Sorry for the apologies

I'm done.
Finished.
Will not back down.
I just can't do it anymore.
I refuse to apologize for past and present mistakes or the way I parent my children.
I'm over the mommy shaming, the victim blaming, the bullshit.

Things I refuse to apologize for are as follows:

1. Calling my son autistic. This is a no go for me. He IS autistic, just as he IS tall, has brown hair, and brown eyes. I'll be damned if I ever apologize or feel bad when someone goes off on me for using autistic rather than "has autism." It's just silly. Can you separate the autism from him? No? Me either.

2. My sons' actions. You know what? It's damned hard to apologize for someone else. I refuse to say "I'm sorry, but he's <fill in the blank>." Parents of totally typical kids don't apologize for their children being assholes, and I don't think I should have to, either. My kids are good kids. They're usually polite, funny, and aren't embarrassing to take out in public (well, most of the time, but we'll get to that). I'm not going to ask for forgiveness when they act like kids or have meltdowns related to their disabilities. Or when Morgan scripts all the history of Thomas the Tank engine. Or when Bay goes on and on to me about Minecraft. They're being the only type of children they know how to be and, as long as they aren't being total jerks, I'm good with that.

3. Assisting my son when he's losing his proverbial crap in public. Why did I ever feel the need to do that? He can't help that the crowds are too much, that the lights are too bright, or that the noise is too loud. When he shuts down and cries, it's my job to help him, not to explain him to someone else.

4. Speaking up for disabled people, especially my son. This extends, but isn't limited to, calling people out for bullshit ableist policies and language. I'm including this blog, too. I've stayed away from here due to a fear of being reprimanded for how I feel. Sorry, but I'm out of shits to give. I'm going to say what I want and not feel bad for it because some keyboard crusader wants my head on a platter.

5. Activism and advocacy. I used to feel just the tiniest twinge of guilt whenever I gave hell to the schools, but that's long gone. I'm not going to apologize for them pissing me off, or for them not doing their jobs. The exact same thought process applies to the below:

6. Speaking up against and calling society out for the other isms and phobias- racism, anti feminism, xenophobia, and homophobia. Granted, I don't really apologize for saying anything about this now, but, after getting trashy comments about my stance on politics and humanity, I just figured I'd throw this in- don't be a dick.

7.Teaching my children about politics and current events. I assume competence with my kids. They overhear news, they aren't blind to societal issues like homelessness or racism. I feel like it's important to address elephants in the room and I want the boys to be informed. Don't tell me I'm poisoning their minds. Rather, I'm fertilizing them with something other than horse shit.

8. Believing in applied behavioral analysis as it stands now. Look, I get that ABA can have its issues, okay? But my son is exposed to ABA as a learning style and it works. He works with licensed BCBAs at his school, not in private therapy, and they've done wonders for and with him. He's learning to tie his shoes, cook, have reciprocal social conversations, and so much more. I'm not apologizing for it working for us, nor for us having a good experience.

9. Talking/writing about my children. When I write about my kids, I'm acknowledging the struggles and shitastrophies. I'm also championing their triumphs and telling about the funny things they do. Sometimes, autism is funny. Sometimes, it sucks. And, sometimes, my youngest is being a ginger demon. Each experience is okay to talk about.

10. Being myself. I'm at a place in my life where I actually don't hate myself or the things I say and do. I'm comfortable in my own skin and I don't care if others aren't alright with that. I swear, I drop things, I mess up, and I'm quirky. I like me.

11. My kids being themselves. I'm trying to teach my kids to be their authentic selves and, so far, they seem to have a good grip on what that means. Sometimes, my kids come off as weird, indifferent, or sensitive. However, they own most of that and I'm thrilled that they do. Authenticity is hard to come by in adults, but if we teach it to our kids early, maybe they'll grow up feeling that the earth is solid beneath them rather than shaky.


At the end of the day, how is my parenting affecting you? If it's not, then move on.

