Taking the Good with the Bad

On my good days, my collected days, my recharged days, I am rational and I approach things from a direction that just makes sense. I can block a head butt with a compassionate hug and work through a difficult choice mitigating an explosion with nothing more than step by step simplified problem solving, tight squeezes, a soft steady voice, and a willingness to separate the behavior from the communication. I don't flinch when I find money torn into little pieces in a carefully constructed pile behind the couch. On these days I breathe unicorns and rainbows. I only see the smiles, the hugs, the laughs, the growth.

On my bad days, I feel like the man from The Green Mile, the man who sucks up all of the bad energy. Except I never get to vomit locusts. Instead they eat silently inside of me, nibbling at the parts of my brain that control short term memory, self confidence, patience, motivation. Some of them eventually do break free, directed at my children at the oddest of times. My voice spews tiny buzzing wings that lash out and frantically slice in an effort to make someone else feel the fear, the confusion, the anger that I feel. I catch myself quickly and gulp down the immature retaliation, bloodying my already raw throat. These are my children. They don't know better. I do. I must lead by example. I must. On these days I wonder what is wrong with me? But it is also these days that allow me to "get" Bubba and Moose, which opens the possibility of more good days.

So the dance continues.

Facebook killed the mommy blog-star...

Ok, so I am not a blog star, but Facebook has basically killed my blog. Lately, with all of the homeschooling, gardening, cleaning, mommying, and just plain living, I am having little time (or attention span) to construct any worthwhile posts. But on Facebook, I can type my ADHD thoughts as "status updates" and post pictures from my new handy dandy iphone in the blink of an eye.

What once would've become a blog post has now become Facebook vomit. I signed up for Twitter and then decided that Tweeting may just push my bird-brain past the point of no return, being that I tend to forget what I'm typing before I get out a complete thought.

The boys work on "Look at me" pages, which was my bright idea to help with them journaling since they have such difficulty with writing. So they glue pictures, color things, and I script for them. Eventually maybe I will go through them and post some pictures and maybe even write something. Maybe. Look forward to the arch, the riverfront, museums, swimming, paddle boating, fishing, cooking, learning, creek walking, park playing, food growing, habitat building, hiking, etc.

A Lost Love Letter

Dear Mom,

This week (well, Hell actually the past few years) has been really hard. I feel so lost, and when trying to find my way, I think of you. And then I get confused because I can't remember you being my mom the way I want my boys to remember me being a mom. And I don’t know where to go from here, so I keep trying to remember.

I remember that one time I threw up in your car and I got in trouble for eating too much cereal. We had to stop at the mall so you could buy me some new clothes. I remember riding in your car on the way to your work and the brakes not working and you throwing the car in park to stop it. I remember going inside your work once.

When I lay trying to sleep at night and let the dots connect and the neurons obsessively fire off, I remember bits of you crying when you ran over a kitten and me chasing you up the stairs as your body collapsed in grief, you eating brown rice, you knitting me two little stuffed kitties for my birthday (I still have them), but telling me they were socks when I caught you (I believed you). I remember eating at a restaurant, getting a letter from you at Girl Scout camp. I remember sleeping under your bed because I was so frightened by a nightmare I had and I wasn’t supposed to be out of my own bed.

And of course later, I have memories of you being sick, and laying in bed. I have memories of you in the swimming pool, you putting on mascara, and you laying on the couch telling me and my cousin to be quiet while we were playing. I remember visiting you in the hospital, somehow excited by the fact that kids were not supposed to be able to leave the waiting room, but for a reason beyond my understanding, me and Sister got to go in the hospital and into your room.

I remember not grasping the meaning of the visit or the importance of the fact that this was the last time I would see you alive. I remember you laying there, eyes closed. I remember seeing you look similar later at the funeral home, but you somehow looked happier and more alive than that day at the hospital.

But what I don’t remember, no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes closed or try to drift into some childhood coma, is you ever hugging me or physically comforting me, whispering in my ear, telling me you love me. I’m not saying it never happened, I just can’t fucking remember it no matter how hard I try. I see pictures here and there, but I still can't remember.

