Gems

My children delivered all three of these gems within a five minute time period, so I thought I'd share the chuckles with you:
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3 year old, looking outside during lunchtime: "Mommy, the sky is not dark. They sky is on."

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6 year old: "Mom, what is daycare?"

Me: "It's for if both mommy and daddy went to work all day. We would take you to a place where the people would take care of you until we got home from work."

6 year old: "Is that called jail?"

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8 year old: "Mom, if I lick my elbow joint, it means I want to change the subject."

::lick::

An acronym to die for

My oldest son came home from school one day and started talking about something that happened during deer time. It caught me off-guard, so I stopped him.

"WHAT time?"

"Deer time. When we read."

After a bit of investigation, I uncovered the shocking truth: it wasn't deer time, it was D.E.A.R. time. Well, that explains everything, I thought. No, really, D.E.A.R. stands for "Drop Everything and Read." It's a program that fosters the habit of random reading anytime, anyplace. They hold it near the end of the school day. Okay. I can get behind this idea.

A few months later he came home with what looked like a quick pencil drawing of the inside of his classroom. I held it up and asked him to tell me about it. He said,

"Oh, yeah, we drew that during Drop Everything and Draw time."

Hmmm... I can see why they don't use the acronym for that one.

Overshare

My youngest son, now three, is no shrinking violet. I'm not sure where his friendliness comes from; after all, I was painfully shy as a child. Even my older two boys have been reserved around unfamiliar people.

So I glory in his chatty nature. Is it because he's third in the birth order? Who knows. He certainly sucks the marrow out of life: burping, giggling, chewing loudly. His enthusiasm brightens my day when it's been a tough one. And I like to share his happy disposition with others.

Lately he's been updating everyone on the planet about our family acquisitions. He'll run up to a complete stranger, out of the blue, and tell them that we just bought milk. Or paper towels. Sometimes the information is just about him, like his birthday bike. People are gloriously forgiving of a tiny person with a smile. At times the unfamiliar person will look at me for direction and I will just smile and nod. Thankfully, they just mimic me.

For our middle son's birthday we gave him a baby leopard gecko. This type of lizard only grows to be about nine inches long. I figured it was a safe first pet. However, you would think it belonged to our youngest with the way he kept the public informed.

TOTAL STRANGER: "Oh, hello little guy."

YOUNGEST: (standing inches from stranger) "I got a gecko."

TOTAL STRANGER: "A what?"

ME: (stage whisper, with hand motions) "A gecko. Lizard?"

TOTAL STRANGER: "Oh...." (walks away, smiling.)

I like to think that his friendliness is a reflection of my parenting style, though as any parent knows, you can only take so much credit (and sometimes you really don't want to.)

We went to the pet store recently to buy more lizard food. My little guy was fascinated with the small bucket of mealworms and held them all the way home. Next time we were out, he ran up to yet another unfamiliar (and unsuspecting) person and declared,

"I have WORMS!"

Oh, lovely.

Now We Are Six

Dear "S",

Another year has passed and suddenly you are six years old. I could say something cliche about how time flies, but there is nothing cliche about you.

The nature of being second in birth order is quite familiar to me. I have a big brother like you. And your big brother has blazed a trail for you. This means that your parents were much more relaxed about your arrival, your nightly wakings, your tiny newborn noises.

On the day we were going to leave the hospital, I curled up with you in my bed. You were dressed in a white hospital gown and swaddled in white blankets. The light coming from the window was a muted glow due to the rain clouds. Your little face shone as you slept, and you were perfect to me. I knew that our time alone was limited. So instead of resting up for the journey home, I wept. For two hours. I didn't care if someone saw me in such a state.

And that was the beginning of a life lesson for me. In my preteen, teen, and young adult years, I cared too much about what people thought of me. It's common, I know. Lots of time spent on my appearance. Lots of time pretending to be someone I wasn't. I thought too much about what other people thought.

Before your diagnosis of autism, I was so worried. That doesn't mean I don't worry now. But no one could put a name to what was happening. Inexplicable behaviors, learning difficulties. Late at night I would kneel next to your bed while you slept. I held your hand and wept, again.

