Pappa Coonie's turtle story

     It all started in the summer of 2002.  Murl (AKA Pappa Coonie)  & Louise live on a edge of a pond.  In the spring, they were blessed with newly hatched ducklings.  But, one by one, turtles would pull the ducklings under the water to drown and eat them.  Murl was itching to get himself a turtle.
   Now, Louise had a ceramic turtle in her rock garden , and for a laugh, Ray put that turtle, as a decoy, on a log at the edge of the pond.
   When Murl got home and saw that turtle in the distance, he pulled out his rifle and shot it, not once, but twice, straight through the chest, exiting through the tail.  He was SO excited that he'd gotten a turtle.

 

 So started the legend of 'Precious, the turtle'.  I'll share just a few highlights of that turtle's life.

   'Precious, the turtle' has been auctioned off to the highest bidder at many of the family Christmas auctions, and has lived, for the following year, at each of the sibling's homes.  He was kidnapped & held for ransom, enduring 17 long days of captivity before being return unharmed. (the FBI got curious about those e-mails)  He was an honored guest at Murl & Louise's 50th anniversary celebration.  He found love with Myrtle, the Turtle on New Year's eve 2004.  Sadly, that relationship ended on Valentines day, 2005 with an introduction to a break-dancing turtle named Lucianda Maria Antoinette Delasantos. I could go on and on.
   Turtle inuendos still pop up anywhere, any time the Mileur's get together. 

    Another Mileur family tradition is the 'Annual Lessor Scaup 4th of July, Boat Regatta and Birthday celebration"!  Everybody creates a boat, and everybody gets an award!  The Legend of Precious the Turtle and the Annual Boat Regatta  became entwined several times.  Just look.

2005 -  Emily's boat  - "Please don't shoot me"

Award -  "Coonie's favorite"

 

2008 - our grandson Noah's boat - "The moving target"

Award - "Best kid's boat"

 

2008 - Monique's boat - "Turtles on Strike"

Award - Pappa Coonie's favorite"

 

2009 - Deb's boat " Grand Coonie Isle Turtle Farm"

Award - "Pappa Coonie's favorite"

 

   None of this would be funny if Murl had not been able to laugh at himself.  If it had been my father who had been in that original situation, who had mistakenly shot a ceramic turtle, the story would have had a very different ending.  It would not have been funny at all.  I wonder, what makes one person able to laugh during a situation, and another person angry?

 

    

 

Horse back riding and life skills

   What girl doesn't like horses?  Emily was no different in that aspect.  She loved horses, and had no fear, even when I thought she should have a little fear.  I'd heard that horseback riding had been shown to improve balance, muscle tone, and self confidence in kids with disabilities, I set out to find "equine therapy".  At the time, I worked with Terri Walker, who told me that her mother,  Sandy Crutcher, boarded horses and had hired a trainer to give private lessons.  "No," Sandy told me, "We don't do therapy, we just teach kids how to ride."  Neither she or I knew how it would go, but we agreed to take it one week, one lesson, at a time.  Thursday afternoon was Emily's day and she learned the days of the week on a calendar by waiting for Thursday to come around. 
  For the life of me, I can't remember the name of the trainer. I think it was Mitzi.  Anyway, she was perfect for Emily.  Stong handed enough to keep Emily reined in when she needed it and wise enough to let Emily go when it was safe to let her be on her own.  And the horse, he was huge but he had a patient and gentle spirit.  This wasn't just riding.  Em learned how to feed, groom and clean up after the horse.  She learned that there were responsibilities that came with the fun.  After a couple of years at Crutcher's Corner, Mitzi moved on and the lessons came to an end.

   
   It was several years later that we happened upon another opportunity for horse riding lessons for Emily.  Dave owned several horses and was willing for Emily to come ride once a week.  BlackJack was ideal for Emily.  I was more comfortble with his size and Emily took to him like an old friend.
   One day, Em decided she wanted to do more than just walk around the corral.  She kicked BlackJack in the ribs and hollored "Go."   And BlackJack did what he was told.  He took off, and Emily fell off.   Dave about had a heart attack, and started to go to Emily, but I stopped him. We watched as Emily picked herself up, dusted herself off, then ran after BlackJack.   "You get back here!"  She caught him, climbed up on the fence and climbed back in the saddle.  She was so proud of herself when she walked  BlackJack back around to where we were standing.   Emily thought she was just having fun.  But in that instance she was learning life skills of  'actions have consequences', 'problem solving', and 'independance'. 

BlackJack and Emily

                      
   Later, I learned about an equine therapy center.  I signed Emily up.  But both Emily and I left the session frustrated and disappointed.  We didn't go back.  This was not riding like Em was used to, this was being led around.  I'm sure there's a place for this type of therapy, but I am so glad that I didn't find this first when I was searching for horse-riding therapy.

                                        
   I feel such gratitude to both Mitzi and Dave for being willing to see past the disabilities of Down Syndrome and for being willing to see the abilities of Emily.  They gave her an opportunity to grow.  Instead of doing for her, they taught her to do for herself. This was no free ride. They expected her to do for herself.  And she rose to that expectation.
 