While there are many who give support, offer advice, pray for me, think about me--there is no one who can give me my mother’s love, my mother’s touch. And I think that’s what I need right now, mom. I need to remember a hug, a touch. Just one time--just one time so I can feel what it was like to have not just a mother, but a mom. Maybe that would help me not feel so lost as I try to be not just a mother, but a mom to my own boys? Maybe?

I am now older than when you were when you died. Your grandchildren are nearly the same age as Sister and me when we lost you. And I think about the depression, the self-reflection, the passion, the anxiety, the whacked-out emotions that I have and how everyone says I am just like you. And I think that maybe you felt this lost, like me, as a mother, and never got to grow past it, to work through it, to embrace it. The thing is you never got the chance to figure yourself out, and more than anything, I think I mourn this for you.

And I think this has been holding me back somehow. Somehow, my map of motherhood ended with your last breaths of life, and I have reached the point where I am on my own, without a guide. It’s time for me to move past this. Not that I am there yet mom, but I think I’m finally not afraid to live past your life. Almost. And maybe someday it won’t hurt so much to live the life you never got the chance to live and to love the way you never got a chance to love. Maybe.

Forever you daughter,

ange

Unconditional Love

There's something about a vulnerable, peaceful, trusting sleeping little boy that is just irresistible, so much so, even the kitty can't pass up snuggling with him.

Skating Through it All

This week has been particularly hard on our family, but more on that later. Today, Hubby left for another week away for mandatory work training. A friend invited us to go roller skating with her church group, and rather than sitting at home depressed over all that has and is happening, me and the boys went.

I am so glad we did. I watched Bubba fall again and again. This was maybe his second time roller skating, so no surprise there. I got out there with him and told him "Look at me, not at your feet. You can do this. YOU CAN DO THIS!" He smiled as he tried, both of us laughing as we tried to navigate around the rink, others his age whizzing by.

By the end of the session he was skating on his own. Not smoothly, but he was doing it. And he was happy as he danced robotically across the rink. He continued to fall...and he continued to get right on back up. And the neatest part was when another kid would fall down, he would be right there to help him up.

Later, when I was frustrated about something else, he said the same words I said to him..."Mom, it's OK. Don't get frustrated. YOU CAN DO THIS!"

And that right there made this whole week worth it. My baby believes in me as much as I believe in him. What more do I need?


(It's a cellphone video, but look at the boy try to dance on wheels!)

Bubba's Story

I finished the video to introduce my restraint and seclusion presentation on Thursday.

Press play. Sorry for the size, Youtube is giving me grief for using an mp3. I did buy the song and I have it on a soundtrack CD somewhere. I don't like breaking rules, so now I gotta go figure this out.



You can read more of Bubba's story here.

Got the youtube version working:

Autism Night Before Christmas

After attending one of many family Christmas parties on Sunday, I thought the below appropriate to share. Bubba was overly excited, his one red ear glowing with Christmas cheer, sharing his Christmas ham with another kid's face. Moosie was like his momma and his lip quivered every time he was forced to enter the big room full of people. Ugh. People.


Boys in a "safe zone" with their cousin



Me in the corner



Boys doing their "Christmas poses"




I don't see eye to eye with everything alluded to in this poem, but there are quite a few lines that resonate with this here family with two boys diagnosed with autism spectrum disorders. 'Tis true that my boys bring me great joy, but it's simply because they are wonderful exactly how they are (it's how the rest of word sees them that causes a stir).

Autism Night Before Christmas
by Cindy Waeltermann
AutismLink
(I couldn't get the original site to open up to link to the poem, so I am posting here for now.)

Twas the Night Before Christmas
And all through the house
The creatures were stirring
Yes, even the mouse

We tried melatonin
And gave a hot bath
But the holiday jitters
They always distract

The children were finally
All nestled in bed
When nightmares of terror
Ran through my OWN head

Did I get the right gift
The right color
And style
Would there be a tantrum
Or even, maybe, a smile?

Our relatives come
But they don't understand
The pleasure he gets
Just from flapping his hands.

"He needs discipline," they say
"Just a well-needed smack,
You must learn to parent..."
And on goes the attack

We smile and nod
Because we know deep inside
The argument is moot
Let them all take a side

We know what it's like
To live with the spectrum
The struggles and triumphs
Achievements, regressions...

