Passing of a Perpetual Exile

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
(1918-2008)

I've always had a deep love of Russian culture and history, and I have always counted three great contemporary Russians among my own personal heroes. Dmitri Shostakovich died in 1975, and Mstislav Rostropovich died last year. News from Russia tonight; Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn has died at the age of 89.

I won't go into the particulars of Solzhenitsyn's legacy. The New York Times obituary I linked yo above is a pretty exhaustive one, and if you're not familiar with Solzhenitsyn, I hope you'll take some time to read it. Neither A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich nor especially The Gulag Archipelago are easy summer reads; indeed, I can't imagine very many people outside of Russia have read Gulag in its entirety. But you don't have to read much; like Holocaust history, the story of Stalinism (which hardly died with Stalin, or is dead even now) and the Russian terror state is probably too big for one person to encapsulate it. But Solzhenitsyn must have come close.

For me, there are two great chroniclers of the cruelty of life in the Soviet Union. Shostakovich showed us how it felt, and Solzhenitsyn told us how it was. The world is infinitely the poorer for his passing.

That one percent feels like a universal truth

When I've got some time, I'm going to write about the conference at which I spoke yesterday, which was an amazing and eye-opening experience, for Julie and me both but particularly for Schuyler.

Until then, however, I wanted to share something exceptional that I read this morning, a post on Jennifer Groneberg's blog. It seemed especially appropriate, given recent sobering events in the special needs community.

Among other things, it addresses fear, and does so in an unblinking way that really resonated with me. I am always happy to have the discussion about gentle terminology and inclusive language (which has come up again, not surprisingly), but this is a good example of exactly why I prefer direct language. Sometimes the monster is just plain scary, and calling it something besides a monster just doesn't do the job.

Thanks, Jennifer, for posting this.

"Hard times give me your open arms..."

Sometimes sadness feels distant, like Third World suffering. And then there are the times when it hits close to home.

Noted writer and special needs advocate Vicki Forman unexpectedly lost her son Evan this week. The subsequent torrent of sorrow and shock that have been moving through the online community of special needs parents and advocates speaks to the immediacy of Vicki's writing and the positive effect that she and her son have had on others who are trying to make their way in a world of silent monsters.

It also speaks to the quiet fear that so many of us carry through our lives. After I left a heartfelt but probably inadequate message on Special Needs Mama expressing my condolences, Vicki was kind enough to write to me. In her message, she mentioned the thing that we both knew already, the thing that all parents of special needs children know but rarely speak of, even amongst ourselves. It exists behind the inspirational stories and the moments that allow everyone to believe that strong people who fight the good fight will always triumph in the end. She referred to it as "a vulnerability that is unmentionable," and in Evan's case, it became more than he could bear.

It lurks, the biggest monster of them all. It watches and it waits, and sometimes it takes advantage of that moment of vulnerability. What it leaves behind in the short term is chaos. It leaves fear and a cold truth for those of us who live our lives, even on the best of days, casting brief but troubled looks over our shoulders. And for parents like Vicki, it leaves a pain that I can't even begin to imagine, although of course I've imagined it plenty over the last five years.

The thing is, however, it doesn't end there. People who have known me for years can attest that I am not the same person I was before Schuyler came into my life. Most parents are changed by their kids, but I'll go out on a limb just a bit and say that the parents of broken children are changed even more profoundly than most. Evan was just about Schuyler's age, and the years that Vicki and her family had with him have undoubtedly left them all different people than when they began this trip together. In Vicki's case, her writing and her advocacy over the years have allowed Evan to change a lot of people as well. I hope that when the pain has dulled a little bit, she'll see just how much he left behind, and what a legacy she has allowed for him.

As cliched as it may sound, that's how kids like Evan never die. Small comfort today, but true nonetheless.

