades of me as a parent. I know them because they ARE me.

 You may feel alone … that the battles you face are never-ending, that no one can possibly understand the depth of your sorrow over the obstacles you and your child are facing. Or perhaps there is nowhere for you express the overflowing joy you experience when your child achieves what others consider a typical developmental milestone.   

But in every city, every state, I meet familiar strangers like me—like you. We are all around you wishing that someone would smile at us or nod knowingly so we no longer need to be strangers.

Kristi Sakai 2007 All rights reserved  Originally published in Community of Support for Parents, Professionals and People on the Spectrum www.asperger.net

  Kaede:

1. “Tom, will you play with me?”
2. “PLEASE play with me!”
3. “Mama! Make Tom play with me!”
4. Cries, “He won’t play with me!”
5. Whines, “PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE play with me!” 
6. Meltdown, “You hurt my feelings!”
7. “Mama” crying “Hold me.”
8. Sees the above written description on my computer screen. “Hey wait a minute! What are you writing, Mama?!” Fumes as she glares at computer. “Don’t WRITE THAT!!”
9. Storms off
10. “Tom, will you PLEASE PLAY WITH ME?!!”

 Tom: 

1. “I am NOT going to take a shower and you can’t MAKE me!”
2. “Stop telling me what to do!”
3. “You’re annoying me!”
4. “Leave me alone!’
5. “I’m NOT going to my room!”
6. “No I WON’T!”
7. Wails, “You’re MEAN!”
8. Repeat items 1-7 in perpetuity.

  Kito:  

1. “Mama?” whines “Hold me.”
2. On Mama’s lap, “Zzzzz.”
3. “Mama!” Upset because he realizes he’s been put to bed.
4. “Mama? Come lay down with me.”
5. “Mama? Fix me something to eat. No I don’t want that”
6. “Mama?” Glares at sister who is on Mama’s lap.
7. Whines, “Mama…” sniffle.
8. Storms off, pulls blanket over his head and refuses to respond
9.  Sobbing. “Mama?”
10. Repeat items 1-9 in perpetuity

 Nobuo:

1. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz
2. Mysterious sounds of ESPN come from the direction of the bedroom
3. In response to crying, yelling, stomping or general kid noises, “What’s the problem NOW?!”
4. “Stop FIGHTING!”
5. Looks miserable
6. Groans as he re-enters bedroom
7. Repeat

Nobuo and I refer to our children’s uncanny ability to interrupt at the worst times as “radar”. In general we’re referring to romance—all I have to do is kiss my husband and it doesn’t matter if the kids are happily engaged in activities they love four rooms away and completely out of earshot, they will suddenly appear as if we have conjured them up. The closer I am to my husband the more likely my daughter will show up and yell, “Middle!” as she squeezes between us. But it also applies to work because I could be surfing ebay for 99 cent video games for an hour and no one will utter a peep, but the second I click on my power point or break open a Word document someone is “starving”, another has socked his sibling, it’s an “emergency’ they can’t find a missing stuffed Neopet or my personal favorite: suddenly someone needs to be HELD (thus asserting their importance over my laptop). I sigh and push that laptop aside. This effect is guaranteed if I’m on any type of deadline whatsoever because they seemingly have special hypersensitive radar specifically for that. It could be, for example, “I have to pay this bill or they’ll turn off our electricity.” This simply heightens their need to interrupt me. Surely none of it is conscious, and their reply to any expression of frustration on my part is met with a loud resounding whine, “I CAN”T HELP IT.” Whining. Now let’s talk about THAT for a minute.

Is there any worse sound? Other than the rare wail of death or dismemberment (12 year old, Kito, has a sewn on “Frankenstein toe” so we are familiar with that term), there is no sound that can cause the hair on the back of my neck stand up like WHINING. The sound of whining will drive anyone to complete madness in short order. Children instinctively know this. I cannot describe this particular sound in writing, in fact each of my children have their own personally registered trademark whining of their own. Like a signature whine. The sound makes me feel as though my ears are bleeding and I instantly have a vision of joining the lemmings who are flinging themselves off a cliff. God forbid if more than one child is whining at the same time. It makes my brain hurt. In that moment it elicits a feeling of irritation to the point of wishing I had chosen living alone with 100 cats rather than having children in the first place. I cannot entirely explain my reaction to whining other than to say that it is obviously NOT my favorite thing to experience. As I frequently say in my presentations in response to people saying how PATIENT I am with my children, “No, I just have self-control…most of the time.” This irritation always passes eventually of course and I’m back to my motherly adoration of my children and taking delight in their tiniest accomplishment.

