POWERFUL

 I AM A RESIDENT

I came across this poem while I was doing some cleaning up. It's titled "I am a Resident" but if it were up to me, I would simply call it "Powerful".

I am a resident.                                                                                                                            You reside.

I have behavior problems.                                                                                                                You are rude.

I am non-compliant.                                                                                                                        You don't like being told what to do.

When you ask me out for dinner, it's an outing.                                                                            When you ask someone else out, it's a date.

I don't know how many people have read the progress notes people write about me. I don't even know what's in there.                                                                                                 You didn't speak to your best friend for a month after they read your diary.

I made mistakes in my cheque-writing program. Some day, I might get a bank account.                      You forgot to record some withdrawals from your account. Your bank called to remind you.

I want to talk to the nice looking person behind us at the grocery store. I was told it was inappropriate to talk to strangers. You met your spouse in the produce department. They couldn't find the bean sprouts.

I celebrated my birthday yesterday with 5 other residents and 2 staff members. I hope my family sends a card.                                                                                                                                Your family threw you a surprise party. Your brother couldn't make it from out of state. It sounded wonderful.

My case manager sends a report every month to my guardian. It says everything I did wrong and some things I did right.                                                                                                                  You are mad at your sister for calling your mom after you got that speeding ticket.

I am on a special diet because I am a five pounds over my ideal body weight.                                Your doctor give up telling you.

I am learning household skills.                                                                                                        You hate housework.

I am learning leisure skills.                                                                                                              Your shirt says you are a 'couch potato'.

After I do my budget program tonight, I might get to go to McDonalds if I have enough money.      You were glad the new French restaurant took your charge card.

My case manager, psychologist, RN, occupational therapist, physical therapist, nutritionist and house staff set goals for me for the next year.                                                                              You haven't decided what you want to do for the rest of your life.

Someday I will be discharged .... maybe.                                                                                          You will move onward and upward.

Elaine Popovich

** This poem particularly moved me at the moment because in November my daughter entered the Independent Living Support program and moved into her own apartment with a roommate. But more on that later. Maybe.

'To Be or Not To Be'

To be, or not to be -- that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to simply ignore
The fact that I have seriously neglected this blawg
Or to take arms against a sea of never-ending "to do"s
And by opposing end them.

To work, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The busyness, and the thousand things
That must be done in a day. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To work, to sleep--

To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that weary sleep what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off to bed,
Must give us pause. There's the guilty, worried conscience
That makes calamity of so short a life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' opponent's wrong, the judge's contumely
The pangs of lost time, the law's delay,
The insolence of teenagers, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When she herself might her quietus make

With a mere laptop? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat through a busy life,
But that the dread of something left undone,
The misplaced file, the limitation period long past, from whose bourn
No lawyer returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make exhausted cowards of us all,
And thus the hazy blue resolution of thy computer
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry
And forgets all good intentions. -- Soft you now,
The fair blawg  -- A Primer on Special Needs and the Law, in thine readership 
Be all my sins forgiven.

But my humble attempt to express my ongoing regret and sadness over the current state of this fair blawg. And yet, on a fool's errand to ease my sorely troubled conscience, I have, alas, updated thine "Places To Be". But that it were enough ...

Fear not, for this humble blawg shall not depart this earthly realm; for now I can but bid you a sad adieu and wish you pleasant dreams as I whisper one last promise in thy ear --

I. Will. Be. Back.

~ With my deepest apologies to the Bard ~

Spoken Word Poetry

An emotional spoken word poem written by a father to his son.




Robb Scott wrote and performed this poem for his son who was born with Down Syndrome. The poem expresses how the R-word changed for Robb and how he hopes he son deals with hearing it as he grows up. The poem expresses how the R-word changed for Robb and how he hopes he son deals with hearing it as he grows up.

Differences Don't Matter

After that heavy duty look at the criminal law, I thought it might be nice to take a step back and look at things from a different angle.

The following poem was written by Jessica Mercola many years ago as part of a diversity contest at her middle school. I found in in an issue of Exceptional Parent magazine back in 2002.

While she wrote about a "she", the sibling in her poem is actually a "he", her younger brother, who is 6 years old, has hypotonic cerebral palsy and profound developmental delay, is non-verbal and non-ambulatory and has the most gorgeous smile and eyes of anyone! [according to Mom and who are we to argue?]

I have brown hair.
She has blond hair. 

I have long hair.
She has short hair.

I am chubby and short.
She is skinny and tall.

I have braces and glasses.
She has freckles and cerebral palsy. 

I can draw, ride a bike and read.
She can't do any of these. 

I can walk and sit.
She has a wheelchair,
and tries to talk
but out comes noises,
silly ones. 

I like to chew.
She likes to go for long walks. 

I am stubborn and loud.
She is sensitive and caring. 

I am outgoing and fun.
She is different and interesting. 

I go to dance.
She goes to therapy. 

I drink from a cup and eat regular food.
She drinks from a bottle and eats pureed food. 

I like to play outside.
She likes to play with noisy toys. 

She doesn't make any choices.
We make them all for her.

I think I have a good life.
Hers could be better. 

Every day I watch her grow,
in sorrow, laughter and snow. 

I hope no one takes her away.
I would be lonely and miss her every day. 

I start every day with the positive
attitude that one day she'll be
just like me! 

I don't care what we are.
I love her anyway. 

I don't care what other people say.
We'll always be sisters and
the best of friends.
That's the way it's going to stay.

Cross-posted at Free Falling

'Autism Night Before Christmas'

From 5 Minutes for Special Needs (a spot I make it to far too rarely lately), something I think many of my readers can relate to, whether or not their child is diagnosed with autism.

Twas the Night Before Christmas

And all through the house

The creatures were stirring

Yes, even the mouse

We tried melatonin
And gave a hot bath
But the holiday jitters
They always distract

The children were finally
All nestled in bed
When nightmares of terror
Ran through my OWN head

Did I get the right gift
The right color
And style
Would there be a tantrum
Or even, maybe, a smile?

Our relatives come
But they don’t understand
The pleasure he gets
Just from flapping his hands.

“He needs discipline,” they say
“Just a well-needed smack,
You must learn to parent…”
And on goes the attack

Now go read the rest of it. Please.

And  a Very Merry Christmas to you all.