Why I Stopped Using the "F" Word

I've always been hypercritical of myself. Always. By saying this, I am admitting that I am a grade-A neurotic asshole about a lot of things. With severe endometriosis in the last year has come severe swelling and weight gain. Some days, I carry an additional twenty pounds and fluctuate by four dress sizes. I've been depressed about this. I don't feel pretty or slim or even curvy. I feel dumpy and ugly. I've been vocal about this to my husband and speak out loud to myself about this. Self-critiquing is a nasty habit for me. I just really didn't know how much my kids pick up on it.

Because of this, I've decided to be radical and never use the "F" word, ever again. I'm asking that you never use it in front of your children, either.

Back in April, I noticed Bay asking about calories. He wanted to know what they are, how they work, and how much he should have each day. Since his class had been studying the food pyramid, I answered his questions in basic terms, explaining that calories are energy.

But it didn't stop at the questions. Bay, my always finicky eater, has been trying to eliminate whole meals. Breakfast is a time of coaxing, bribing, and tears. I made it a habit to come and sit with him at school last year a couple of days a week when I could so I was sure he was eating lunch. Dinner has become a battleground.

Always energetic, he's been mentioning wanting to "exercise." He says he wants to go jogging, ride his bike, swim, but these were things I could, again, brush off as a child who has overheard something and just tell him, "You are plenty hyper as it is, honey. You are a walking, talking, exercise machine!"

I brushed off the comments he was making about his belly as him being silly. Hell, a six year old boy doesn't worry about his weight, right?

I knew he was worried about his brother's weight after Morgan had been picked on a few times for being heavy. However, I really only addressed Morgan's concerns, which were very few. Morgan deals in what he sees as the finite, for the most part, not the seemingly endless amounts of childhood criticisms which may come from being different in any way. Bay's concerns, to me, weren't as relevant. After all, he's typical(ish), he's outgoing after he warms up, what could go wrong?

I stayed on him about eating right and drinking enough water and milk this summer. I noted with concern the headaches and tummy aches he kept, but honestly thought it was him either being overheated or faking illness to get out of chores. But then the lethargy set in. And the under eye circles. And the dry skin.

Bay dumped out a bowl full of cereal one day this week. He didn't even try to eat his breakfast. I lost it and yelled at him, "Why won't you eat?!:" "I'm full, Mama." "Bull! You haven't eaten enough to fill up a gnat. Son, you have eat. How are you going to grow?" "But Mama, no one will like me if I'm fat."

I felt like someone had dumped ice water on me. My temper turned into raw anxiety.

He told his daddy and me he's scared of gaining weight. That, if he gains weight, kids might make fun of him and not like him. 

I had a long talk with Bay. We talked not just about eating healthy, but how we eat to live and live to eat. I told him, too, about eating disorders like anorexia and how much that can cost him. He didn't realize that starving himself can actually hurt him to the point of being deadly.

His pediatrician backed me up when we saw her. She told me, privately, that this is a problem she sees with little girls in our community, not boys. I nodded and said, "I was an idiot, though, to believe that I would be exempt from this problem." She showed Bay how he's, right now, at a healthy, though slight, weight for his height. She talked to him about how he's already making healthy food choices, but needs to make more choices to "fill up his tank." She also referred me to a child psychologist and we agreed to monitor this very closely.

My son isn't anorexic, but he is showing clear and early signs of having anorexia nervosa. This, my friends, is a big frickin' deal. His doctor and I spoke about the possible genetic links to it, from me, a former anorexic/bulimic, and my mom, a former anorexic. We also spoke about what Thomas and I can do as his parents to make eating fun and to make Bay more comfortable with food.

If you ever think you have boys, you're immune to the eating disorder world, think again. They listen every time you say, "Ugh, I feel so FAT," or "Jesus, my ass looks huge." They will take in every single derogatory comment you make about your body and apply it to themselves. This is not just a "girl" problem. This is a human problem. We're so busy fighting obesity (which is valid) that we don't think about teaching our kids to really love, and take of, the bodies that they have. We have to do that, too.

I don't want another mama to feel this type of pain for her kid.

I thought I was teaching my sons this kind of self-love and body acceptance that I constantly promote on social media, but I wasn't. I wasn't listening to my own kid.