Now we have a name, a course of treatment, a goal. And I have finally learned to stop caring-- about what other people think. I don't care that you are not a typical kid. I don't care that some people consider me a bad parent for "letting" you have a fit in public. The moment I see someone make a face or a noise, I turn away. Life is too short for me to spend it worrying about what other people think of me or of you. The most important thoughts are those I have of you, and those thoughts cannot be described with words.

So, thank you for being my son. I no longer cry at your bedside out of fear or missed opportunities. You have focused my life and increased my purpose, and I will be forever grateful that you came into my world.

Mom

Heroes, big and small

There are many aspects of motherhood that I enjoy, and many I don't. Thankfully the good far outweighs the bad. I do not regret becoming a mom, for parenting has enriched my life in ways I cannot describe with words.

I love saving the day. Most of the time it is a small event. I try to keep first aid cream and band-aids in my purse for the inevitable fall and skinned, tender knees. Or when my child's feelings have been hurt and I help him through the pain, then role-play with him for the next time it happens. Which it will.

At times, saving the day means studying about my children's special needs and making a connection that will smooth their path in the future. Or it could mean a trip to the ER when there's been a lot of blood. Being the hero has helped me to grow further than I ever thought possible. But there are times when I can't do enough.

My oldest has a penchant for map-making. He continually astounds us with his increasingly detailed maps, most especially of the Washington, D.C. Metro system. These maps include a key, color-coded routes, two major rivers, different colors of green for each county, even planned lines that haven't been built yet. He has memorized the names and locations of nearly all 94 stations. He peppers me with questions daily about the Metro system, and I simply don't know the answers. It makes me feel a bit inadequate.

Recently the cherry blossom trees were in full bloom in downtown Washington, D.C. We decided to visit on a chilly Saturday, and, of course, we were going to take the Metro. As we packed, I was in full-swing saving-the-day mode. Diapers? Wipes? Full lunch? Snacks? Water bottles? Sunscreen? Lip balm with sunscreen? Camera? Jackets? Cash? Extra clothes? Hand sanitizer? You name it, I was ready for anything. Our oldest asked to bring his most recent Metro map. It was enormous, four 8.5"x 11"sheets of paper taped together. I almost said no, but decided to humor him. He folded it carefully and stashed it in his backpack.

When we stepped out of the Metro and into the city, it was windy. Too cold for standing around and admiring the blossoms. We heard the cherry blossom parade winding along a few blocks away, and we figured that we could hit the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History before the parade crowd dispersed. It was a lovely visit full of exotic orchids, massive diamonds, and enormous bugs that we held in our hands. The highlight was the butterfly habitat. I could hardly contain myself when our autistic son, who never stops moving, stood stock-still in order to coax a butterfly into his palm. It was magical.

After lunch we decided to try to beat the crowds home. We headed toward the closest Metro stop, aptly named the Smithsonian stop. As we approached, I groaned. It was swamped with people. What we didn't know was that not only were the blooms at their peak and the festival in full swing, but the city's hockey, baseball, and basketball teams all had home games that day. It was ridiculous.

We waded through the seething mass of people to get to the entrance. But when we arrived, we found that the platform had been closed to incoming foot traffic. We turned and waded through, then walked another block to find the other entrance to the station. Once again, people were everywhere. There was such a huge crowd that everyone was at a standstill. People spilled out onto the nearby streets.

The idea of waiting in that line made my blood run cold. What would happen if our autistic son had a meltdown underground, in that crowd? We would have NOWHERE to go, and he would probably injure himself and innocent bystanders in the process. My family was tiring rapidly. We were out of options. I was not prepared for this, and I was not going to be saving the day. We weren't even close enough to the station to see the Metro map on the wall or grab a paper copy.

Suddenly I remembered our oldest son's map. I turned to him and asked him to pull it out. An enormous grin spread across his face as he unfolded it and held it up for us to see. He crowed,
"I knew this would come in handy!"

We held it tightly against the wind. As we searched the map, I knew that our second child had a finite number of steps left in him. Our decision was critical. There was no room for mistakes. All we really needed to know was which direction to head, and which street to look for. Our little map-maker pointed out the closest stop, and though the street name was not on the map, he knew it.