---

Contributions in memory of Evan Kamida may be made to:
The Pediatric Epilepsy Fund at UCLA
Division of Pediatric Neurology
Mattel Children’s Hospital at UCLA
David Geffen School of Medicine at UCLA
22-474 MDCC
10833 Le Conte Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90095-1752

On Michael Savage and Other Monsters

Before I begin, let's look at what exactly was said last week by Michael Savage, talk radio host and celebrated caveman:

SAVAGE: Now, you want me to tell you my opinion on autism, since I'm not talking about autism? A fraud, a racket. For a long while, we were hearing that every minority child had asthma. Why did they sudden -- why was there an asthma epidemic amongst minority children? Because I'll tell you why: The children got extra welfare if they were disabled, and they got extra help in school. It was a money racket. Everyone went in and was told [fake cough], "When the nurse looks at you, you go [fake cough], 'I don't know, the dust got me.' " See, everyone had asthma from the minority community. That was number one.

Now, the illness du jour is autism. You know what autism is? I'll tell you what autism is. In 99 percent of the cases, it's a brat who hasn't been told to cut the act out. That's what autism is.

What do you mean they scream and they're silent? They don't have a father around to tell them, "Don't act like a moron. You'll get nowhere in life. Stop acting like a putz. Straighten up. Act like a man. Don't sit there crying and screaming, idiot."

Autism -- everybody has an illness. If I behaved like a fool, my father called me a fool. And he said to me, "Don't behave like a fool." The worst thing he said -- "Don't behave like a fool. Don't be anybody's dummy. Don't sound like an idiot. Don't act like a girl. Don't cry." That's what I was raised with. That's what you should raise your children with. Stop with the sensitivity training. You're turning your son into a girl, and you're turning your nation into a nation of losers and beaten men. That's why we have the politicians we have.

I had no intention of addressing the whole Michael Savage issue here or anywhere else, mostly because what he said was pretty clearly stupid, but also for the simple reason that autism isn't my issue. I occasionally have disagreements with parents of autistic children, and in most cases it boils down to the fact that Schuyler is not autistic. Her condition does not in any way manifest itself like autism, not even her lack of speech, and my beliefs in how she should be cared for, how I refer to her condition and my expectations for her future are completely different from theirs. I have the utmost respect for these parents, and I like to think that the fight I bring on Schuyler's behalf will benefit them just as much. But still. Not my fight, not directly, anyway.

But then I followed a link that was showing up in my stats, and I found a discussion of Savage's remarks on a parenting forum. I found the link back to my blog, and to my irritation, it was in a post by someone who, while disdaining the manner in which Savage expressed his opinion, nevertheless defended his point about how kids are supposedly being over-diagnosed with autism by pointing out that Schuyler was originally misdiagnosed as being on the autism spectrum. You may be reading this blog for the first time right now, as a result of following that link.

So let me say a few things briefly and clearly. First of all, yes, it is true that Schuyler was misdiagnosed, by the Child Study Center at the Yale Medical School, with Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified (PDD-NOS, or as I liked to call it, for its vague and unhelpful description, "PDD-WTF"), an autism spectrum disorder.

But I also think it's important to note that Schuyler's actual condition, Bilateral Perisylvian Polymicrogyria, is extremely rare, with perhaps as few as a thousand identified cases worldwide, and without the MRI that Schuyler eventually received, there was no way to identify what her monster really was. It was unlikely, even at Yale, that anyone was going to immediately get it right, particularly without a brain scan. Furthermore, we pushed for more tests when that diagnosis felt unsatisfactory, and those tests were granted without any resistance because her doctors agreed with us. Her misdiagnosis only stood for a few months, and was suspect from the beginning.

In other words, I don't think Schuyler's misdiagnosis is very helpful anecdotally. Are children being diagnosed prematurely with autism spectrum conditions? I have no idea; my kid isn't autistic, and even when she received that diagnosis, I don't think anyone ever seriously thought she was. I can't speak to how autism is being identified by doctors.

I do think, however, that it is important to realize that yes, autism is a serious, legitimate medical condition and one that affects thousands of families in ways that I can't even begin to fathom. Furthermore, I can't imagine there are really non-deranged people out there who believe otherwise. If there are people out there ready to put forth an intelligent argument in defense of that position, Michael Savage is not one of them. He's a buffoon, and I'm pretty sure he knows it.