 I didn't pay attention when Morgan was teased for being chubby. I didn't know how it made his brother feel because I didn't ask. Somehow, while I was busy bemoaning what age and illness were doing to my body, I'd not seen the disordered thinking taking root in my child's head. Maybe I was worried because he wasn't eating enough, but anorexia? In a six year old? No.

I was wrong.

Kids have an amazing ability to fact check you as you're lecturing them in a hypocritical fashion for not doing the right thing. So, the next time you're in front of that mirror, tell yourself, "This isn't bad. I look good." Eliminate the "F" word from your vocabulary when you're around your child, at least. That other one? Well, it's personal choice.

I'm making a vow, right now, to love my body. This body might be a massive pain in the ass for me, but it's carried two kids to term, provides hugs, and my sons think that the person it belongs to is beautiful.

I'll never use the "F" word again.

An Uncommon Father's Day Tribute

Dear Dad,

Thanks for screwing up in a phenomenal way.

Your screw ups, and their lasting effects on me, have done me a world of favors. Truly. I used to loathe you for it, but now I only feel some mild apathy and pity because you've missed out on the nine best things to ever happen to your world- your children and grandchildren.

By your actions, you taught me that a promise is never real until it's proven.

You taught me that I could always pass the buck to someone else if I wanted nothing to do with the task at hand. However, what you neglected to say out loud is that you cannot gripe about the results because you've given up all responsibility.

You were the life professor who taught me to never settle for less than I would be willing to give. To never hang all of my hopes and dreams on a person who doesn't love himself enough to love me in return. To never show all of my cards because someone will take advantage of that, like you.

I learned that addictive personalities are genetic, but being an ignorant  jackass isn't.

You taught me what to look for in a father for my children. Someone who would care. Be there. Someone who would remember their child's birthday.. or a graduation.. or the birth of a grandchild or a wedding. Someone who would want to be there. Someone who understood that my parents being at an event for our children was a privilege, not a right. You lost the memo for the last one.

You taught me that I didn't want to marry someone like you in my formative years. Someone who would not be violent, someone I could trust, and someone with a real backbone, who wouldn't allow his childhood to rule his head for his entire adulthood. Without ever actually directing me that way, you sold me on the idea of gravitating toward a survivor like me who would understand that life's not always a pretty picture for everyone. We, at the time, were the best things to happen to each other. So, thank you.

As a frequent consumer of cheap booze and spewer of denial, you instilled in me the belief that I must take responsibility for my actions- while intoxicated or sober.  A whole world built upon lies must make your head a very frightening place. It's a place that no therapist, medication, or daughter can explore because you've closed off the in roads. That world must be lonely, but we on the outside will never know. I speak and live my truth to the best of my abilities. I poke fun at it, but I try to never deny it.

In the less than dozen times I saw you growing up, you taught me that I wanted more for myself. That I would never be comfortable with someone else raising my children, as you were, while I was raising someone else's, as you did.

I know that just because you're so terrified of being responsible for what you've created, doesn't mean that I'm the same way. I'm not like you.

I learned from you that I have strong roots in things which aren't great, but I am the person who chooses to cut those roots. I choose my future and what I will allow to affect me from my past.

You didn't do that. You chose the roots embedded in darkness and I chose to allow light in my life. I had to cut the roots that led to you and I am grateful every day that I did.

By both actions and inactions, you've taught me so much.

Thank you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Sincerely,

Jessi
*This is the proper way to spell my name, in case you're reading this and wondering.

So Different: Tale of Two Kindergartners

I've mentioned several times throughout the school year how jarring it is to see Bay's work come home and compare, though I shouldn't, to where Morgan was at that same age.

The handwriting is different- Bay's is neat where Morgan's barely existed. The coloring is different- Bay is in the lines, where just this year Morgan finally colored an entire picture. The drawings- Bailey draws everything he sees or imagines and in great detail, Morgan still draws mostly in trains.

My children are so different, it's nearly painful. There is not a favorite son, there are just two different sons, as if they are each from different parents.

