In the most typical of situations sibling issues exist. For sibs of those with significant impairment, these kids are often the invisible bystanders. Their issues and needs sometimes take backseat to the immediacy and reality of their sibling with Autism needs. We ask them to deal with leaving fun events earlier than they would like, let embarrassing situations roll off their backs and stifle disappointment. The rate of having more than one child with neuro diversity is high. Sometimes, the less impaired child is asked to cope and step up in ways that would challenge even the most typical and mature of children.
Autism Awareness Month A-Z original 2016
B is for Behavior
B is for Behavior
All behavior serves one of 4 functions. To gain attention, to escape a situation, to gain access to something (usually tangible) or a response to an internal stimuli such as hunger, illness or exhaustion. Seriously. Just 4 reasons anyone does anything. Think about it…you won’t come up with a 5th..I have tried. Of course, if it were that simple we would all live in harmony. However, there are some times it gets tricky. For instance, when a behavior is triggered by something internal, it can be incredibly difficult to identify. So if a child with autism likes to clap his hands near his ears is it because he likes the sound? Or is it because he likes how his hands feel when he claps them together? Or is it because it creates a little wind near his face which he likes? To make matters even more…
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Autism Awareness Month A-Z 2015
A is for Aides
A is for Aides.
Though I can’t find pictures of all of them, they have all made a significant impact in our lives. Without them, A1 would not have made the gains in language, socialization and self care that he has. They have cleaned vomit out of their cars, do not ruffle at the idea of diaper changes, and have endured power struggles with grace and maturity. They are the extra eyes and hands in a world where we have none but need 20. They are young…and move on with their lives from us but we have always known that we sacrifice longevity for love and are happy that so many reach out to stay part of our village.
I smiled 5 times today.
Three times in public and twice in private.
I smiled within 30 seconds of arrival. My boy was flapping and waving with excitement to each bus. If given the opportunity, he would have run down the line to greet each one. Not the drivers, but the buses themselves as if they were fresh out of the stations of Sodor. Joyous in his innocence believing they each had their own personality. I saw him in a sea of adolescents, heads down, pushing past each other. Like the hustle and bustle of a subway train. Commuters with backpacks instead of briefcases. Shuffling, shuffling. Off to homework or tutors or practice for being the best at something since they were three. The commute to the next thing. He sees me and gallops with an outstretched hand. I am greeted with a smile. Always.
I smiled 5 times today. The instinct as a mother renders me helpless against noticing every single first-time. The same first times which beckon camcorders and cameras like the song of the siren and then whose passion slowly dissipates in the way the empty space between toothless grins are replaced by teeth yet too big for the spaces filled in. Our first times never end. Just more space between. My boy said his phone number out loud after years and years of practice. With no fanfare. He was just asked.
I smiled 5 times today. As I held up a wall, socially grinning and making deals with God. Chaperones milling about-clearing dishes, filling glasses- in a last attempt to seem as if they are helping while stealthy snaps from iPhones capture stealthy photos of their angels’ first dance. I am not a chaperone. They believe they are clipping gossamer wings for grounding by hiding in the shadows, but their swans are molting on their own and would snap at outstretched fingers offering bread if given the opportunity. Mine laughs heartily and offers a thumbs-up when he sees a raised phone in his direction.
I smile and sometimes my child sees it happen and sometimes he does not. It doesn’t matter because he knows my humanness anyway, just like he would if his genetic dice were rolled differently. Today he did not see those drops of glistening joy and pride and I am no less embarrassed, no less ashamed, no less human for it either. And neither is he. I have won the emotional lottery. And because of that, sometimes I smile.
My child is an enigma leaving us to figure out what HIS autism means, what HIS cognitive deficits mean, what HIS communication disorder means. And there are times none of that matters at all. He traverses along his own path, one others his age were expected to leave behind long ago by both parents and peers. One lined with The Wiggles and goodnight kisses and “marching parades”. A path without expectation and never dissapating in private . And because of that, sometimes, I smile.
My child’s joy is palpable and my heart levitates outside of my body watching him experience it. He can display the weight of his world, but then laugh at the same time if presented with the right silly face. I am never sure which emotion is primary for him but my own worldview tells me joy prevails because I could never do that. And because of that, sometimes I smile.
My boy wants to be part of the world. He navigates that weird and still uncharted middle school territory with explicit assistance. And when that help wanes, sometimes another child sees his light from across the room and without fanfare, crosses over, takes his hand and leads him to the dance floor to be part of the world. I am front row witness to the rare kindness and unconditional love we may have all forgotten before we went mad in this world. All because my boy is just that worthy. And because of that, sometimes I smile.