Yesterday was one of those kinds of days. Meals were cooked and complained about, toys were lost and tears were shed, multiple requests to use my computer set me back time-wise, but I let them use it anyway. I was patient, calm, and knew I’d get my ppts. ready to send off by nibbling at it a bit at a time. But as the evening wore on and I had yet to be able to have a quiet moment to work my frustration grew. I HAVE to get them done tonight, I told my husband. Strangely explaining AGAIN the importance of this does not seem to make a dent to either my husband or the children. “Look, if I don’t get my work done, I can’t pay the bills. There won’t be ANY MONEY for ebay (trying to relate it to something they will understand). I HAVE to get my work done TODAY.” They nod absentmindedly and five seconds later, “Mama? I can’t find the scissors.” “Mama, I made this paper snowflake for you” –out of my printer paper…and of course it goes without saying the cut pieces of paper are strewn all over the floor. “Mama! He won’t play what I WANT!” “Mama! He HIT ME.” “Did not!” “Did TOO!” “Did NOT.” “Did TOO!” (in perpetuity and punctuated by the sound “OW!”) And so on. The more frustrated I became over not being able to get to my work, the more their complaints and dissatisfaction increased. At 8:30 I finally said firmly, “Everyone is going to bed in a half an hour…by yourselves. I cannot go with you–I HAVE to get my work done.” I said this in near desperation. This was the death knell of course. It’s one of those guarantees that I will be interrupted. Of course all hell broke loose instantly.

It started with asking 15 year old Tom if he’d gotten his meds yet. This was my first mistake. I should have gotten my fanny out of the chair and checked the daily medication container myself. He didn’t know. He can’t remember. Go look, I suggested. He looked and freaked out. “I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t take my meds!” “Are you sure?” I sighed. My husband, Nobuo, is usually pretty good about giving them their meds after dinner. “Nobuo!” I called, “Did you give him his meds?” Sleepily Nobuo stumbles out to the living room, “Huh? I thought so, but I’ll double check.” I jumped out of my chair to eyeball it myself, “Whew! It’s okay, you took your meds. Papa gave them to you.” But it was too late, a storm had been triggered. “I’m sorry!” he began to wail. “I made a mistake! I told you I didn’t, but I did! Waaaaaaa!” I sighed from that deep place of frustration when I know it’s going to take a loooooong time to calm him down. I tried being calm and reassuring first, but he refused to respond. I tried leaving him alone in the kitchen where he’d thrown himself down on the floor refusing to move in order for him to (hopefully) self-calm. But instead of calming down he began to get louder and added the whining factor. Tom’s whining is like a sort of rrrrrrrrrr, mmmmmm, rrrrrrrr mmmmmm sound that could make paint peel. Seriously, it could be used as a weapon of mass destruction. At the end of a long day and at the end of my rope, of course I did the one thing that NEVER works, “Tom, cut it out! I am SO TIRED OF LISTENING TO YOU WHINE. PLEASE STOP IT RIGHT NOW.” This not only increased the whining, it amped up the wailing. I turned to my husband in exasperation, “I don’t know what to do with him! I’ve been distracted all day by the kids and now I HAVE to get this done.” He shrugged and went to bed. (Nothing can keep my husband awake. He could sleep through Armageddon). I decided to try to ignore the torturous whining, hoping that if I left him alone he’d calm down and I’d check on him later. I turned to my computer and as I was considering putting on my headphones (although not without a measure of guilt). I glanced at my ppt. and the word “Sanctuary” on the slide struck me like lightening. I was instantly calm. This is my child’s home and it is his sanctuary from the outside world. This is where he should be most understood. If I can’t put that first on my priority list then I have no business telling others about the importance of this. But more importantly, my son is hurting and he needs to be comforted by his Mama.