In Morgan's kindergarten, we were speaking of him being behind, not communicating, melting down, scripting, and playing "inappropriately." There was the fear of him not retaining information. Basically, there were a lot of deficits to work on and not a lot of strengths shown except his love of patterns and math.

In Bay's kindergarten, we have a child who gets into trouble for talking, who is easily bored and blows through assignments, and who "contributes a lot" to class discussions as his teacher told me after a talk about MLK went a bit sideways with me. He absorbs everything and starves for more. There is no talk of deficits unless it's about his speech impediment. He has a hard time making friends because he blurts out God knows what, usually something he's overhead me say.

I requested Bay be checked for gifted. It hurt, for some reason, to ask. I felt like I was betraying Morgan and all of those years of "well below benchmark," "well below average," and "borderline intellectually disabled" marked on so many tests.

I felt like I was slapping my special needs mom friends in the face somehow.

So I couldn't say anything when I was told that Bay "flunked" the test by 2% . In kindergarten, a child must make a 99% on the test to be considered gifted, Bay scored 97%. I'm not upset by any means, I'm kind of relieved. It means that he won't have advanced classes this year. It means he'll be "regular" a little longer.

But then I felt like I was shorting Bay for not being upset. Am I supposed to be upset? I was told that kids his age rarely score this high, they normally are in the lower to upper 80s, maybe lower 90s. That next year, he'll be retested and likely be placed in the gifted program.

I wonder if the woman telling me thought me strange for not being excited. Or if my terror showed on my face.

There is irony in having Bay tested for gifted while ordering Morgan's three year evaluation to be done for autism, and everything that entails- IQ tests, etc.

There is also pain in that I worry about both of them, but I worry for entirely different way. I like someone is pulling me in opposite directions and it hurts my heart. What happens if, by encouraging Bay, I hurt Morgan?

I'll always encourage my children to work hard and do their best. But what happens when their best makes the other one feel awful? And how do I manage this?

Parenting is Hard

You know what's hard? Parenting. Parenting a child who's autistic, who has ADHD, who is bi-polar, who <insert diagnosis or lack thereof here>.... just parenting. This parenting gig is damned hard.

Life is hard. Being a parent is hard. It's okay to admit that, I promise.

You find joy where you can, happiness where it is, and you try not to lose your crap.

You march on.

And on.

And on.

 And on.

I hear from autism parents a lot. We discuss our lives in person, calls, texts, forums, groups, and private messages. Some of them ask me for answers to questions about their children and sometimes I can give them answers. But when they ask what they can do about themselves and the feeling of guilt like they aren't doing enough, I get stuck and feel fake. How can I answer something for someone when I don't have the answer myself?

I'm genuinely a happy person. However, life is hard. That's the thread that keeps coming up whenever I think about what's bothering us all. We do hard things. This parenting gig is rough and God help us if we say so openly, because if we do, we'll be crucified. We get compared to people we are not like. Or that our kids don't deserve us. We are told to suck it up, this is what we signed up for, to figuratively lace up our boots and get to it.

But God forbid we get it wrong.

I know that's what drives my anxiety, what makes my hands shake and even flap and keeps me up at night- getting it all wrong. My perception of "wrong" is probably not the same as some else's, but my idea of "right" or "good" is probably some non parent or sanctimonious parent's  idea of hideous.

So I, and others, keep marching along to my own tune with the help of some input from advice, hoping that I'm getting it right and not traumatizing my children too badly. I keep doing hard things. Because that's what parents do: hard things. 

Sometimes, the hardest thing to admit as a parent is that parenting is hard. You're not a failure if you admit it. I swear.

Meet the Pundits

When parents or caregivers go to seek answers, not from doctors, they often turn to the internet now instead of just books. They end up on Facebook pages or groups. These can sometimes be hostile for those people.

There is a trend these days, especially in the parenting community- not just the autism community, though God knows it's happening here- to seek out advice and try to prove your argument or credentials to a profile picture on Facebook. I'm guilty of it. I've done it and, likely as not, will continue to do so.