Having said that, I don't believe he should be silenced for expressing his opinion. Typically, free speech only truly requires our democracy's defense when it is denied to the assmonkeys of the world; logical or popular positions (and why are they so rarely one and the same?) can usually take care of themselves.

Still, it's nice to know that sometimes the marketplace responds appropriately.

Big Box of Inappropriate

Schuyler and the Big Box of Words
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

Has it really been almost two weeks? I apologize for the silence. I've been working on a lot of things and it's kept me busy. "What are you writing these days?" I get asked a lot. Well, I have not one, not two but three speeches to write this summer, including a keynote address for this conference on technology in special education in which I have an hour and a half allocated for whatever I plan to say. An hour and a half. I predict lots of Powerpoint and perhaps a puppet show.

Summer with Schuyler continues to be sort of hit and miss, to be honest, although it's still a vast improvement over previous summers when she was being watched by snotty know-it-all college student interns working for the school district. (I still remember the 19 year-old tool who, when told that Schuyler needed to be encouraged to use her device, disagreed and backed up his position with "I am a psychology major...")

As much as she must love hanging out in the office with her forty year-old father, she's missing her school friends and it's beginning to show. We keep trying to arrange play dates with some of her AAC classmates, but everyone's busy during the summer (what is this word "vacation" of which you speak?) so it's hard to put together. She's got her cousins and a few neurotypical kids that she sees now and then, but I think that as much fun as she has, it still serves as a reminder of her brokenness, and as an eight year-old, she's not as in love with being different as she might have been once.

We've been trying to learn a new word in sign language every day, and she's shown some excitement for that. I think part of her enthusiasm has come from the fact that I've been letting her choose the words, which has led to such useful words for everyday use as "robot" and "bat" (on the day The Dark Knight opened, and no, I didn't take her to see it). Now that she's beginning to enjoy learning new words, we may start trying to sneak some useful ones in from time to time. Not that "robot" isn't a solid daily vocabulary tool.

The Big Box of Words remains her primary form of communication, however, or at least our main focus. One way of firing up her enthusiasm for it has been to add things to it that she and I say when we're teasing each other, which is, well, pretty often. We already added a little rhyme from my childhood that I taught her a while back to say when people eyeball her in public, so her device will now say "Stare stare, booger bear. Take a picture, I don't care." (When she's old enough, perhaps she'll replace it with "What are you looking at, assmonkey?") At lunch yesterday (at a Mexican restaurant, naturally), she asked me to add "Beans, beans, the magical fruit. The more you eat, the more you toot." Clearly, I am a fine, fine influence on my child. Her teachers are going to be so proud.

Speaking of which, last week Schuyler wanted to use her device to call me a "monkey fart" (honestly, I don't know why Julie teaches her these horrible things), and lo and behold, the Big Box of Words did not have the word "fart" programmed into it. You can probably see where this is going.

Twenty minutes later, Schuyler had a new subdirectory on the BBoW listing words associated with, well, bodily functions. Say what you will about the beauty of language and creating an appropriate and enriching environment for a child, but come on. An eight year old who can't say "fart" or "burp" or "booger" is not a complete human.

And honestly, just assigning icons to her new words made it all worthwhile.

Did I mention that I'm the keynote speaker at a professional educators' conference? I did.

No Blue Fairy

Schuyler
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

The Big Box of Words has been such a positive thing for Schuyler and her future that I think I usually fail to give a completely balanced picture of the ups and downs that accompany her experience with assistive technology.

Of late, she's had something of a rough time with the BBoW. There are times, especially during the school year, when Schuyler really seems to dig the device and the very unique place she has in the world because of it. Lately, though, I think it's just pissing her off.

Part of the issue is summer. No school, no peer group of device users, and no structured classroom environment. Just her smelly old parents and lots of activities that are not even remotely BBoW-friendly. She loves to swim, for example; she has never willingly left the pool without at least a grumble or a plea for five more minutes. She'd stay in her swim suit all summer if she could, her device hidden safely away on dry land. For the Fourth of July, we went camping with my brother's family, and I can count the times I saw her use the device on one finger. I know because I made her do it, and while it wasn't exactly under protest, she definitely did the bare minimum required.