I sighed from the bottom of soul, my priorities clear once again. I pushed my laptop away and went to the kitchen and knelt on the floor next to Tom. “Tom?” I said softly, “Do you want me to hold you?” “GO AWAY!” He yelled at me. I waited a moment then spoke very quietly, “Tom, sweetie, I’m sorry I yelled at you. Why don’t you come with Mama and I’ll hold you and you’ll feel better.” It took a moment for him to mull it over before finally he nodded and wailed loudly, “Uh huh!” as he burst into renewed tears. I gently led him to the living room and settled this great big boy onto my lap and held him as he cried even harder for awhile. He soaked my shirt and occasionally wiped his runny nose on me. I let it pass. First I just held him without saying anything, but soon I began to make those soothing Mama sounds and rocked him. I might add that he is as big as I am so this was no easy feat, but somehow he still managed to curl up within the comfort of my arms. When he stopped crying he said, “I’ll get off of your lap and leave you alone. You have things to do.” I said, “Tom, you don’t have to go. Nothing is more important than you and I’m glad you don’t let me forget that.” We didn’t talk much, we didn’t need to. He just needed to feel safe and loved. My legs began to get numb, but I found myself wanting to draw this out as long as I could. My son, my great big boy is growing ever larger by the day, who knows how many more times I will be able to hold him like this? After about an hour he began to get sleepy and I led him to bed to tuck him in. I sang to him just as I had when he was a baby, the only interruption being Kaede whose radar was fully operational suddenly appearing and delightedly calling, “MIDDLE!” as she scooted in between us and hugged her brother. “You’re the bread” she pointed at her brother. “And you’re the other bread!” she pointed at me. “And I’m the peanut butter!” She exclaimed with satisfaction at our daily common sandwich joke when snuggling. Tom laughed contentedly and we all lay there a few minutes before I sent Kaede back to bed and kissed sleepy Tom good-night.

It was late, but strangely I was no longer tired. I sat down at my laptop at complete peace. I worked on my power points until 1:30 a.m., but didn’t mind a bit because I’d put my priorities in order. I knew within my heart that my son knows that his home IS his sanctuary. I thought to myself, if Tom had not felt safe to express his needs I would have not have made the choice to meet them at that moment because I might not have been even aware he needed me. I reminded myself that he continues to teach me how to be his mom and I am grateful.

So I’m not a perfect mom, and I’m not even a perfect person (go figure) but once in awhile I’m reminded of that even imperfection can work out in the end. I read this story to Tom just now, skipping the part as per his request, “Of when I was mad and sad in the kitchen because I don’t want to live it all over again”. I watched his face and I could see the wonder of our story, laughing at the weapons of mass destruction comment, and his eyes lit up with understanding. He made the emotional connection. “I love you, Mama!” He said as he rushed to me. “I love you too, Tom. More than anything.” 

Kristi Sakai 2007 All Rights Reserved  

Unable to leave home for more than the briefest amount of time because my husband was recovering from surgery I wasn’t able to drive the 30 minutes to the city to shop (where things cost less) and have to rely on the local small businesses for all of our needs. There are certain disadvantages to living in a rural area, such as your purchases at the store are fair game for analyzing, making comments and sharing this information with other customers.

Post colon-removal surgery adjustment requires Nobuo to frequently take Imodium, and the other night we ran out. I knew the Halsey store didn’t have any because I purchased their entire stock–all three boxes. (Although considering the amount of fried food, and other junk they sell at that store one would think they’d keep well-stocked, but I digress). So, I went to the convenience store I rarely utilize in adjoining Brownsville 3 miles away and purchased the last two bottles of the less preferable liquid kind. I went up to the counter a little self-consciously as this was the only item I was buying. As I should have expected, the clerk exclaimed, “Ohhh, your family must have that flu that is going around! It’s a really bad one! Do all the kids have it? Boy! That must be difficult the way THEY are.” To my knowledge I have never seen this woman in my entire life, but it sounds like she knows who my kids are. I tend to assume in this type of situation she must be a parent who has witnessed one of them having a meltdown at school because that’s what my children are famous for. Before I could interject she continued to prattle on and listed, by name, all of the various folks in town who have had this awful bug. “Oh it’s such a shame, the Heinkes had to cancel their trip to Disneyland, not because of the kids, John had it so bad he had to go to the hospital to have an IV!” She’s talking while paused and holding my debit card in the air and then suddenly giving me a scrutinizing look, “At least you don’t have it.” “Um”, well, actually none of us have it. My husband just had his colon out.” She exclaimed, “What a shame, that’s too bad, did you know that So and So had his colon out? Best thing he ever did, he looks much better. It’s a good thing really.” No need for further comment from me I took my Imodium and my leave.