My boy buoyantly flaps and hoots and repeats my name over and over and over in the space that should be the calm of my home. He also hops and beams and laughs when I walk away from my dishes, my reports, my vacuum when I cannot keep answering him from another room. He hops and throws his arms around my neck and kisses my forehead with a joy that is supposed to shed after our souls are deposited into these vessels given a name and a face. His love is like something from another place. And because of that, sometimes I smile.
These are the words of OUR life. He and I are both doing the parts we think we are supposed to do no matter how imperfectly executed. Because he is my best boy. Because I am only his mom.
And sometimes we smile.
I cried twice today in public.
Once for me and once for him.
I cried within 3 minutes of arrival, but with dry eyes and with a smile on my matte face. My diaper bag disguised as a monogrammed symbol of excess rather than a symbol of unanswered questions about wipes and formula and a change of clothes for my adolescent. No one can see what is happening behind my eyes, especially if I cannot see the pity behind theirs.
I cried twice today because sometimes the race to suppress overactive tear ducts in a maelstrom of circumstance and emotion is an unfair competition of tortoise and hare. Sometimes I try too hard and one too many drops pools before one accidentally pushes its way past the checkpoint and spills down a cheek. It is quickly wiped away.
I cried twice today as I held up a wall, socially grinning and making silent deals with God to make no one talked to me. Us moms, we were all in the same place…but I was not on the list of volunteers. Even the words I needed to hear would be a sucker punch to the throat and I would then choke on false pretense that transcends somewhere poetic. I don’t know where transcendence lies exactly–there are so many reasons those tears might seem to be faulty to everyone else. So I hold them in as long as I can and my tongue is held hostage leaving me still alone.
I cry and sometimes my child sees it happen and sometimes he does not. It doesn’t matter because he knows my humanness anyway, just like he would if his genetic dice were rolled differently. Today he did not see those drops of glistening emotion and I am no less embarrassed, no less ashamed, no less human for it either. And neither is he.
My child is an enigma leaving us to figure out what HIS autism means, what HIS cognitive deficits mean, what HIS communication disorder means. I am tasked to teach my child how to move through this world happily, safely. Though we live in similar space as everyone else, he traverses along some alternate dimension often invisible to all the other children so I don’t really know how to do that. And because of that, sometimes, I cry.
My child’s joy is palpable and my heart levitates outside of my body watching him experience it. He can display the weight of his world, but then laugh at the same time if presented with the right silly face. I am never sure which emotion is primary for him but my own worldview tells me joy prevails because I could never do that. And because of that, sometimes I cry.
My boy wants to be part of the world but sometimes stands motionless with shifty eyes because he knows exactly the problem, which he perceives is him. While I perceive a world that does not know what to do with him. I am certain I am the only one who reinforces that. He worries. He should be worried, because I don’t always know what to do with him either. And sometimes another child sees his light from across the room and without fanfare, crosses over, takes his hand and leads him to the dance floor to be part of the world. And because of that, sometimes I cry.
My boy buoyantly hoots and flaps and has a cognitive itch that somehow seems to be reached by repeating my name over and over and over in the space that should be the calm of our home. Diligent years he sacrificed to learn that what few words he might have are meaningful and understood because we have a limited time to teach the world otherwise. I taught him those things by making sure he always had a response. And in those times caught in an endless loop, he gets one from me, but it might be birthed breech–cord wrapped around its neck-choking and feral and blue in my fallibility. And because of that, sometimes I cry.
I worry one day my boy will read my words and will be hurt or angry or curious or furious and he will demand an explanation and he will walk out of my life because to him these were not words of awareness or advocacy or change. They were the words of HIS life. But that bittersweet day will be the day I will breathe easy with a newly missing piece who can navigate this world alone if he has to. I worry too my boy will be a man…still without the ability for any of that. And in my end, all the sacrificial words spoken on his behalf and judged were not enough to change the world around him leaving him alone. And because of that, sometimes I cry.
These are the words of OUR life. He and I are both doing the parts we think we are supposed to do no matter how imperfectly executed. Because he is my best boy. Because I am only his mom.
And sometimes We cry.
I sat on the edge of my boy’s bed and ran the back of my hand across his smooth, cherubic cheek. At the same age, my older son’s voice was already changing.