   That's a hard lesson for parents of kids with disabilities.  It's hard even for parents of typical kids.  We want to help our kids, but in doing too much for them, we actually disable them further.   I didn't think this up, but I like the quote:

                           "As a parent, it's not your job to do for your child.
                             It's your job to teach your child to do for himself."

Emily & Oma

  When Emily was born, my Mom was there.  When she was 18 months old, Emily had surgery for a diaphragmatic hernia and spent 15 days at Children's hospital, 12 of those day on a ventilator.  My Mom stayed there with me while I stayed with Emily.  All through Em's life, my Mom was there for me.  She knew first hand about raising a child with a disability.  She undersood what I was feeling.
  Mom was diagnosed with Breast cancer in  1996.  She had a mastectomy, radiation and chemo and surprised the Dr's by living in remission for 15 years. When she died, it wasn't from cancer.  I believe God let her stay here to help me raise Emily. 

Yes, that's a pair of Emily's pants on Mom's head. 

They were playing dress up.

 

Having a picnic at the zoo.

 

Mother's day luncheon,

 

A Hundred years from now,

It will not matter what my bank account was

the sort of house I lived in,

or the kind of car I drove.

 But the world may be different

because I was important

in the life of a child.

 

My mom made a difference in my life, and in Emily's life, and in this world!

 

 

 

 

 

Driving the school bus driver

During this month of October - National Down Syndrome Awareness Month - I want to tell stories about living with Emily, to tell of how she made a difference in this world. She was a stone thrown in a pond, and the ripples have not disappeared. In this world - she was a small stone. In MY world, she was a crator!

  Except for a few months when there was a substitute driver,  Mary Mausey drove bus # 6.  Still does.  Emily rode that bus for 9 1/2 years. An hour to school and an hour back.  Some days, she saw Emily more than I did.  I can't praise Mary enough. She has the patience of Job!
   But this story is not about Mary, it's about the substitute. 
   A little back information about Emily.  Never underestimate a person with a disability.  To compensate for inabilities, unexpected talents are honed.  She couldn't read a paragraph in a book, but Emily was talented in reading people.  She loved without judgment, and blessed strangers that I looked away from in my social correctness.   In her inability to speak understandably, her behavrs were her way to communicate, and when she was bored, look out.  The bus ride was boring.
   Discipline: now, that's a well debated word among parents.  What's discipline? What's punishment? What's abuse?   In their of fear of being seen as abusive,  many parents have given up even good discipline and kids are left without boundries.  Anyway...   With Emily, I found that having a paddle around was a good motivator to change her behavior.  I rarely had to use that paddle, I just had to remind her that I would.
  Back to the substitute bus driver.  After a brief  honeymoon of good behavior for the new driver, Emily got  bored.  She talked loud, wiggled in her seat, bothered the kids in front of, behind and beside her.  The substitute complained to me, wrote out a ticket.  I told her about the paddle trick, and gave her one (the kind that a ball is attached to it with an elastic string).  The plan was that when Emily misbehaved, she would show it to Emily and remind her that Mommy would spank her when she got home.
  A week later, the driver complained again, Emily's behavior was worse, unacceptable.   I decided to remind Emily's bottom what the paddle felt like.  I asked the substitute to give me the paddle.  I would paddle her right where the  misbehavior was occurring.  She wouldn't give me the paddle.  I asked her again, and reluctantly, she gave it to me.  I was shocked, the thing was beat up, part was broken off.  "What happened to this paddle?" 
  The substitute told me that when Emily would misbehave, she would take out the paddle, show it to Emily, tell her that Mommy would spank her, and she would use the paddle on the door-open lever.
   By the look of the paddle, she must have given the door-open lever quite the spankings.
   Imagine Emily, bored on a one hour bus drive home, full of energy, after sitting in a classroom all day.  "What can I do to make that bus driver go looney?"  A behavior rewarded will repeat itself.  Apparently, for Emily, watching that bus driver was reward enough to outweigh any discipline that would follow.

Emily Visits the Shower

This is my favorite (I'll probably say that again) funny story about Emily.

   One afternoon, I decided to go visit a friend, and Emily went with me. We had been there about 30 min when Emily told me needed to go to the bathroom, which in itself was nothing new because  Emily was with bathrooms like a dog with fire hydrants, gotta visit  every one. Being old enough to go by herself, she went by herself.  10 minutes later, she still hadn't come back. We went to check on her.  She was in their shower, her clothes tossed in a pile on the floor.   I asked her "What are you doing?"  She looked at me like I was the silly one, wasn't it obvious? "she signed back "Shower."
  well, DUH