We've decided to try to vary her techniques a little, stepping back up to the sign language plate again, for example, as a parallel technique alongside the device. Schuyler's condition limits her fine motor abilities in her hands and thus keeps her from being truly skilled at signing, but that never kept her from having real enthusiasm for it. She learned most of her signs from the early Signing Time videos, which I think I've discussed before, and now that they're on PBS, the DVR catches new episodes every now and then and we all sit down and learn them together. Her signing is limited by her own monster-stifled, clumsy fingers and by the limited number of people who can understand her. Nevertheless, signing still presents an elegant way to speak that the Big Box of Words simply can't match, at least at this point where she's still constructing sentences and thoughts at a necessarily slower, sometimes maddening pace. She understands the necessity of the device, but I think she sees the beauty of sign language in a way that I am only now appreciating myself.

Recently, Schuyler has begun to outwardly express her own awareness of her monster. She has this thing she does now to explain it, a whole story told in gestures and sign language. She gently touches her throat and shakes her head. She then touches her head with her finger (the sign for "think") and draws a line down to her mouth, signifying how the things she wants to say don't make the trip from her brain to her mouth. I like how she recognizes that her voice is broken, but her mind is working. It's important for her to know that her thoughts are there, and they are magnificent.

The thing about this little mimed explanation of Schuyler's condition, however, is that no one taught it to her. It's all hers. While some people worry about how to tell her what's wrong with her and how to explain it in gentle terms that won't bruise her delicate psyche ("Don't call her broken!"), Schuyler has figured out her own harsh reality by herself and expresses it without a hint of self-pity or trauma. Schuyler knows her monster better than any of us; it's presumptuous for anyone else, even me, to pretend we understand it, too, or to think that we can somehow tell her something about it that she doesn't already know on some visceral level.

Lately, Schuyler has balked a few times in public at using the Big Box of Words to answer other people's questions, and the sense that I get from her is that she may be starting to feel, if not embarrassed, at least self-conscious about it. Schuyler may delight in being a weird little girl, but only when it is on her terms. A speech output device still represents her very best (and possibly only) chance of being able to spontaneously communicate any kind of real expressive thought, but it remains an unnatural way for a little girl to speak. I suspect the day is coming, and soon, when her desire to be "normal" is going to cause some serious heartbreak for her.

There's one literary figure with whom I have always associated Schuyler, although to even say it aloud breaks my oft-broken old father's heart right in two.

In her own very unique way, Schuyler is Pinocchio.

"A Good Read"

(I swear to God, I thought I mentioned this already. I believe it was in the Father's Day post that got scrapped when I wrote about Tim Russert instead. My brain is apparently turning into pudding. Welcome to thirty-ten. Now get off my lawn.)

A few weeks ago, Naomi Shulman, research chief at Wondertime Magazine, wrote a very nice recommendation for Schuyler's Monster titled "A Good Read". I was of course happy to get a good review; it sure beats the alternative of a bad one or even worse, none at all.

I was especially touched to get yet another positive mention in Wondertime because they've been so supportive and great about my book. They featured a lengthy excerpt back in their March issue, which is nice online but looked absolutely breathtaking in its print layout. I was also interviewed by Naomi for a follow-up interview on the website. Wondertime has been a good friend to me and my family from the very beginning.

It's especially nice to have this coming from Naomi, who was an exceptionally pleasant and professional interviewer and who has been following Schuyler's story since before her diagnosis. I keep discovering over and over again how deeply Schuyler has touched so many people, and how the connections she's made through her story circle back around to us again and again.

So thank you, Naomi. This means the world to me, and that's the truth.

Vox monstrum

BBoW
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

Sunday mornings are usually pretty relaxed around here. We don't go to church, the Baby Jesus keeps us from having Chick-fil-A and neither of us ever work on Sundays, so we usually get up late and have a lazy breakfast around the apartment. It's nice; even if we've got lots to do, it can all wait.