The beauty of Facebook is that there are millions of people out there who aren't so different than you. The horror of Facebook is that there is always a person waiting to pounce on your answer, however innocently stated, and tell you what a bad person you are for saying something. It's an "all or nothing" approach which I don't completely comprehend.

I call them parent pundits. Some of them aren't even parents, which makes it all the more baffling. In the autism community, they are autism pundits.

Source: www.thefreedictionary.com

Pundits, from what I can tell, attack a lot from their sanctimonious pulpits. They aren't unintelligent by any stretch of the imagination, they are usually very well informed about the topic which they speak. However, I find them to be closed off to any idea that is not their own. Bring up something which does not fit into their sphere of influence or thinking and you will burn. They are ideologues, if you will. Their followers tend to support them with something close to a cult-like zealotry.

An innocent question about anything from feeding therapy, ABA, to infant circumcision can have a person flamed by a pundit who doesn't want to educate, only spit fire from his/her bully pulpit, and then the attack is blown up by the pundit's followers who circle around and attack some more.

Tell me, how is this helping anything? Usually, the pundit defends his/her actions by saying that this is educating the parent. I disagree and will argue that the pundit loses the target audience (the parents, in this case) when he/she attacks because the audience feels verbally flogged. Sometimes I wonder if pundits remember that there are actual people attached to the screens on the other side, reading their militant diatribes against them.

Militancy can be virtue, but when people are coming to someone for help and getting flogged for it, it ceases to be an asset. Camps of thought are formed based on differences of opinion. To me, that's dangerous. To me, this means that there is very little gray area where people can meet in the middle.

Parents, when you seek out help, be careful what you are seeking. Be careful who you seek out for answers. If you feel as if you're being attacked by a pundit, move along.

They are not worth your time, emotional energy, or carpel tunnel syndrome.

Pundits, get over yourselves. You think that you're making some sort of change in the world. You know what happens when you keep screaming about your experiences and don't allow anyone in for additional input? People change the channel and move on. Personally, I don't care for being attacked. Debated, yes. Being razed over virtual hot coals? No thank you.

I'm going to keep doing what's best for my very happy child, as most of us are, and walk away. No one likes a zealot. Well, except for cult-like followers.

Is there a cult for bacon and cake?

It's Not You, It's Me- Sort Of

*Earlier this week, I deactivated my main personal Facebook account. I'm running my Deciphering Morgan page through another account I set up for autism only people and people that "get it." I'm not as active on that profile. Thus far, I'm not in any of my private groups, I haven't liked but a few pages and I think I'll keep it this way for a while. 

I'm on Facebook Island. It's completely selfish.

Judging from the pm's I'm getting from old friends on my DM page, some people think I might either be (a) dead or (b) mad at them.

I'm not either. I'm just in need of a break from neurotypical bliss and from first world neurotypical problems, among other things which I'm not at liberty to talk about here.

I'm being selfish and I'm not even apologizing for it. I should have done another profile years ago.

No offense, but I could give a crap about what paint color you're choosing or what little Becky did which is certifying her as a MENSA candidate this week. Harsh? Yes. Honest? Oh God, yes. Sometimes I feel like screaming, "I wish my first word problems were as mild as yours!!!"

It's hard, for me, as the mom of an autistic boy, to see pictures of kids that Morgan used to go to school with or play with when he was really young doing things that he can't do because homework takes up so much extra time. Or because we don't know how he'd do and honestly can't afford to figure it out. Or just being given the chance to be a kid with other kids outside of school. You know, play dates?  Or when they're doing things which aren't Thomas related. I love that my kid has a passion, but I wouldn't mind if he would also love to talk about something other than those trains.

It stabs when I see pictures of kids younger than Morgan on bikes without training wheels. Which, other than the adult trike he test drove once, he's never ever been able to do.

Or, when someone posts a pic of their son who used to attend school with Morgan having a sleepover, or a friend over. I'm not saying that Morgan doesn't have friends over ever, but the main friend he does have over who "gets it" is about to move an hour away.

"But Jessi, you're also the parent of a neurotypical kid, doesn't he matter?"