If I knew then what I know now

   I have the dubious honor of being the executor of my parents' estate.  That's the fancy title for the person who is legally responsible for sorting out the leftovers of the lives of my parents. Gratefully, I'm not alone in this.  My siblings have also been shouldering a great deal of the weight of the cleanup of the house and property.  The five of us were unified in the caring for my parents during their last years, and have remained so since their death.  But, since neither of my parents made a Will, the court became involved to assure that everthing is handled fairly.  Hence the title - executor of the estate.
   Both my parents were readers and writers.  Both saved files and files of clipped newspaper articles on vast varieties of topics.  Both were prolific writers of  'letters to the editor' in which they expressed their opinions.  Mom wrote a daily journal - years and years worth. Pop saved obituaries.  Both kept every card and every letter they received
   This past year, I've spent countless hours sorting through the mountains of paper in their house.  I've tossed the majority of it, but still have a pile that begs attentive reading.
   I'm surprised to find that as I read, I don't feel the emotional baggage of being their daughter.  I read with curiosity, and discover aspects of my parents lives that I hadn't known before. I put myself in their shoes, and even though I disagree with some of the decisions they made and some of the paths that they chose for their family, I realize that they did the best that they knew and the best that they could at that time.

    I read a letter to my mom, from her brother as he responded to her previous letter to him.  She had written:  "If I had known then what I know now, or if I had been who I am now, I might have .... I have repented of that, and accept my part of the present effect of it in our lives."

   My uncle wrote so wisely: "Since you did not  know then what you know now and you were not then what you are now, I see no need to repent or lie awake over all the might-have-beens that could-not-have-been anyway."

  The vocabulary of REGRET is: I should have... I shouldn't have... If only....  I wish I had.... I wish I hadn't....  The subsequence of regret is BONDAGE.  It ties you up emotionally, prevents you from from being happy.   STOP IT.  If you need to, apologize for it. If you broke it, fix it.  Then don't ever do it again.  Just don't sit around in regret.  What a wast of time.

 Then, remind yourself  "Don't Should on yourself and don't let anyone else Should on you!"
  
 
  

Chose LIFE!

   It's been 5 years since Emily died.  Recently, a young mother who had to say goodbye to her newborn, asked me how I survived, how did I make it through.

      Initially, there was so much help and so much support,  it felt like I was in a bad dream that I would soon wake from.  People told me "You're so strong"and "You're doing so well".   I thought that about myself, too, and was smug in how well I was coping.  Counseling? No way, I was fine. Until about 3 months after the funeral.  One morning, I woke up and the numbness had worn off.  I thought I would die.  The feelings were overwhelming.  But by then, my friends were back to their own lives, and although they would have been willing to help, to listen, I had always been the care-taker, so I continued in that role; I comforted the people who came to comfort me. 

   There were two of me.  The real me sank alone into my own little pity party, after all, I was Emily's mother, and no one else could feel the way I did. I even excluded my family.  "Grief" swallowed me up.   The other me was a faker.   I put on the happy face and went to work, to church, to the grocery store.  I acted like I was fine. The other me kept "Grief" in a box, the lid tightly closed.  The problem, though, was "Grief". He wouldn't stay in the box.   One day, I'd cope well, then, the next day, I'd be in the pits again.  I felt like I was bouncing.   

    Then I got angry.  Like PMS and hypoglycemia and no sleep for 2 days kind of angry. That kind of irritability that simmered under the surface and erupted when I least wanted it to. There's nothing right in the world when a woman gets that kind of angry.  I remember getting pissed at a lady in the grocery store when she took 5 seconds too long to decide on what kind of green beans she wanted - "just pick a can and get out of my way" (I didn't say that outloud, but I sure wanted to).   

   Finally, I went to grief group.  The first day, I did nothing but cry. But that was the beginning.  At group, I felt free to open that box and come face to face with "Grief".  I learned some important lessons. 

• Guilt and Regret feel very much the same, but are two very different things. Regret says "I wish I had..." or "I wish I hadn't..."   Guilt implies the need for punishment, and if no one else punishes you, you will punish yourself.   You will beome self destructive - over eat, over drink, over drug, not allow yourself to be happy again....   Both Guilt and Regret  require self forgiveness.  (This lesson set me free.) 
• Grief is part of who I am. He will always be there to affect every part of my life.  But the choice is mine about how much  influence he has.  
• It’s possible to get stuck in grief, for grief to become my identity.   

    I turned my anger on "Grief".  He had stolen my daughter, and he was threatening to steal my life as well.   I turned to the Word.    I call heaven and earth as witness this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that both you and your descendants may live. Deuteronomy 30:19. 

   I chose Life. And everyday I choose Life. 
  
   Oh, it's still not easy. "Grief" comes as expected at Christmas, at Emily's birthday and her death day and each spring when the daffodils bloom.  Sometimes I get ambushed by "Grief" when I hear a certain song on the radio, or when her best friend sends a message on FB saying "I love Emily".  Some days, I wake up to find "Grief" sitting on my chest, making it difficult to breathe, much less to get out of bed and function.  But as time goes by, it gets easier.  I've learned to open the box myself when it's safe, instead of letting the pressure build to explode at inappropriate times.  I refuse to wear the signs that identify me as a griever.  I am a survivor and I behave that way.
   I hang on the belief that this life is only a stepping stone to my eternal life. Every day that I open my eyes on this earth, is just one day closer to when I cross over and be with Emily again.