The three of us were sitting on the bed in our pjs, and Schuyler had her Big Box of Words with her so she could tell us about the beach in Connecticut. This naturally led to the topic of mermaids, as most conversations with Schuyler eventually do. When, in the midst of our discussion, we informed her that a boy mermaid was actually a merman, she asked me to add it to her device. Julie left us to our programming fun.

While we were adding words and making changes to the device, Schuyler and I ended up somehow on the voice settings, where the BBoW user can select the voice that she wants to represent her. There are maybe a dozen different voices, male and female, but there's only one (named "Kit") that sounds specifically like a child's voice.

Kit has been Schuyler's voice all along, and in a weird sort of way, it has become her recognizable voice to me. When we were being interviewed for public radio a few months ago, Schuyler thought it would be funny to reset the voice settings so that instead of little kid Kit's voice, the box suddenly sounded like some kind of menacing robot invader from Mars. She thought it was great fun, of course, and I found the experience surprisingly upsetting. Kit had become Schuyler's voice to me, and in some respects at least a part of who she really is on a fundamental level.

This morning, as I showed her the different voices and how they could be tweaked by changing the rate of speed, the pitch and the variance of pitch (ranging from robotic to Shatneresque), Schuyler grew very interested. She pointed to the device, and then to herself. Since we were in the settings mode, she had to speak with her hands.

She held her hands far apart ("big"), drew her thumb across her cheek ("girl") and then pointed to her throat ("voice").

Schuyler wanted a big girl voice.

We've been trying to push her to use the device this summer and have met with success, at least much of the time. We've always encouraged her her to take ownership of the BoW, adding words and changing pronunciations at her request. Now she was asking for a major change, and one that was very, very personal, both for her as a user and for the rest of us who interact with her every day.

We sat and spent a good half hour going through the different choices, and she finally chose "Ursula", which we then tweaked to bring the pitch up to a slightly more girlish sound and to add a bit of lilt to its patterns. What she ended up with was a voice completely customized to her wishes.

Broken children grow up like everyone else, although perhaps in ways and via paths we never anticipate. Schuyler has a big girl voice now. I only wish the rest of her big girl transformations were going to be that easy.

Summer monsters

Three little monsters
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

It's been a while since I've really had much to say here. I haven't been staying away because of any great tragedy. I've just felt, I don't know. Quiet, I suppose.

The early days of summer have been different this year, for the simple reason that we've elected to keep Schuyler at home with us rather than handing her over to another summer program. I feel like I got adequate practice writing angry emails to administrators last summer, after all. The one thing her summer programs have had in common for some time has been the lack of progress she's made on her Big Box of Words. When she was at the YMCA, she never used it because they were constantly playing hard and swimming and having fun being feral kids on the go go go. Last summer, she didn't use it because the people taking care of her were too busy searching for a quarter for the clue bus.

So now she spends her days with one of us, mostly me since my boss doesn't mind her coming in to the office. I think she actually brightens the place up when she's there; the associate dean went out of his way to tell me how much he enjoys hearing her playing in the next room. She brings in toys (sometimes her fairies, other times her big slobbery monsters) and draws and watches movies on my laptop, and the summer session at the university doesn't seem so ghostly. During the hour-long commute, she jabbers away and watches the world going by with interest.

The more time Schuyler and I spend together, the more conspiratorial we become, which is nice, at least for us. When she has her monsters in the car with us, she asks for me to play the "monster mix" I made for her on the iPod (consisting of music from monster movies like Cloverfield and King Kong and Jaws and War of the Worlds), and we drive along pretending to devour the people we see on the sidewalks.

"Daddy!" She says. "Eat that guy!" Which of course I do. When she eats that guy, she only eats half, handing me the rest. She's a very generous monster.