Most nights I wait until I know his door has been closed, the light is off and I hear the dog downstairs rooting around his aluminum dish for nighttime grub. I wait until the heft of daylight is tucked neatly beneath his bed and he has held silence for a few moments as it has held him for the last 12 hours.
The shadows and light cast on the walls of his room in the friendliest of ways–not because of the shadowy reflection of Mickey Mouse ears and baseball trophies, but in the way that my sweet boy has never been afraid of the dark.
“Mooo peeeese” he says more as a statement than as a request. I much oblige and ask if he would rather have space than the moon. He always prefers the moon.
I fumble with a cheap plastic rocket ship on his nightstand. I’m always surprised by just how dark it is and how difficult it is to find. It has a clock that forever blinks 12:00. His internal clock is spot on, so I have never bothered to fish out the manual from the library of lost causes, loose change and plastic ware to reset it. Every night, I push a button to reveal a constellation of stars, or an astronaut or a full moon large enough to beckon high tide thousands of miles away and swallow his room in white foam and ocean spray. While sometimes it is “spaceman” who will watch over him after I leave the room, it is mostly the moon he wants before he says “ready” in his polite request for me to let him drift off on his own. If only he could learn to push the moon button by himself at 2:00am to lull himself back to sleep instead of requiring my semi-conscious presence to be his field of poppies.
I finally find the correct button, and even though one of the spotlights has gone dark over the years, the most perfect Supermoon hangs low and flickering in the rotation of his ceiling fan. Maybe it makes it look like the man in the moon is bidding him a fair adieu with the consistency and persistence he likes to wave goodbye to people who don’t appreciate the value of farewell as much as his imaginary spaceman. Or maybe he likes the idea that someone would wave back.
“Bye Mommy”, he pours out in his child’s voice I believe sounds exactly like it did when he was four. Except he could not say “bye” or “mommy” or any combination of that at four.
That rocketship, with the projection of a perfect Moon has been around about that long. Really, probably as long as he can remember. It is only a matter of time before the remaining dim spotlight shines for the last time on his ceiling. I have a hard time imagining what it will be like to have to explain he already had the final night with his own personal moonbeam when I realize it the next evening. He will keep asking for the moon and I won’t have it to give anymore.
So I fumble in that friendly darkness every night searching for the moon button and praying that God takes the dog tomorrow instead.
But tonight, I went online and ordered the last 8 rocketship moon projectors I could find. Hopefully 50 more years and 18,000 Blue Moons. I don’t know how many of those moons he will have to light up himself, but until then, at least I know he is not afraid of the dark.
#bluemoon #supermoon #autism #motherhood
(originally published 3/2016)
There is a large manila envelope still sealed sitting on my desk. No matter how much I stare at it, it doesn’t:
1. Spontaneously burst into flames
3. Take care of itself.
It does not contain a subpoena, a warrant for my arrest or an eminent domain letter. It was not delivered certified mail or by official messenger. It was hand delivered by my 6th grader because the teacher very graciously contacted me ahead of time to ask me how I would like the prior written notice papers from the last IEP meeting delivered so I could sign and return them in a timely manner to the school. It has been sitting and judging me silently for over three months now as it sits untouched. I am reduced to a Pavlovian dog, except my bell is an envelope and my saliva is anxiety. A crippling-can’t-get-any-thing-else-done anxiety. And I rationally know there is likely nothing in that envelope that should really cause this kind of response. But that’s the thing with phobias or irrational fears and trauma response.
Yes…I said trauma response.
Often times prior experience attaches itself to something innocuous and we then pair our previous response with a neutral stimuli and generalize it over time. Caller ID with the school prefix, email and now apparently manila envelopes have become the manifestation of years of battles, blockades and having my already fledgling parental competency called to the carpet.
For me….my defining moment were words uttered in a meeting 7 years in….but 3 years ago: “Its not fair for one (A2) to get more just because of your parental advocacy” (which was agreeable…but in a whole different way given we were discussing data collection that was reportedly correct, not collected by me…and concerning).
It is silly I suppose if you are the one who stuffed the envelope and have no knowledge of my defining moment or my other, more academically impaired child. She certainly must be wondering about the warning likely issued by the elementary school about my hypervigilance, because the experience she is having is the opposite. A parent who is late to answer emails yet bizarrely will parse apart data collection in an IEP meeting….and be spot on why it was taken incorrectly must mess with her own schema of special needs parents. I have learned to become a very hands-off parent in hopes of preserving my own life in the last year. I have a double-decker weekly pill case that houses my capsules of life extending medications that would impress most of the AARP crowd. Yet I am not yet even 50. Years of sleep deprivation and external stress can only wear so long in a genetic cesspool.