Yes, he does.  He matters just as much as Morgan.

Thus, I'm caught in two worlds. Every time I open Bay's notebook from kindy, I have this funny stab in my heart because his handwriting, that emerging skill, is neater in some ways than his brother, who is three years older than him. His coloring is better than Morgan's. Give that kid a paper and glue project and he nails it in a way that, due to a lack of fine motor skills, Morgan cannot right now.

Bay told me the other night that he's afraid of being smarter than Morgan one day. That he's afraid his brother will hate him. And that he wants to stop school because of that.

Except I think that Bay is sad sometimes at school. He says (and this is confirmed by a couple of the support staff at school), that no one really plays with him at recess. So I'm worried, as his mom.

I feel like it's Groundhog Day, where I'm trying to "teach" social skills to a child in order for him to make friends, although Bay's been on about a hundred play dates.

You're never supposed to compare children, whether they're your own or yours to someone else's. But I do it and it kills me.

I'm not bitter or mourning a life I've never had. I'm just, for right now, choosing to ignore the lives that aren't mine.

And, really, did you want me to be watching for signs of autism in your baby/home videos? Because I was, I really was. That's what we autism parents do, you know, we watch for signs of one of our own. Mention that your child has a an "obsession," and we're on that like hotcakes. Post pictures of a kid lining things up? Yep, we're talking about it.

So you see, it's not so much me... it's you. I'm being a bigot right now in that I can't be around anyone but those who have autism or other disabilities in their lives, even though I'm not saying much when compared to how much I normally say. I also was afraid of offending people, for a change. I don't want to do that.

I know it's understood, but I feel the need to clarify. You cannot help that you have neurotypical only kids any more than I can help that I've been blessed with an autistic child and a neurotypical child.


For now, I'm staying on Facebook Island. At least until I'm done taking Megace and this crap stops making me nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake.

Fearing the Future

*Editor's note: Please allow me the opportunity to have some word vomit due to anxiety.

Morgan will be nine this weekend. I'm kind of shocked by that.

Most of me is surprised that this much time has flown by so quickly and there is a big part of me who is scared that the rest of the time will do the same. I'm not ready for him to grow up and yet, I don't want to keep him a child. I want to push him to grow, learn, accomplish, and "be."

My brain is swirling - joyfully with what the future will hold and terrified of what it won't.

Every time I think of an experience that I think he should have and has not and might never, I check myself because I know that projecting this way is wrong.  It carries the potential to harm us both. But I still do it at times because I'm apparently a glutton for punishing myself and my son in my own brain in my most anxious hours.

My son's future was never mine to force onto him or autism's to steal. It is not predetermined by anything but Fate. You can help Fate along, but you cannot force it. Believing that has been my road to autism acceptance and me fully embracing my son as an autistic person to be understood, not someone to be fixed.

I feel as if the future is full of the things which we, as parents of children with special needs, aren't allowed to broach in our thoughts. Because once we do, it's as if we've tossed gasoline onto a pyre of fear and anxiety.

He's halfway to being a legal adult, being of voting age, and being old enough to sign up to fight for his country- though he would likely be disqualified due to his autism diagnosis. That's where my mind takes me when I think of 18 and beyond.

Will he be ready?

 Will I have him ready?

I think of things I did at certain ages and wonder if Morgan will do them, too.

Will he date? Have a job? Will he go to prom? College? Live on his own? Get married?

No... I can't think that far ahead. I just cannot. I try not to think too far ahead into the future because that's too shaky of ground, too unstable of an area, and I am too type-A to look forward to something of which I don't know the outcome. I am confident in my son's abilities overall, but lack confidence in that I know what regression can take away. What he can do today, he might not do two weeks from now.

So, I concentrate on the here and now. Morgan is a wonderful boy who has worked his tail off in the last nine years to be where he is now. Who is loving, empathetic, and someone worth knowing. Who is everything I would want in a son.

I lie. I don't always concentrate on the here and now. The future scares the hell out of me.