A few weeks ago, her cousins came to stay with us. One of them, almost exactly Schuyler's age, is a smart kid, almost scarily so in fact, but he's also trusting in a way that is perhaps unfortunate when he's got an uncle and a cousin who spend so much time trying to trick and scare each other. (For instance, he now believes that I know a deadly martial arts move called the Monkey Paw, which I can't teach to him because unlike me, he only has ten fingers. Something to think about if you are considering asking me to watch your kid.)

Schuyler invented something called the grass monster a few months ago, a krakenesque creature lurking under the surface of the lawn who will grab you if you walk on the grass. When her cousin came to stay, Schuyler played grass monster all weekend, and I fleshed out the story for him until the grass monster had reached legendary status in our house.

Once he returned to Arlington, he googled "grass monster" and "arlington" from time to time, and always bragged to me when I saw him that there wasn't a grass monster in Arlington. Thus, he was safe. So really, in my own defense, I think a case could be made that some things are just inevitable. (He called me yesterday morning to give me the news.)

Julie's summer has been a little rocky, mostly on account of her work situation. I've worked in a bookstore in the past, same as her, so I know how petty and ridiculous the environment can become, particularly during the slow summer months when people grow bored and restless.

Still, it pains me to watch her deal with a work environment that increasingly resembles nothing so much as junior high school, with a paycheck. I don't write much about her here, for reasons that have been made clear before, but here's what you need to know about Julie, something that people who truly get to know her already understand.

Julie works very hard to maintain a positive and friendly attitude when she's at work, not just having a professional attitude but being open and friendly and funny as well. When she finds herself having to guard herself against petty people taking advantage of that, it does more than cause her to come to work and behave like a retail automaton.

It takes away her refuge, a place where she can go to escape the fact that the light of her life, the little girl who means every bit as much to Julie as to me, is living a life under threat, where every perfect moment has possibilities hanging over it that could snatch everything away in a moment.

I recently read a report of another kid with polymicrogyria, this one closer to Schuyler's age, whose life was suddenly and cruelly snatched away by seizures, the ones that Schuyler has yet to suffer but which hang over this family like a cloud. The possibility of meeting that one last terrible monster isn't something for Schuyler to fear, but her peace belongs to her alone. I can't afford to drop my guard, ever.

And neither can Julie. I write so much about Schuyler's monster that no one ever forgets the thing I live in fear of. I wish the people in her life would remember Julie's anxiety, though. It's her monster, too.

Sadness in seven words

Well, shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits.

Goodbye, George...

(Edited to add the explanatory link, which I seriously, SERIOUSLY can't believe I needed to do.)

Writing about writing about writing

Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

Sorry I've been feeling sort of quiet these days, but you know how it goes. I have been talking to other people behind your back, however.

Over the weekend, I was part of a Father's Day article about blogging dads for the St. Paul Pioneer Press, "Dads join the parenting blog ranks". Those of you who hate the term "mommy blogger" can now hate on "daddy blogger", too.

I also did an interview for writer and artist Debbie Ridpath Ohi, whose excellent work you may recognize from the Schuyler's Monster website. It focuses mostly on the writing process, so you can decide for yourself whether I'm truly a fancy pants author, or if I just got incredibly lucky. I won't tell you where the smart money is.

Sad Father's Day

I was all set to post something about Father's Day, and I might still do that. But I just found out that Tim Russert died today of an apparent heart attack.

I know we're going to hear a great deal about his contributions to the field of journalism, but the thing that I'll remember about Russert is that he wrote about fatherhood, both his life with his own dad and his relationship with his son, in a way that opened the door for other writers like myself who had something to say about being a father and a son, and what we're all trying to do in that role.

According to MSNBC:

Russert was a trustee of the Freedom Forum’s Newseum and a member of the board of directors of the Greater Washington Boys and Girls Club, and America’s Promise — Alliance for Youth.

In 1995, the National Father’s Day Committee named him “Father of the Year,” Parents magazine honored him as “Dream Dad” in 1998, and in 2001 the National Fatherhood Initiative also recognized him as Father of the Year.