But what they don't know
And what they don't see
Is the joy that we feel
Over simplicity

He said "hello"
He ate something green!
He told his first lie!
He did not cause a scene!

He peed on the potty
Who cares if he's ten,
He stopped saying the same thing
Again and again!

Others don't realize
Just how we can cope
How we bravely hang on
At the end of our rope

But what they don't see
Is the joy we can't hide
When our children with autism
Make the tiniest stride

We may look at others
Without the problems we face
With jealousy, hatred
Or even distaste,

But what they don't know
Nor sometimes do we
Is that children with autism
Bring simplicity.

We don't get excited
Over expensive things
We jump for joy
With the progress work brings

Children with autism
Try hard every day
That they make us proud
More than words can say.

They work even harder
Than you or I
To achieve something small
To reach a star in the sky

So to those who don't get it
Or can't get a clue
Take a walk in my shoes
And I'll assure you

That even 10 minutes
Into the walk
You'll look at me
With respect, even shock.

You will realize
What it is I go through
And the next time you judge
I can assure you

That you won't say a thing
You'll be quiet and learn,
Like the years that I did
When the tables were turned.......

Teacher Gifts

Between both boys and their various bus drivers, paraprofessionals, teachers, and therapists, I have the need for potentially 40+ "teacher gifts." Since I believe that, yes, even the bus driver has a powerful influence over my children, I want each person to know that he or she matters to my children's lives.

Since I have not won the lottery, this year seems to not lean towards being a "baking year", and matter of factly half of the people responsible for at least one of my children have not taken their responsibility sincerely, I have decided to take the boys' art work and adorn it with a poem I just wrote, but seems unfinished.

Maybe it will come to me. Or maybe I will let the recipients finish it for themselves.

Perception

inside I am everything
that you
do not see

I am everything
you do not know
that you want me to be, inside
I can give you
what you do not know
you need

I am breathing, beating, bursting
inside
what you're afraid
to believe

if you look
inside
and choose to see
me


--AH, 2008

** Edited: I changed the title (and keep messing with the last verse), but maybe it is too strong of a word. I wanted this to feel as it is coming from a child's voice as this is what I hear in my heart when Bubba struggles with understanding his emotions and other people's reactions.

So Proud

I am so proud of my husband. Even though it is a story that has been in the making for a few years, it will most likely not be a story that is ready to be told for another year or so. But he called me with an update--a teaser--that made me beam with pride. I believe in him, I have always believed in him. So why am I so proud? It really has nothing to do with the news he shared, but instead what I heard in his voice. He believes in himself. He believes in himself.

What to fight for

Last night, as I tucked in Bubba and Moose, I was already emotionally and physically exhausted. Aunt Piggy and Uncle Guitar Man were in town for a few days, and we had done our annual hike earlier in the day. We pulled the boys out of school and enjoyed each others company in a crisp, cold, relatively beautiful local park.

And then Aunt Piggy and Uncle Guitar Man left us. And I cried. Now they are back home, across the country. And I miss them.

In any case, I talked to Bubba as he tossed and turned. He coughed, and then perked up slightly, "Mom, if I am sick, do I have to go to school?" I firmly told him yes, trying to hide that my heart was hurting and my gut was screaming. Bubba can't express exactly what is going on at school; all he can tell me is that he is "angry." And the only thing I could think of while I kissed him goodnight was something I commented on another blog. Another mom is struggling and learning in the special education system, and I told her, "[He] is telling you something...it might be difficult, but keep listening."

I know that this is true for Bubba. He is telling me something, and I should listen to him, believe in him. Funny how sometimes your own advice hits you when you need it.

So today, I met with the boys' Regional Center coordinator to update their yearly plans. As we discussed Bubba's school situation and the fact that Moosie will be starting kindergarten next year, she reminded me of our options...lawyers, advocates, changing schools by private placement or even moving. It was clear she believed we had enough data, information, and cause to fight for the appropriate education for Bubba.

But all I could tell her is that I know what we could do, but I am so tired. So bitter. So exposed. I have fought for years, repeating argument and proof every year. I have been forced to question myself, my son, my beliefs, my perspective time and time again. But here we are, with little improvement, much regression, and a family in crisis.

