More Than a Baseball
Game: Lessons On Neurodivergence
It was a warm, breezy day. The sun was out. The grass was freshly
cut. It was a great day for baseball. To make the morning transition easier,
uniforms and snacks were arranged neatly the night before including filling the
water bottles and loading all the gear into the car. “Game day will be
great!” I kept repeating to myself as I sipped my morning coffee and
enjoyed the first few moments of a quiet house. Without warning, I heard our
three kids jump out of their beds and race to the table for their pre-game
breakfast. “So far, so good.” Before I knew it, cleats were on and we
were driving the short 10-minutes to the ball field.
This season of baseball was unique. My husband was the coach
and all three of our kids were on his team. Plus, this was the first year our daughter,
the oldest, had ever played. Her two younger brothers had been playing since kindergarten.
It was also the first year of “kid-pitch.” If you aren’t familiar, it is just
as it sounds. Kids pitch the ball to the other team. This is a huge step up from
coach-pitch they played last year. It felt like the major leagues to our boys…the
first real experience using all their skills and training since pee-wee baseball.
The team, compromised of 9- to 11-year-olds, quickly put on
their gear and found their positions on the field. “Let’s play ball,” I
whispered under my breathe. To be honest, I was actually holding my breath.
Deep inside, I asked myself, “Lord, how is this really going to go?”
Our youngest child experiences life differently from neurotypical
children. His cerebral palsy and epilepsy have left a mark on his life as evidenced
in the challenges he encounters while performing everyday tasks such as
brushing his teeth, getting dressed, or regulating his emotions and senses due
to other medical complications. Thankfully, his cerebral palsy is mild, his seizures
are mostly controlled by medication, and years upon years of therapy have
supported him as he learns impulse control and behavioral regulation. But
despite all of that, he still has invisible disabilities. Because his
disabilities are not always seen, it can be hard to understand him when things
go…shall I say… sideways.
What started as a perfect day for baseball ended with a day
that felt like a millstone hanging around my neck only getting tighter and heavier
with every moment. You may be asking, “How did this happen?” Well, I was asked
the same thing as I deconstructed the morning.
So, what happened? The morning was great…until strike one.
Strike two. Strike three. The weight of the emotions and the public display of
failure weighed heavily upon our son. He felt it throughout his body like the
deepest depths of the ocean. He was a “failure” and everyone witnessed it. By
this time, I raced from the first base side of the field around the backstop to
the third base side to be his emotional support. The amazing kids on the team
came up, patted him on the back or head, and were saying things like, “Good
job, buddy!” “Good try.” And “You’ll get it next time.” These are all very normal
responses from teammates. There was no malice. Only support. However, the
weight of the “failure,” the in-his-face encouragements, and the unexpected nudges
and pats were just too much. Anxiety kicked in to high gear and then he began
to spiral; tears fell from his eyes like a waterfall, he began twirling repeatedly,
the words flowed from his mouth like an erupting volcano, and he began to throw
his mitt around in the dirt dugout. His words were loud and unkind. Parents and
teammates began to stare. Some gave looks to me like, “I would never let
my kid talk to me that way!” Or a look that said, “He needs discipline for
behaving so badly.” Lovingly and with great concern, his teammates came over to
him, looked up at me and asked, “What is wrong with him?”
What. Is. Wrong. With. Him.
Those words cut deep into my heart. The tenderness and childlike
innocence of such a simple question with an answer that could fill volumes. My
first thought was, there is nothing “wrong” with him. He is simply encountering
a difficult emotional moment, like we all do from time to time. Sometimes his
emotional encounters can be bigger than other kids his age. It is that simple. That’s
it. Yet, here is how I responded, “Thanks for asking and caring for your teammate!
He is feeling a little overwhelmed right now and needs space. The best thing
you can do for him is pray for him and give him a bit of space.”
My amazing husband/team coach was prepared for this. He
gently kneeled down, put the noise cancelling headphones over our son’s ears
and played the familiar Forrest Frank songs on repeat. Slowly, calmness came
over our son. That breath I was holding, I finally let it out. Phew. I was anticipating
a moment of dysregulation. It happened. And now that it had, we can move on…for
now.
As a parent to a neurodivergent kiddo, my husband and I
constantly balance inclusion, practical supports, accommodations, behavior
coaching, safety sweeps and … the hardest of all, managing the expectations of
others. In the depths of my heart, I want to “just” be mom. I want to enjoy the
simply pleasure of watching all three of my children play baseball without having
to wonder if or when a moment of dysregulation will happen. I have to be prepared
to support him all the while feeling the pressure to explain and help onlookers
understand, too, like I must justify or share my son’s incredible medical
history every time he becomes dysregulated. As I try to comfort my son and the
other parents around me, I think to myself, “It’s just baseball. We will
recover from this.” In reality, it
took me two days to finally deal with and process this event. It wrecks me to
the core every time, seeing my son struggle so much, making every effort humanly
possible to support him yet knowing, this is his (and m) lifelong reality.
After a moment, I looked around. I longingly stared at the
other mothers who were sitting in their folding chairs, chatting it up, drinking
their coffee, and making plans for after the game. Instead of joining them, I
was one hundred percent “on,” waiting and anticipating an SOS moment or text
from the coach/husband/dad telling me that
an intervention was needed and was needed now. It is taxing in a way most will
never understand unless you have experienced it.
In the spring, when the daylight stays longer, the flowers bud in fragrant explosions, and the birds are chirping, many families are preparing for an amazing baseball season ahead. They carefully pick out new gear such as bats, mitts, or new cleats. Uniforms are neatly hanging in anticipation of the first game, team picture day, and countless memories yet to be made. Laughter surrounds the conversation with reflections of the last baseball season. Joy.
In addition, however, our family is preparing contingency
plans. We are planning tools and toys for sensory break. We must decide how
much to share with his other teammates and their parents about his medical
conditions (fearing if they know, our sweet son may be treated so differently).
It is victory that the uniform is not lost, no regard to if it is pressed or not…we
have it. It is on his body. This is the benchmark for success. We fear team picture
day. Will he smile? Comply or freak out because there is too much pressure to
look and be a certain way? It is a day, a moment in time we dread. Will the memories made this season be filled with excitement and joy or just another season we "got through...learning hard lessons throughout every practice and game."
So as your family slides into the baseball season, please remember the experience of my son and the experience of his siblings and of us as his parents. Please know that we are trying our very best to help him manage his visible and invisible abilities. Parenting looks very different for our youngest than it does for our older two; and trust me, we have spent every moment since he was born seeking professional help, reading every book and article, and taking parenting courses to support the extra-ordinary needs of our son.
What we really need this baseball season:
- words of encouragement
- inviting us into conversations (and rejoining those conversations if they are interrupted)
- asking, “How can I help?”
- teaching your kids about our son's unique needs (to include him in ways he can accept)
- noticing our other two kids
- offering judgement
- eye rolls
- simply turning away
As a family unit, we are a team. We may do life differently than the “norm”. We may have to parent differently, but it is all in the vain of supporting the unique needs of each of our three children. Please come along side us. Be our support and our cheerleaders. As parents, we are so hard on ourselves and often feel ill-equipped to know how to handle every moment of dysregulation.
And then I remember:
- To be a mother is joy.
- To be a mother of a medically complex child is confusing.
- To be in a community who rallies around us, supports us, and loves us just as we are….now that is pure bliss.
-B
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