Fathers have been pretty consistently marginalized in our societal narrative, but I think that is beginning to change, albeit slowly. Tim Russert was an agent of that change, although I suspect that all he really set out to do was write a love letter to his father (a personal mission I understand perfectly), and to give others a place to do the same. I truly regret the fact that I'll never have the opportunity to meet him, and to say thank you.

As a writer, I hate to admit when words aren't enough, but...

Reviewed in Brain, Child

A nice person sent me a scan of a review of Schuyler's Monster from the Summer 2008 issue of Brain, Child, which calls itself "the magazine for thinking mothers", although I supposed thinking fathers can read it too, as long as they don't fart or scratch or otherwise call attention to themselves.

Schuyler's Monster: A Father's Journey with His Wordless Daughter, by Robert Rummel-Hudson (St. Martin's Press, 2008). When the instructor of the Lamaze class that Rummel-Hudson attended with his pregnant wife said, "So the first thing the nurse will do is hand the new baby to you, mommies, so you can count their little fingers and toes..." Rummel-Hudson added, "And heads!" Weisenheimer moments like this pepper this making-of-a-father memoir and help leaven what could be a true tale of woe. Rummel-Hudson's daughter, Schuyler, was diagnosed at the age of three with polymicrogyria, a rare brain malformation that causes various developmental problems: the most frustrating, a lack of speech. Rummel-Hudson chronicles, with disarming frankness, the experience of parenting a child no one knows how to help. His own journey includes marital problems and fights with school administrators reluctant to work with Schuyler. His family's trials haven't extinguished Rummel-Hudson's smartass side, but they've drawn forth a tenderness that is touching and utterly familiar: "This love was daunting to me. It was the rest of my life, this love... I was Schuyler's prisoner now, and it was in that captivity that I had achieved my life's joy."

-- Elizabeth Roca
Brain, Child (Summer 2008)

Interview on Psychjourney

So if you've ever thought to yourself "Say, I like that Rob guy's voice so much, I could listen to him for HOURS," then today is your lucky day. I did an interview yesterday with Deborah Harper, the president of Psychjourney, and what was scheduled to be about a half hour interview turned into an hour and thirteen minutes. Wow!

The thing is, the interview went long because I think we got into some interesting areas, and Deborah is a fantastic interviewer who spends time with a question and follows up on points and gets very personally involved in the answers. We had the opportunity to talk earlier in the week instead of doing the actual interview (as I was sick and sounded like Puberty Frog at the time), and I think that earlier connection really made for a comfortable interview. I was much more at ease for this one than I've been before, and it definitely shows. I know an hour of me jabbering might not sound like your idea of a fun afternoon, but I think you'll like this one.

Psychjourney: Schuyler’s Monster: A Father’s Journey With His Wordless Daughter

When I went to the site this morning, I was surprised to see that in addition to the interview, Deborah had also posted the little video I made of two year-old Schuyler back in the summer of 2002, a full year before she was diagnosed with polymicrogyria. I watched it and found myself getting surprisingly weepy. It took me back to a time when we didn't know any monsters, only this funky, weird little kid who had a wheezy little donkey laugh and liked to dump water out of the bathtub.

My favorite moment is when she violently smacks me in the head and then immediately embraces me with a sort of poignant tenderness. That's my life with Schuyler in a nutshell.

Dallas Child

The fam
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

A local free monthly called Dallas Child, asked me a few months ago to contribute an article to their regular "daily diary" feature. I wrote up something for them and submitted it, and then promptly forgot about it like a doofus until Julie (who did NOT forget and had been watching for it this whole time) brought home some copies of the June '08 edition from her store.

You know how it is when you write something and then don't see it for a while, then you come back to it and don't actually remember writing much of it? That's how I felt when I read this again. Not in a bad sense, but rather in a "I can be sort of amusing now and again" sort of way.

That sounds like an excellent epitaph, now that I mention it. Someone jot that down.