The station was exactly where he told us it would be. He was beside himself with glee. We were able to board the very next train and were on our way home in short order. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Our map-maker turned to me with an impish grin and asked, "Did I save the day, mommy?"

Did you ever.

The best things come...

In this blog entry I described moments in my life as a parent to a special-needs child. I got a lot of feedback from the entry so I wanted to share a related moment that was immensely fulfilling. I share this on World Autism Awareness Day in honor of my sweet boy.
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I admit it. I'm one of those moms that uses the canned "mmmhmmms" and the "that's great, sweetheart"s when my kids are chattering away and I'm not quite there. It doesn't mean I don't love them, of course. It just means that I've got a lot on my mind. We've all been there.

And we've all been kids at one point, too. So we can't blame our own children when they use the same time-honored techniques to grab attention from the Distracted Parent.

"Mom. Mom. MOM. MOM. MOM!!!

My five-year-old autistic son employs these techniques as well. He learns well from observation and imitation. For example, I got him to say, "I love you" when he was about three years old. It was simply an imitation of my speech. But it was the last time I heard it from him.

He soon took a downward turn and was subsequently diagnosed with autism. It was crushing. But he continued to observe and imitate, including raising his voice to get my attention. He also formed his own technique that is more effective than any other.

I can always tell when his synapses are on overdrive because his voice changes. It's not a loud change or an obnoxious change. It's a quiet change. A breathy, mumbly, I'm-making-progress-so-listen-carefully change. His voice takes on a peculiar energy and excitement that my husband and I delight in.

He will breathlessly recount an event in great detail or describe how he is going to construct an invention (most frequently a rocket pack for his back, just like Buzz Lightyear.) This little voice grabs my attention better than any yell for Mom.

Recently we were sitting on the floor in our living room. I was tickling my youngest son and making lots of noise in the process. My autistic son sat a few feet away, staring intently at the floor. I wished I could get inside that head and hear what was going on. Whatever it was, it was all-consuming.

Amidst the squeals and giggles I heard his breathy, quiet voice. He said a few things that I didn't catch, then he looked straight at me.

"I love you, mom." Then he smiled.

I froze. His voice couldn't have been softer but I certainly heard it. It cut me to the soul and took my breath away. I left my youngest child on the carpet, momentarily forgotten. Crawling across the floor, I folded him into my arms. I couldn't hold him tightly enough.

He giggled as I squeezed him and choked back my tears. I had waited so long for this: a moment that was unprompted, un-canned, un-imitated. The fact that I had waited over two years for it made the moment all the sweeter.

Those who help others...

A friend of mine owns a couple of horses. I was bemoaning the fact that therapeutic riding programs (for special needs children) were few and far between, expensive, and often had year-long waiting lists. She brightened and said, "He can ride my horse." I was thrilled. When I explained to my autistic son what we were going to do, he was beside himself with anticipation.

We had an unseasonably warm February day. As we drove west to the stable, the air was almost warm in the Blue Ridge mountains. We received permission from the stable owner to use her resident Shetland pony for my little guy's first riding experience. She was beautiful and brown and her name was Minnie.

My son's attention and speech increased dramatically as we groomed her. He delighted in feeding her apples, sugar cubes, and knobby carrots. He asked questions constantly but did a great job of controlling his excitement over his new experience. He asked me a question so softly that I had to bend down and ask him to repeat several times. Finally, I got it: "What's her last name?" By virtue of the owner, we dubbed her Minnie Smith. It was official.

Then came time to ride. He was stiff as I lifted him and placed him in the saddle. He kept his arms around my neck and made little nervous squeaking sounds. I peeled his arms away and stepped back a bit. He grinned from ear to ear as she shifted around.

We led the pony partway up the side of a nearby mountain (a relative term in the Blue Ridge) and stopped at a bench someone had placed at a rise. My son puttered through the dead, dry grass and leafless trees as we basked in the sun. He was at such peace in nature and with an animal nearby.

We returned to the stable and headed home. As we drove, my friend confided in me that she had been experiencing an emotionally difficult time. This was her first foray out of the house in a week. I was dismayed that I was unaware of her struggles. But when she turned to smile at me, I saw the same joy reflected in her face as I had seen in my son's. The pony, the sunshine, and the camraderie all made for a wonderful day.