But as I listen to her and those in my family who are worried about my sanity if we keep Bubba in school, but just as much if not more if I homeschool him... I struggle with what is not the right choice, but the best choice for Bubba and for me and for Hubby and for Moose.

I don't think I want to homeschool just because Bubba's in crisis at school. But what we have been going through year after year has definitely brought the idea front and center. But I don't want to homeschool him for selfish reasons (i.e., to not have to deal with the system and to be involved in his learning). I want both boys to have successful, love-filled lives and provide them the tools to enjoy where they are now and get them where they want to go later.

I suppose I know what to fight for. Or more precisely, who to fight for. I guess what's lacking is enough self-confidence. If I only believed in myself as much as I believe in my boys. I know I will get there. But it's difficult when you go against the grain, especially here in a traditional community. (I still get comments about how I nursed Mooser until he was in his third year!)

And in case you are wondering. I really miss Aunt Piggy. I think 2009 will bring a visit to Oregon. Maybe a homeschool field trip even. *smile*

Fundamental Difference

As I have been preparing my "homeschool proposal" I have been doubting myself. One moment I am strong in my convictions, the next I am wondering if Bubba would be better off in school if I just fought harder.

Am I giving up? Did they just beat me down? I couldn't help but wonder. But then in a moment of clarity, I remembered my initial reason to homeschool and why it has been in the back of my mind since kindergarten--the school and I do not see eye to eye on a very fundamental belief.

Bubba's school believes he needs to be compliant in order to become a successful learner. I believe Bubba needs the opportunity to be a successful learner in order to understand the purpose of compliance. In other words, I believe in "accomodate and modify" on one end while remediating on the other--he'll have different points of success, but success just the same. The school appears to believe that Bubba learning how to sit still and keep his mouth shut (at whatever cost, such as picking his fingers until they are bloody nubs) is the most important lesson for him to learn.

Keeping Track

More for me, I am posting another "book report" we did in August following a book, video, hands-on, interest approach. If you haven't guessed, we are considering pulling Bubba out of school and homeschooling him. I am in the research and planning phase right now. Hubby requested a proposal to make sure I thoroughly think this through, and so we can make a decision as a family. Bubba is all for it, and I have been very frank about the differences. We followed a general homeschool approach (well, the way I would like to do it!) during cycle break so that he understood (and we got an idea of) what it would be like.

He's not a bad kid

Bubba is often considered "the bad kid" because of his poor impulse control and his limited ability of knowing when to STOP doing certain things when grown ups are looking. For example, his peers know to look innocent and to hide the spit balls when an adult glances their way. Bubba, on the other hand, will do what his peers are doing if it looks like fun, but will keep on doing it no matter who is looking! Guess who gets in trouble?

********

Bubba was trying to help some kids on a slide, and apparently moved something out of the way that they had not wanted moved.

"You're an idiot!" the boy stated loudly.

Bubba paused, while daddy and I gawked from below.

"That's not a nice way to say that," Bubba said softly as he scratched his head.

"You know what's not nice?" the other boy retorted "Your face. It's ugly."

"Don't say that," Bubba said, and he walked to the edge of the slide and exclaimed "Mom! Someone called my face ugly!"

I told him that if he didn't like what someone was saying to him, he could say "That's not very nice" and walk away. The parent of the other boy said nothing.

Later, me and Hubby talked to Bubba and told him how well he handled the situation. We explained further that you can disagree with someone and still talk, but if they are just saying things to hurt you, it is better to ignore them. In the past, Bubba would've yelled, hit, screamed, pushed, or something to that nature. Not because he was offended, but because he didn't know how to respond. He didn't have many responses in his bag of tricks. So this was a big deal on so many levels.

The hard part for mommy is that it is clear Bubba understands insults and they hurt his feelings. I know daddy secretly wished that Bubba had decked the kid, but I was proud of Bubba for not giving the kid any power and walking away.

Heavy Stones

Nothing hurts my heart more than the death of a child. Hearing about the death of a child permeates my chest with heavy stones of sadness, uncertainty, confusion, fear. As my chest fills, stones clinking me aware, each breath becomes more shallow, and then deeply more deliberate. Each breath forces me to acknowledge the weight pulling from within, the heaviness threatening to pull me under.

