It's May. Also Known as Bounce House Season.

Lots of end of season revelry this week as we wrap up schooling and activities.  It's a three bounce house kinda week here, with Sarah's last day at Playschool and J's last t-ball game and an early trip to Monkey Joe's just because we can.  We are putting away our formal schoolbooks Friday and I can't believe we've really done a year of Kindergarten by ourselves.  I definitely want to shoot video of us reading together because that's our A for effort this year.

I've got some clips of the church musical that will probably only interest the grandparents, but I hope it edifies you as well.  Sarah's a blip on the first row, fifth from the right, a tiny thing with a big bow.  I had grand plans for video shot from the first row straight from the stand I brought, but I forgot that those details have to be communicated in spoken word to my husband rather than telepathy.  He gamely shot this with our phone when I could've just got the money shot from the stage as I hid in the wings to help run 4 year olds to the restroom.  She was so very cute.  She technically wasn't an official member of the class but I'm so glad I brought her into the fold this spring.

Our Music Minister wrote me a note of thanks and very wisely reminded me that teaching children to praise the Lord matters quite a lot.  I often joke that we mostly sit in a circle and learn jazzy motions, but really, that's exactly what these children have learned: that God is for them and he is awesome and holy.  I can still remember the words of a children's musical "It's Cool In the Furnace" from the age of 8 and even sang the song this week when I flipped in Sarah's bible storybook about Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. So even if we jazz it up with sparkle fingers, God's word has a way of taking root.

VIPs in the Kingdom.  BeaUtiful.

That Time I Threw My Busted Styrofoam Cup Out The Window In Impotent Rage: Mother's Day Edition

This was yesterday.

I almost tweeted my summation of the sad state of affairs, like I needed to put my ownself in time out, but I thought better of it to preserve my dignity. Which is why I'm blogging about it today.

The day started off so well:  we made Sarah's preschool drop off on-time-ish, made a Mother's Day card run and Dollar Store drop-in without incident, and then had school time with J.  He actually started the first of the Early Reader Phonics books in our curriculum and read each word on his own... like score.  I am winning at this whole thing.

We pick up Sarah, and since I really want to get those cards off and I want Sarah to add her developing penmanship to the card, we stop over at Chick-Fil-A to grab a bite and let her sign those cards.

Fail proof, right?

I get our meals ordered, divvy them around and anticipate feeding myself after all the ketchup has been squeezed, chicken cut, and fruit preferences honored.  Then: "Mom, I've got to go potty!!!" from Sarah.  The urgent kind of potty.  "Of course you do,"  I remark a wee bit sarcastically, as we've already had a bathroom session leaving preschool that involved the changing of garments.

I bark to get her shoes, carry her to the bathroom, and hope J and Rachel remain seated at the table.  Of course, she "can't go," so I slap her shoes on, and as we are exiting, J is at the restroom entrance.  If I had been in good humor, I would have rightly concluded that he too needed to go.  I'm not sure if I asked him or not, but hauled both of them back to the table to make sure Rachel was still in her non-highchair seat.  She was.  Perfectly contented with a big chicken tender and hadn't even thrown anything.

A table of college-aged sorority sisters sits behind us and I remark, "Really makes you want to have kids, right?" with about as much sincerity as you can imagine after the proceedings.

"Actually, we were watching your baby.  She's precious."

"Oh, yeah.  All of them are.  Especially when we're not running to the bathroom," I graciously reply.  (Sarcasm font).

I resume enjoying the wonder of those red bell pepper/tomato crunchies on the salad when I look over at J and I get it.  He really had to go.  He has to go now.  He is going.

I jerk him up and drag him in the the ladies room and use that crazy, hushed voice that scares even me and I'm sure anyone in the next stall.

I call the outing a loss and tell him to wait by the front door as I pack up the food and explain that no playground time will be had as I'm regaled with ice cream dream laments from Sarah.

We're out the door and I relent, agreeing to get ice cream through the drive through.  And then I grab my water cup and the straw has poked its way through the bottom.

At which point I LOSE IT.

My window is open after having just placed my order in the drive through line and I chuck that empty cup out the window, saying some things and generally looking like an unhinged maniac who should not be driving a motor vehicle containing children.

You'll be happy to know that the ice cream cone later falls out of the cup holder up front and I handle that with equal grace.

Then I give the kids an early bath, mostly so they can splash in the tub and I can watch my show in the next room as I check in on them and pretty much check out from the day.