So there it sits….but not without words. It screams to me every day over the din of my responsibilities. But I am strong and I can withstand long term, unfocused wailing.
So I leave you with 3 truths….
A. I am human.
B. I love my child more than anything I could have ever imagined.
C. I am preparing for an uncertain future in a time that I will no longer be here to advocate in a world that does not see my child as perfect as I do.
…and there are things that get in the way of of the co-existence of Notions A, B and C.
Sorry about the envelope.
**Originally posted New Year’s Day 2016. The last 2 years have been harbingers of change, both good and not so good both as special needs families and also as citizens of the US. Every few months, I come up for air to advocate, teach and discuss some uncomfortable truths only to slip quietly under the water again to peacefully watch my children’s lives pass before my eyes. The future looks a bit bleak for those of us who can see retirement years on the horizon at the exact same time our disabled children “age out” of the system and also our parents are elderly enough to run out whatever savings they might have. It is too hard to dance freely on the rails without worrying about the oncoming future barreling down like a freight train. Perspective is always an odd thing, especially in retrospect. I wish all of you the freedom of worry and the ability for mindfulness in the coming year.
A few weeks ago I was stuck in traffic. Albeit Midwest traffic, but a standstill is a standstill. A1 was incensed in the same way any curmudgeonly old man dealing with road lock might with a loud “C’Mon!!!” and a quivering fist in the air. Except he is a 6th grader who was going to be late for religious school. And he has never personally navigated traffic of any kind. I calmly explained to him that sometimes life is quirky. Had we left 15 minutes earlier we might be part of the accident slowing everything down. Or maybe by showing up 15 minutes late he might miss the most boring part of class. For all we know inconvenience is a blessing in disguise.
For all we know.
Netflix is showing the movie Sliding Doors this month (and serendipitously also showing Serendipity, a way more palatable existential rom-com). Gwenneth Paltrow’s life splits off into parallel simultaneous existences based on minor differences in circumstance that alter the outcome of her immediate future.
Ultimately, three things are revealed:
#1 The event that changed everything was out of her control, seemingly extraneous and unnoticed by her
#2. Everything that happens happens in parallels whether she is part of it or not
#3. The outcome somehow is going to be the same regardless of the path.
I showed this movie to A1 to drive a concrete point home in the spirit of control and lack there of. I have this funny thing with the idea of omnipotence and omniscience at the same time–a notion that seems cruel to those of us whose minds cannot conform in that manner no matter how much salvation sounds like a cozy deity-down comforter everyone else can snuggle in. It means people like A1 and me are damned from the start because we just CAN’T …and it was planned it that way. Like being forced as a child to hug and kiss a relative even when that relative knows it makes you uncomfortable to do so. All in the name of making that relative feel warm and special. Except what kind of weirdo feels all the good feels by making a child squish their body against theirs against their will? That is why I show Netflix movies to my kid instead of reading parables. I’d rather he believe that people just think he has bad taste in movies than that his life and choices are meaningless and filled with anxiety because his synapses don’t fire in a way that will ultimately please an all knowing being who made him that way. We cannot help thinking about how our moments might be affecting an unknown future.
A2 operates differently. These things do not need to be explained to him because he is only in the present. I am happy because Daddy is here NOW. I am not happy because I want Daddy here NOW. NOW I am happy and screw Daddy because we are on our way to Chuck E. Cheeses. If all is no worse than status quo, then optimism and hope are not necessary if you are only worried about right now. It really isn’t until someone introduces you to unrealized expectations or well conditioned responses that you develop a sense of disappointment, dashed hopes and anxiety of an unknown future.
In recent years A2 has also taken to obsessively asking “what is the time?” and watching any clock either as if it is a piece of art to be analyzed and admired or else as if at any time it might fly off the wall and attack him like the starlings from The Birds. His authenticity and ability for stopping and acknowledging the moment in the the moment, realizing there will be a new moment soon is a gift.