Years ago--although I can recall the tiniest details of the day, I can't recall the year--I attended the funeral of a coworker's little boy. He was Moosie's age when he died. He triumphed through many heart surgeries, but he slowly lost his life after being on life support and receiving a heart transplant.

The funeral home was filled with poster after poster of a happy, amazing little boy. I remember the line for the viewing being painfully, uncomfortably slow, each slight step forcing me to look at another snapshot of this marvelous little boy. I don't know why, but I specifically remember a small picture of him in a body of water with an orange lifejacket on, his smile firm, his little body bobbing slightly. And then suddenly I was embracing his mother and all notions of "What should I say? Not say? What should I do? Not do?" disappeared.

As I left that night, the image of his tiny peaceful body forever in my mind, I contemplated how a family grieves the loss of a child, especially a child requiring a spectacular level of care. This little boy had medical needs, therapeutical needs, spiritual needs--his parents keenly aware of the possibility of death, struggled to give him a balanced but rich life, the just in case purposely tucked away every morning.

I imagine their first conscious breath often a decision or thought regarding their little boy, early morning appointments with the pediatrician, lunch appointments with the heart specialist, after work predinner appointments with the physical therapist. I try to imagine the quick e-mails sent and received, the medical research conducted, the impromptu blood draws required, the worried phone calls, all infiltrating the work day. And then the so-called trivial aspects of parenting-- feeding dinner, giving baths, reading stories, applying bandaids and emphasized kisses--when bits of marvel, hope, and love leapt out or even just inconspicuously leaked out. I try to imagine all of this, and then having not just the child but the tightly woven tangles and lovingly tied knots of the parents' lives ripped out in a flash.

And I can't. I can't imagine it at all. All I can feel is despair.

I read about another child dieing this week, discussed on some of the blogs that I read regularly. I did not regularly read the mother's blog and thus did not have a connection to her or her little boy who died suddenly. But the stones continue to fill my chest, and with each breath I helplessly think of this little boy and his family. I am reminded how we are all connected, intentionally or not.

Each time I come across the memorial bookmark I have kept from all those years ago, as I finger the soft recycled pulp, I will not just think of Spencer Kult but also of Evan Kamida.

Nothing hurts my heart more than the death of a child.

Crabby

It rained most of the day again today, but after a few games of ping pong, we visited "the sound." Moosie felt safe enough to get into the water, and had a good ol' time.



And once again, it was clear skies and high tide after 5PM. We were all pretty crabby after 10 hours staring wistfuly outside hoping for the rain to stop, but we cheered up quickly. Still seemed appropriate that we ended the day by "hunting" crabs! The kids had a blast.

Project Management

I thought that when I quit my full time job two years ago, my project management skills would leave me, my meeting skills (what little I had) would leave me, my problem solving capabilities would leave me, my planning skills would leave me, my letter writing skills would vanish - POOF. Actually, thanks to having to manage IEPs, therapies, doctor appointments, and volunteering to help other parents do the same, the only things that seemed to have left me are the ability to have any control over anything, the ability to maintain a functional household, and my sanity - POOF!

My dad had foot surgery yesterday. Minor, but I still worry that he had something stuck in his foot and he is diabetic. "Diabetic" and "foot surgery," words that make me shudder when used in the same sentence. So I cut grass for dad on Saturday, did some car swapping/returning last night. Accomplished nothing at my own house really. Well nothing that hasn't already been undone.

I have an IEP meeting for Moosie today (yes, another one). So I bought cookies. They are fresh baked cookies, so that's better than nothing. Right!?!?!

We have an unscheduled IEP meeting on Friday for Bubba, thanks to a crisis(that I tried to warn them about thank-you-very-much). No cookies at that meeting. I have no sugar to offer at all.

**********************************************************

This is an example of the letters/e-mails I write. I learned years ago from Reed Martin to "build our case" (I tried to link to his site. Is it gone?) and then again from Wrightslaw to "prepare for disaster." It's a tiring way to live, but I document, document, and document some more. And although it frustrates the hell out of me, I've always been glad when the time comes (and it always does come) that I have the documentation.