Fast forward a couple of days, still unable to make it to a larger town where my purchases will elicit less conversation, it dawned on me maybe I could pick up some Imodium at the truck stop. After all, surely truckers have diarrhea. Jackpot! I debated for a moment how many I should buy and settled on four boxes (only 6 tablets in each at $6.49 a pop), taking my dose of public scrutiny all in one dose rather than having to revisit again in short order. I put the boxes on the counter and met the gaze of the young cashier who gave me a quizzical look. I sighed, “No, my family doesn’t have the flu. My husband had his colon out.” Her look now was like, “Why are you telling me this?” The other clerk stepped forward, “I heard about that! How is he doing? Are the kids holding up all right? They must be driving you crazy being home over spring break.” I take a good look at her, but although I have the vague recognition that she may have been a classmate of mine 25 years ago, I have no idea who she is. She proceeded to tell me about every person she knows in the surrounding area who has had their colon out. “Did you know that So and So had a colon resection? Your husband will be okay.” Sure enough, I realized, I DID know that So and So had his colon out–even though I’m pretty sure I have never met him. After ringing up my purchase and bagging it, as I stepped away she called out, “Too bad about your husband losing his job! When is that next book of yours coming out?”

Today I had my friend pick up the Costco brand of Imodium for us: 400 tablets for $5.50. Anonymity? Priceless.

Kristi Sakai 2007 All rights reserved  

 From my husband: 

 “All I want for Christmas, Nobuo, is for you to take a shovel to the roadkill in front of the mailbox.” Roadkill disappears. Note to self: the secret to getting things done, turn the Santa list into a Honey-Do list. Next year I’m going to ask for the hole in the kitchen floor to disappear!

  From my children:

1. The most fabulous assortment of glitter-encrusted construction paper stars, gingerbread men, Christmas trees and ornaments strung from one end of the house to the other.
2. Double pink eye. And they weren’t just generous with me– they “shared” with each other too!

  What I gave my husband for our anniversary (December 27^th):  

I also learned to share. “Happy Anniversary, honey, have you ever had pink-eye before?”

  What my husband gave me for our anniversary: 

Nobuo, “Sorry, Kristi, your cat died. But I’ll bury him” (In the pouring rain.) Now THAT is true love.

The gifts that best express love and commitment are not things at all, but small gestures and occasionally, shared discomforts. These are innumerable and often go unnoticed because of their mundane nature. The things that are not asked for, but somehow get done anyhow such as how the garbage suddenly disappears from the kitchen or the dirty clothes that miraculously appear in the drawer freshly laundered. And the small tender offerings: “I ran the tub for you”, “Here is your toast”, “Brr, you’re freezing! Put your feet on mine and I’ll warm you up”, “You’re tired, why don’t you go to bed, I’ll take care of the kids”. You can’t buy these things, but if you are especially lucky you have many opportunities to return them.

The gifts our children give us are generous beyond measure and utterly priceless.

 “Mama! Guess what? I made this for you!”, as I wonder what it is and take note that the last of my printer paper has been used up in the project

“He got hurt, but I hugged him and he felt better” little sister informs parents of big brother’s injury as she retrieves a band-aide for him.

“I cooked it by myself!” as big brother proudly ladles out ramen for himself and his siblings.

 “Mama, I’m glad you’re fat because your lap is soft!” my daughter exclaims as she dives onto me.

“Papa, can we go do “man stuff” outside now?” our son asks, his eyes lit up with expectation.

 “Mama!” I dug up the potatoes!” as my son tracks in dirt and offers up quarter-size spuds that are barely a mouthful “Just exactly what I needed! Thank you!” I say with a hug.

“Don’t worry”, our boy reassures his parents, “The eye drops don’t hurt very much.”

To write these things almost diminishes their significance, which is more than words can express. These are the moments that bring us security and a sense of belonging. These are the things that make a family.

In the New Year I wish each of you the ability to recognize the beauty in the mundane and to find joy in the small offerings from those who love you. 

Kristi Sakai 2006  All rights reserved