When I was in first grade, my teacher assigned a long-term project. Students were instructed to design parachutes which they would later drop from the balcony at school.
On the day of the drop-off, students whose parachutes opened smoothly and sailed to the ground would receive blue ribbons while those whose parachutes dropped heavily would receive honorable mention. Regardless of the prize, I wanted badly for my parachute to work.
At first, I had no idea what would make one open.
Every day after school, I experimented with different items. I was amazed by how many things did not work. What I found worked every time, however, was my mini stuffed Raggedy Ann doll attached with string to my grandfather’s handkerchief.
On the day of the parachute drop, I felt proud, excited, and nervous. I stood upstairs at school waiting anxiously to release my parachute. I was so serious and so determined that one would have thought there was more at stake than claps or a ribbon.
It seemed as if my life depended upon the parachute’s opening.
Perhaps my life did depend upon it. For forty-nine years, I have been inspired by my grit during that project. I need the confidence that comes from knowing that I won’t give up and a reminder that hard work and creativity flow when there is first a belief that something can be done.
I was the mom who truly believed the next thing we would try would work or the next year was going to be Mark’s year to shine. The years went by, though, and he showed progress, and not, and progress, and not.
Wanting success, I brainstormed and tried all sorts of interventions for Mark, only drawing the line at unproven medical procedures that I feared might bring Mark physical harm, a schedule so intensive that it might burn him out, or an approach that might destroy his confidence even if he benefited in the end.
What I found worked every time for Mark were unscripted moments and the unhurried simplicity of leisure activities—the cuddles, the dog walks, the board games, the family vacations, the meals out, the bike rides, the softball tournaments, the Texas Rangers games, and especially the movies.
And celebrating unconventional successes.
One spring break to the next might not yield more concrete math skills for Mark but gains in how long he could fly or how quickly he was able to acclimate to a new setting. I was delighted when Mark was able to listen to a song he likes, “Blister in the Sun,” without adjusting the volume. He used to turn the volume way up during the part of the song that gets very quiet but when the song returned to the regular volume it hurt his ears.
Another helpful strategy was creating naturalistic opportunities to help build his language, self-advocacy, relationship, and self-regulation skills. It's not just my grit that matters but his.
When Mark was around 16, John and I dared to believe that he could live outside our home someday and explored a new community for neurodiverse adults. Then, we took gradual and purposeful steps to acclimate Mark to that community and to provide him with the tools he would need to thrive there.
On the day that I dropped the parachute I had built off the balcony of Skycrest Christian School, it opened, just as I had hoped, and I smiled.
It was harder to let my son go.
On the day I dropped Mark off as a new resident at 29 Acres, he had rarely been away from Mom and Dad overnight, but he had succeeded in the day program for over a year. He was used to the activities, the facilities, and the staff. He had mastered many goals and helped pick out furniture for his new bedroom. I had built up his confidence, and I trusted that he was equipped with what he needed to succeed in this supported living community.
I felt proud, excited, and nervous as I stood outside Mark's room wondering if he was ready and if I was.
And I smiled as I watched him open up to others and tell me "goodnight."
And I prayed that he would always land safely.
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