As they are exiting the tub, J's system finally processes the last of the major system flush we started this Sunday and continued all week and well, leaves an EPIC mess in his room.  EPIC.   That's all I can say and remain in any sort of taste.  But he thoughtfully took himself to the restroom to clean himself up so that counts for something, yes?

We limp through a hasty meatball and spaghetti meal as Alex steam cleans J's room and mercifully get them in their beds.

And we awaken to do it all over again.

Hopefully with less blow-outs.  By all parties.

And I share this pitiful anecdote to remind myself that sometimes it's great and sometimes it's hard and sometimes it's boring and sometimes you just keep showing up.

Let's keep showing up, Moms and Dads.  They'll be adults one day and we won't know any of the details of their bathroom habits.  God willing.

Happy Mother's Day!!!

April Is The Cruellest Month

I didn't write any autism posts in the month of April.  At least on this blog.  In my head?  Many.  Working titles include "You're a Grand Old Flag" for my son's great enthusiasm of our nation's symbol, very much tongue-in-cheek;  "State of the Union: Our Second Year With Autism" and "Autism Junction, What's Your Function?" on functioning labels, such as high or low functioning autism and my ambivalent feelings about them.

I may go back and write those posts because belieeeeve me, I've got lots of words to work through.

What I want to share about our particular experience down this road is summed up beautifully by Jim Walter of  Just A Lil Blog in his post Love for NT Parents  (parents of neurotypical children):

"I'll probably realize I'm wrong at some point, but I feel like I've reached a really good place with Lily.  I feel like I accept her completely.  But before I got where I am with Lily today I wondered how to accept autism.  Before I wondered how to accept autism I wondered how best to spread awareness.  Before I wondered how to spread awareness I wondered what had caused it.  Before I wondered what caused it I wondered whether I shouldn't have vaccinated.  Before I wondered about vaccines I wondered about cures.  Before I wondered about cures I didn't have an autistic child.  Each new thing I 'learned' either built upon the last, or completely razed it to the ground and rebuilt it from scratch.  I was totally adrift and I needed to understand.  Needed to because my daughter was autistic.  No other reason."


This the paradigm through which I am working.  This year has been spent wading through the incessant causation theories (though a new one will slap me upside the face from time to time) and taking another view of autism by listening to autistic voices.

The very word autistic really tripped me up.  It felt like an insult.  A lesser-than, thinly veiled synonym for the "R" word.  I would hear it and assume the speaker had narrowed my child's existence to his scores on the DSM IV: Difficulty with social interaction. With communication.  Repetitive behaviors and obsessions.

But I read something that shed some light on what was really bothering me.  The word autistic simply reflected back my own fears about my child: that he would been seen as something other. And on some selfish level, that would reflect poorly on me.

I wish I could find the exact quote that started this shift for me, but an autistic adult, as the writer self-identified, used the example of a child's superhero toy.  The toy comes WITH special additional features! Removable cape!  Anti-gravity belt!  The writer pointed out that the person-first terminology  "individual with autism" makes it sound as if the autism is separate from the individual, something to be picked up and put down again as needed.  And if you've read my earlier thoughts, you know I agreed with that wholeheartedly.

But the thing is autism isn't an accessory.  It cannot be taken off.  It's a way of seeing the world.  A way of being.  A very human way of being and thinking.  A different way, granted.  A challenging way of being to understand as an outsider.  But not other.  Not less than.

And I began to be okay with it.

I can use the term to describe my son.  In brief interactions in public with new people, it can be helpful.  To the waitress who is trying to win J over with charm and questions, who turns out to be a parapro in an autism classroom when I share his autism superpower.  Life can be cool like that sometimes.

I always use "on the spectrum" or ASD or "with autism" with discussing the topic with other parents like us, but I've made my peace with autistic.  Baby steps.

I've suffered some autism burnout, perfectly explained in Bec Oakley's stellar resource, Snagglebox.  Most nights I've come to bed with a new theory or treatment to fret over as Alex listens, sometimes chuckling that "Babe, you worry too much." Still other times holding me, like he did on my birthday after our date night.  The dinner that I have to excuse myself to the bathroom to pull it together. Back at home on the couch as I just sob from trying to play god while simultaneously worshipping at the altar of AUTISM, a mysterious entity that consumes my thoughts and emotions.

Autism is a terrible god.  Anything other than God is a terrible god.  I very clearly got the message that the place of highest affection in my life was solving autism for J.

So this year, after the big April autism awareness and acceptance push has ended and other worthy causes take its place, I still work toward the goal of  fully accepting my kid, just as he is.

Spoiler alert: He's a great kid and we've done big things together.  In more ways than one, we've made it to May.

"APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain." T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land