Precerpt from Raising God's Rainbow Makers: Discipline in the Mahlou Home
I have a feeling that the only reason I don't get labeled ADHD is that I have incredibly strong concentration - my kids would ask for permission for something they knew I would not permit by approaching me while I was reading or writing and I would make a soft sound that they intentionally took as permission. I never remembered saying anything. Heck, I did not even notice them approaching me! They took big time advantage of that when they were young - and admitted it!
Discipline itself was mainly a matter of honest admission, logic, and, at times, the kids taking over. We would always discuss why they did something they knew I did not approve of, and they admitted asking while I was not aware of them. And they would giggle!
I knew I was in trouble when Lizzie, after being allowed to enroll in a college psychology course as a 12-year-old (but a freshman in high school enrolled in sophomore college prep and honors courses), said to me, "Mom, please come sit down. We need to talk."
"What do we need to talk about? I asked.
"Your parenting," she said.
"What's wrong with my parenting?"
"Well," she said, "when you give a punishment, it is really important that you remember you gave it; it is not fair to expect us to remember it and do it when you forget!"
"I don't see a problem," I told her. "All of you carry out your punishments just fine.
She protested, "But, Mom, it is not fair to expect us to be on our honor and do it when we know we are probably not even getting credit for doing it!"
Yeah...I was pragmatic to the core, but she wanted credit, I was essentially asking them to self-impose consequences in a vacuum, which is a lot to ask of anyone, let alone a child. But, remarkably, they were quietly doing it. They carried out punishments they knew I had forgotten. Lizzie's complaint wasn't really "this system is unfair so we're going to stop." It was "this system is unfair and we want credit for being good." When I think about it now, that's a morally sophisticated position for a 12-year-old.
"Would you at least think about the logic of it, Mom?" She pressed. Yeah, sure. She and Shane were quite clever in using logic to argue with me; they won often enough to keep it up. We were a household where logic was a legitimate currency. Arguments had to be constructed properly to succeed. I suppose that's a rare environment for children to grow up in although it seemed normal and right at the time. In any case, it was the culture of the household. The Mahlou kids early on figured out that how you argued mattered, not just how loudly or how persistently.
And "would you at least think about the logic of it, Mom?" is actually a precise thing to say. She wasn't asking me to capitulate. She was asking for genuine engagement with the argument. Looking back, I realize that was actually quite intellectually mature — recognizing that being heard and being agreed with are two different things, and that the former was worth asking for even when the latter wasn't guaranteed.
Shane quickly learned -- and took advantage of the knowledge -- that I could be quite liberal if I knew where he was, whom he was with, that he was safe, and had a way to reach him. In cleaning old files in the cellar a couple of weeks ago, I came across a handwritten note from him.
"Mom, I am going to be at Charlie's house until really late.
We are working on a school project. You can call his mother if you need me.
Signed, Your Perfect Son."
I think I shall give that note to his wife. The Shane she had not yet met. Though I think she is quite familiar with teenage Shane, an extreme introvert, who babysat his younger brother, Doah, an extreme introvert upon occasion. One time when I came back, I saw a pot in the sink with the handle broken off. I asked Shane about it, and he laconically replied, "Better than pot than Doah's head!"
I am not sure that doctors fully agreed with my parenting style. I remember when we first moved to California. Noelle was 13 and still in long leg braces. Most spina bifida kids had been put in wheelchairs once they reached school age, but Noelle, ever the independent soul, preferred her braces and crutches. The orthopedic surgeon was skeptical. He asked her to swing to the end of the hallway and back, and she did.
"Well, you're fast," he said. Then he asked her to get down onto the floor and back up, and she did, in less than 30 seconds.
"Well, you're flexible," he said. "But what about endurance? How long can you hang out at the mall without getting tired?"
She looked at him with big eyes, put one hand on her waist, standing akimbo in her braces, and, lifting the other hand toward me, said, "Excuse me, have you met my mother?"
He appeared quizzical.
"My kids don't 'hang out'," I told him.
I think there was more a sense of pride and self-confidence in that statement than anything like frustration. My kids did not hang out because there was nothing productive to be gained from it and a whole lot to use. They knew that, and I think they liked having me to wear the black hat with their friends since they never complained about it and never asked, let alone begged, to join their friends in those kinds of senseless (in my opinion) activities.
Doctors may have been unsure, but I got two confirmations that a parent rarely gets. One from Lizzie, and one from Shane.
I found a notebook on the stairs one time. It was a notebook teenager Lizzie was using for a diary. Had I known it was her diary, I would not have opened it, but I did not know whose it was, so I flipped to the first page for a clue. There, in Lizzie's own handwriting, under the title, "Diary," were the words: "I like my life." (As an adult, I have overheard Noelle say the same thing to others when she thought I was out of earshot.)
Sometime later, when Shane was a teenager, in a small group of parents--I do not remember why we had gathered--a couple of the parents were less than enthusiastic about my parenting style. Quiet, introverted Shane spoke up in the way that only he could, "If you ask me, I like the way I was raised."
Good enough! My kids' assessments are, for me, the most accurate barometer of parenting quality. I will accept their verdict.
Book Description:
Raising God's Rainbow Makers: A Family Memoir of Grace, Grit, and Growing Up Different
What happens when a military family welcomes four children—each with wildly different needs—into a world not always built to support them?
In Raising God’s Rainbow Makers, one mother shares the remarkable journey of raising two children with complex disabilities—one with spina bifida, one with CHARGE Syndrome—and two intellectually gifted children, all born in different states during years of military life. Through medical crises, educational challenges, and societal roadblocks (both intentional and unintentional), this honest and inspiring memoir tells the story of how one family built a life of strength, compassion, and resilience.
With warmth and unflinching honesty, the author reflects on emergency surgeries, IEP battles, unexpected victories, and the fierce sibling bonds that formed in the face of it all. The children—now grown—bear witness to the power of support, faith, and never giving up.
This is not just a story of survival. It is a celebration of difference, a chronicle of hope, and a powerful testament to what love and determination can build when the world says "impossible."
Keywords:
Parenting memoir; Special needs parenting; Raising children with disabilities; Military family life; Family resilience; Inspirational family story; Faith-based memoir; Coping with medical challenges; Sibling support stories; Gifted children; Spina bifida; CHARGE Syndrome; Hydrocephalus; Congenital disabilities; Complex medical needs; Pediatric neurosurgery; IEP and special education; Gifted education; Educational advocacy; Inclusive education; Hope and healing; Courage and strength; Love and perseverance; Raising different children; Disability acceptance; Parenting through adversity; Overcoming barriers; Finding joy in hardship; Special needs journey; Family unity and support; For parents of disabled children; For parents of gifted children; For educators and therapists; Christian parenting memoir; For families facing rare diagnoses; Real-life parenting stories; Memoirs about raising children; Stories of medical miracles
For more posts about Elizabeth and her books, click HERE.
Read more stories -- and photos -- about the Mahlou family in the blog (no longer maintained), Clan of Mahlou.
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