As we stand on these tracks together I think about how Autism has robbed A2 of a regular childhood but probably not because he views it that way but because I do. There is a lot of track already behind him but there is much more ahead and I strain to see the horizon in case a train comes barreling down the tracks…because at some point there will be a train. And there is nothing I can do to stop that. However, A2 only looks at the rails beneath his feet being careful not to trip and he only looks back to look at me. If he were to hear the distant whistle, I am sure he would simply step off the track in that moment so he could watch the train go by. Because my focus is on the horizons while stumbling down the rails, I run the risk of getting my foot stuck between the slats and then panicking thinking about the possibility of the oncoming engine. I am hoping that in 2016 I can continue learning from A2 as I struggle with the concept of mindfulness, especially when the moment seems bleak. I hope for the ability to recognize each moment as unique and not as good or bad and that I can cherish the people and things that are important to me regardless of how time seems to be treating us in the moment.
I just need to remember to point to my wrist and ask “what is the time?” and know that it will be different soon.
I wrote this one year ago today. As all of our social media accounts have thinned the herd so to speak to show posts from people who are more like minded or we have all done so on our own, there are days I still feel the same. But as people reconsider the last year and perhaps have changed perspective, the divide has grown deeper with those who hang on to their belief systems as history and policy begins to unfold. Many of us have been spawned out into political action to protect ourselves and our interests….on “every side” and may have entered territory and conversations we never thought we could have. As I sit here contemplating my words from 365 days ago, there are days I feel the same about shutting everything down but I glad I did not. I spent a good deal of the summer researching , advocating and educating others on the dangers of removing healthcare policy and instituting new policy that would ultimately devastate the lives of the disabled and ultimately devastate the lives of everyone else too. I was able to talk about how Medicaid actually benefits everyone, even the individuals who never need to access it. My tiny social media reach may not ultimately be influential, but when considering the big picture and ensuring all voices are heard, it is hard to know what the ripple effect could be.
Does social media continue to be a huge time suck and anxiety generator in my world? Yes. But the advantage of influence, the scope of message and finding , connecting and forging new relationships took precedence. But let’s face it….we have all been there since adding a blue and white bird or letter F to the screens on our phones and I suppose we at least all have that in common…
My heart is sitting in a basket on my desk next to my computer. I stare at it wondering if I should leave it where it is or if I should shove it back in my throat where apparently it now belongs. I am faced with a dilemma I have fleetingly looked in the eye before but this time I pause much longer as if memorizing the outline of the face of a loved one I may not see again.
I love Facebook. I am like a Pavlovian dog when I hear that DING! and will switch over from work to see whats going on my feed. Facebook is the most existentially layered version of the real world I can imagine. Everyone from my closest friends to those folks who have crossed paths with me for a brief yet meaningful time are there. It’s the place where my elementary school…
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In U.S. suburbia at Halloween, if you are lucky enough, you get “BOO-ed”.
It is much nicer than it sounds.
Getting BOO-ed means opening your front door to find treats placed anonymously on your doorstep. You…I mean, your child… are to return the favor by BOO-ing another neighbor and so on and so forth. When we moved to our neighborhood 12 years ago, A1 and A2 were a toddler and infant respectively. Our development was full of mature trees, which also meant a neighborhood full of empty nesters. By the time the neighborhood turned over, my kids were much older than the new generation running the streets with strollers and trikes. A2 will watch what he calls “the babies” out our front window. The mothers are young and pretty even in their haze of exhaustion playing in the cul-de-sac and chasing down their little runners. I can relate to their frenzied outdoor fun since even with a 12 year-old, I too cannot just let my child out into the streets without supervision. Autism is an uncomfortable reality for the middle schoolers who in the neighborhood who don’t want me around.
But really, those little kids are functioning in their play where A2 is cognitively and they are at the age of humanness where they are accepting of his differences. For them, the differences are not about intellectual impairment, but rather size impairments as they watch A2 attempt to squeeze himself unsuccessfully into their Cozy Coups. Their questions are genuine and kind and they think nothing of him joining in the digging of dirt.
But most days, he will not join them in play. He knows those are the babies. He knows he is not. This often means I am benched from the cul-de-sac-exhausted-mommy-brigade that stokes glimmers of socialization and connection I had with other mothers when I was also young, pretty and still had energy.
Today, as he is every year since our street started filling up with little ones, A2 was BOO-ed. Twice.
Care packages are silently left at our door and I wonder which of our neighbors were sure to include him. Most know he doesn’t eat many solid foods, knows he might not notice something on our doorstep or spend much time with a special gift. I think despite my smiling isolation, I have neighbors who understand that being BOO-ed is about inclusion and is as much for me as it is for A2. And there is never anything spooky about that.