[Principal],

In discussion with [Bubba], [teacher] (email), and [school counselor] (telephone), I believe the behaviors reported to us (hands-on) to be impulsive and a manifestation of [Bubba]'s disability. As discussed in his IEP meeting on XXXX XX, 2008 (also see included email "[Bubba]: IEP" dated XXXX XX, 2008), [Bubba] has a documented history of impulsive, aggressive, and/or socially inappropriate behaviors especially in times of transition and/or less structured settings. He also cycles and is inconsistent in his reactions and impulsive behaviors. This is why we were extremely frustrated with [the school]'s decision to remove [Bubba]'s behavior intervention plan from his IEP (only school staff agreed with the removal) in XXXX 2008.

[School counselor] contacted me today and stated her concern that [Bubba] appeared to be regressing over the past few weeks (I interpreted this to be in behavior and social appropriateness), that he did not appear to understand his behaviors or why he was doing them (manifestation of his disability), and that the social relationship with his peers in his regular classroom was in a poor state (what we typically see in the community setting).

I reiterated to [school counselor] about his impulsivity issues, how this behavior is what we typically see at home, and also that I had notified the teachers of reducing his medication (See email "medication/picking" dated XXXX XX, 2008; in the IEP meeting it was stated there was no positive benefit seen at school and we were only seeing negative side effects at home). I also mentioned that I was out of town a few days this week, and had alerted the teacher of this, but did not think it would effect [Bubba]. I had also mentioned to [teacher] this morning that last month was a very difficult month at home (a lot of self-aggression as well as property destruction), but we saw much improvement this month so far (at home).

In light of this turn of events, [Hubby] and I would like to reconvene [Bubba]'s IEP team, especially if suspension is imminent, as suggested in the behavior report sent home on XXXX XX, 2008. As his parents, we are concerned about these behaviors and the safety of all students involved. However, we do not want him to be suspended (in school or out of school), but would rather he receive the support he needs to prevent the behaviors from occurring and to allow [Bubba] to be successful. We are not surprised by these behaviors, and our desire continues to be to proactively support him rather than only reactively punish him. We firmly believe in discipline and consequences, but are very concerned that [the school] is setting [Bubba] up for failure (suspension) similar to what happened in Kindergarten (seclusion room) by not providing the support necessary. We are willing to meet any time to brainstorm interventions and put them in place as needed to help [Bubba] curb these hands-on behaviors and to avoid the possibility of suspension or removal from the regular classroom environment. We are also open to working with the team to determine the best dosage/type of medication to benefit [Bubba] at home and at school; however, we need detailed information to make these decisions in the best interest of everyone.

Please let us know your thoughts on these issues and how you think we should proceed. It hasn't taken a long time for [Bubba] to spiral downward in the past once a similar chain of events occurred.

Thank you for your time. I will return the signed behavior report on Monday.

Sincerely,
[ange]

All is not lost

My mom has been on my mind a lot lately. Reading this blog doesn't make it any easier to pocket those feelings away.

Maybe this is why I don't think disability is equal to death. Maybe this is why I get so upset when people relate autism to cancer. Autism has not stolen the souls or lives of anyone I have met. Cancer has.

Don't spend your life trying to fix your child. Spend your life loving them. That relationship can be whatever you allow it to be. Don't fight for something you think you want, when what you need, what you can nurture, is already there. I have to remind myself of this quite often. In spite of me, not only because of me, my children grow, mature, progress. And I am so lucky that they call me "mom."

*****

I wrote this in highschool and then recrafted it in college. It never seems finished when I read it, always room to tweak, modify, as I continue to experience old and new pain and overwhelming love through various stages of my life.

Mom

I.

You sit there quietly
sipping your tea.
I watch you
stare
into the dark liquid.
Steam dampens your brown
(or was it black?)
hair.

I was too young
to know the secrets
that your clouded green
(or were they blue?)
eyes
kept from me.
I waited
until you noticed
my perplexity
before I left you to your
sighs.


II.

Your delicate
(or were they brittle?)
hands framed my face
as you welcomed me home from school.