Dallas Child is available all over the place in the Dallas/Fort Worth area, but it's a pretty safe bet that you can find it at your local bookstore. For the other 99% of you who don't live here, you can read it online:

Daddy Diaries: Robert Rummel-Hudson

Redacted

Purple fairy
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

I don't like deleting posts, as a rule. But after sleeping on it for a night, I think yesterday's garment-rending was an overreaction. Yes, it was uncool, reading something that one kid said about Schuyler. And as her father, I can almost guarantee I'll react strongly when I feel like she's in danger, even if it's just the danger of having her feelings hurt. Truthfully, I'll probably consistently OVERreact, because I'm a dad. That's what we do. Trust me, it beats the deadbeat alternative.

Anyway, I've taken down the post, because in retrospect, it felt like I was being overly negative and was focusing on one bad experience in a school and with teachers and classmates who have been almost entirely supportive of Schuyler. One of her teachers wrote us and said that Schuyler is an almost universally beloved kid at her school. It seems now to be a little unfair to turn a spotlight on one stumble.

But I'm keeping the photo, because you can't deny that Schuyler works the purple.

Book Launch 2.0

This is one of those things that if you're an author, it feels so truthful that while it's really funny, it also stings just a bit.



Film by author Dennis Cass. (Thanks, Karen...)

Goodbye, old friend

I've donated Beelzebug to Texans Can!, an organization that helps at-risk kids get an education. They came and picked her up today.

The whole time they were hooking her up and taking her away, I had this big old lump in my throat. Okay, I need to go take the New Hotness for a drive before I turn into an old woman for good.

She constantly changes, she never changes

... and friends
Originally uploaded by Citizen Rob

About two hours to the southwest of here, there's a town called Glen Rose. It's known around these parts for two things: the Commanche Peak nuclear power plant and Dinosaur Valley State Park, location of a large concentration of dinosaur footprints preserved in the bed of the Paluxy River. We took Schuyler to Glen Rose over the weekend. Not to see the power plant (cool though that might have been), but rather to see some of the actual footprints made by real dinosaurs.

It's hard to say why Schuyler loves big monsters so much, although I've always had the feeling that she sees them as her natural allies. As I've written before, she's never been afraid of them. Whether it's King Kong or dinosaurs or the Cloverfield monster, she's always been drawn to them as friends. Even her most recent imaginary creature, the Grass Monster, can be tamed by pouring a little bit of beverage onto the ground. When it comes to monsters, they are all Schuyler's.

As she grows older and girlier, her interests have shifted, like any little girl's might, but on her own terms as usual. I am encouraged that she doesn't want to be a princess, and if you call her one, she adamantly declares, "I'm not a princess. I'm a queen." Even at eight, she's not interested in middle management. A few weeks ago, I used a bunch of Amazon credits I'd accumulated to buy her a wooden castle that she'd wanted for a long time, and I don't know if I've ever seen her happier. She has populated it with fairies, and princesses, and cute little animals.

But there are a few dinosaurs and dragons hanging around outside the castle walls, peeking in the windows from time to time. Sometimes they come inside, not to bring mayhem, but to join in the fun. Her dinosaurs never attack anyone (although they do occasionally eat some of the animals). To Schuyler, there's nothing incongruous about their presence in her world.

The dinosaur park was a hit, I think. She gawked at the slightly ridiculous giant fiberglass dinosaurs guarding the park's entrance, and she wanted nothing more than to splash into the river and explore. We kept up as best as we could, slipping on the rocks and twisting our ankles every three or four steps. Schuyler saw the footprints, and she seemed impressed, but mostly she didn't want to look. She wanted to do. Long ago dinosaurs can't compete with being a wild kid in a fast-moving stream.

Schuyler is changing, she's leaving some of the things from her past behind her. She's becoming interested in the concrete world around her, like the "grow your own butterflies" kit we got for her recently. She checks on the caterpillars every day when she gets home from school, watching for them to begin their transformation. I watch her as she transforms herself.

But when the evenings wind down, she still brings a stuffed animal or a doll to bed with her, and since this past weekend, she's taken to looking over the edge of her loft bed, down at the new poster on her wall. It's a brachiosaurus, tall and vaguely menacing (for a salad eater), and she's captivated by it. The last time I put her to bed, she said goodnight to it, and blew it a kiss.