You were happy
(or were you?)
then
listening to my stories
of swing-set wars
and jungle-gym triumphs.

I never paused
words tumbling over tongue.
You smiled slightly
as you listened.
(or were your thoughts elsewhere?)
Done with my stories
I leave you
to an empty room.

III.

You lay there
your beautiful
(Are you at peace?)
face
no longer tense
with pain.

Eyes closed
(Will you remember me?)
hands folded
never to comfort me
again.

I give you my
celebrated
blue rosary
to help your transition
to There.
(Can I go with you?)
The color is ice
against your pale.

I blow a kiss.
(A child's hope thrown away.)
I am pulled away
into greedy hugs.
You are
shut into
darkness.
(I will never know who you are.)

Motherless Daughters

I haven't been thinking of my mom in a positive light over the past year. Maybe it's because I am struggling with my own inadequacies as a mother. Maybe it's because I've now surpassed my own mother's short 3 decades of life. Maybe it's because I know I will not be bearing anymore children, and am not pleased with the Satan-spewing hormones slapping me in the face and kicking me when I'm down. But last week as I dug in the dirt with bare hands, split and arranged perennials, and carefully selected and planted annuals, I happily thought of my mom.

Gardening just seems like something we would enjoy doing together, peacefully shaping a hole that would soon house a delicate flower. Neither of us talking, but just knowing the other is there, and then triumphantly standing back and admiring the beauty we accomplished together. I don't recall my mom gardening extensively, but I do remember marigolds in the front yard way before "curb appeal" and "garden design" existed. I also remember an abundance of house plants, mainly philodendrums and ferns. Nevertheless, I feel a connection with my mom as I work the soil and then each and every time I walk through the front door and am engulfed by my own little piece of heaven.




(It was really chilly this morning, so the blooms were not open, and much is still poking its way through soggy winter remnants.)

****

My sister loaned me her extra copy of Motherless Daughters. Apparently I read it years ago--even took notes and earmarked pages--and then I professed its greatness and gave it to my sister to read. I don't know how great a book can be if you don't even recall reading it, but seems like now's the time for me to read it again. Maybe I don't need to remember the words I read, but if the book helps give structure and peace to what is floating around in my head, I'll be happy enough.

Spring has Sprung

Around these parts, the first signs of a true spring are not the blooming flowers, budding trees, chirping birds, or cleansing rains. Here we know it is Spring (or Fall) when Bubba enters the twilight zone, the land of many meltdowns and sensory overload explosions. I wish I knew why. For years we have tried to be proactive and to intervene before the crisis. But sometimes, it doesn't seem to matter what we do or how we react.

I sent Bubba inside to cool down when he was getting wound up outside (fire red ears). I was cleaning up and getting his brother, when I heard banging. I came inside to see him destroying our screen door (that we JUST put up). He had that glossy-eyed look that I really don't like! I sent him to time out (he went on his own accord) and in the few minutes it took me to clean up one mess, he had made another (slammed the door, ripped down the curtain rod, removed the safety glass on the window, and peed in his pants/on the floor).







We take pictures because when Bubba's punishment is long-lasting, I have pictures to remind him the reason for the punishment. He's getting better at realizing he is still in trouble for something that happened earlier in the day/week, but a lot of times he gets confused. This time he can't play with the neighbor outside all week - daddy named the punishment, and I'm the lucky one who gets to follow through with it.


Everyone is happy now.... until I have to enforce the punishment Bubba received for his destruction.

Autism: The Musical

Autism: The Musical

It's not a contrived, one-sided story. There were some things that made me cringe. Some things that made me nod my head. Things that made me cry. Things that made me smile and laugh, sometimes unexpectedly. I saw honesty. I saw opinions. I saw struggles, growth, denial, love. I didn't feel pity. I was left with emotions and thoughts swirling. And a few images of some amazingly beautiful, powerful smiles.

My favorite quote, told secondhand by one mother: "It's not up to us to judge the quality of her life."

My least favorite quote made by one mother: "This isn't a social change, it's a disease."

The quote that I struggle with every day: "I can't make them value her. I can't make them respect her, and think that she has the same rights that they do."

The movie is about 90 minutes long. It's worth it.