Is the world going to be ready for him? Is he going to be ready for the world? Am I teaching him the life skills that he will need in order to be a man in society who can "function?" What the hell is functioning anyway- is this something I'm doing? Highly doubtful.

The next nine years will be crammed full of things. Wonderful and horrible. Highs and lows. More positive than negative if the past nine years are any indication.

Morgan will continue to defy any expectations I'm foolish enough to foist onto him, I hope. The future is a scary place, but we will continue to make safe havens for Morgan because we love him that much. The world doesn't come with a safety net. But we, as parents, can hopefully continue to provide one for our son- our love and support.

It Sounds Sort of like "Horse": Teaching My Sons Morals

I'm always looking for ways to teach my sons about morals, which would be a gray area for me in some places. Morality, it would seem, falls into the "do as I say, but never as I do or have done. Please. for. the. love. of. God."

Some things are easier to explain than others, but when I throw my own experiences into these lessons in morality... I fail.

Miserably.

Such was the case last night when it was brought up that I had once been to the principal's office (My high school friends of mine reading this need to shut their mouths, I was an angel, got that?). I have Thomas (Deciphering Dad, not the engine, just as annoying) to thank for this mess. I don't even remember how it came up...

"Mommy's been to the principal's office, right Mommy?" Thomas said, shooting me a smirk.

"You went to the principal's office, Mom?" Bay asked. He looked shocked. Obviously, he hasn't been taught our my colorful personal and family history yet.

"Well, yeah. And it was for something really bad. I made fun of a girl who was my friend. I called her a name. It was really bad," I said this all smugly, thinking I could teach my sons something. It hadn't really dawned on me yet that I was going to explain clique behavior with prepubescent females.

"What did you call her?"
"Why would you be mean to your friend?"
"You've always said to never do that!"
"THAT'S RUDE!"

The questions they peppered me with came quickly, faster than I could answer. But I wanted to tell the truthish (it's a word), and for them to understand that what I had done was wrong. I wanted to teach them right from wrong.

Oh God, I'm pretty sure I messed this up.

"Well, I called her a nasty word that sort of sounded like horse, but it's not horse and I misspelled it. In a note. The teacher caught it."

"What was the word? Is it one you still say?"

"Um, no! Never." This was a lie. I call Roxy, our dog, a word that sort of sounds like horse regularly when she craps on the pavement, gets onto the couch, or pees on the floor. I just try not to say it in front of the boys. "I also called her a troll, like those weird troll dolls we found at Babe's?"

The boys looked horrified that I could be so mean to a girl. Thomas started laughing. I wanted to kick him.

"Why would you make fun of your friend? And call her a troll? Those things are ugly!" Bay looked horrified.

"Well, um... I dunno. She wasn't that pretty and Mommy had a much larger vocabulary than other fourth graders and liked to say things that other people wouldn't understand. See, I came from a broken home..." That last part might have been in my head.

"Mommy," Bay said, his brother nodding knowingly while they both judged my former nine year old self, "all girls are pretty! You should know better."  Bay and Morgan were incited to take up the cause for women everywhere, whatever that means.

Hell. The kid was totally right. He was parroting back the past almost decade of my feminist, "every woman is gorgeous in her own way," stuff I've crammed down their throats and fully believe in. We don't do ugly shaming in this house, fat shaming, etc. When I say "we," I mean that I forbid it in front of the kids and am guilty of being catty as hell (I try to stick to laughing at what people wear) and also make negative comments about myself in the mirror.

However, since they, you know, listen to me with ears and all, I really try to fight the urge to poke fun at people in any place but my head. My brain is a seriously sick, twisted, and dark place, people.

"Yes, boys, it was really mean of me, wasn't it?" I was seriously thinking I could turn  this around still. "And Mommy got into trouble for it. It's not nice to call people names."

Morgan's anti bullying video script kicked into the "on" position right about then, "You don't say, 'Ya fatty!' 'Ya stupid moron!' You don't ever call people mean names like 'troll' or that word that kind of sounds like 'horse,' Mommy. Be everyone's friend. Be good. Don't be that bully kid."

I tried to explain to them why a girl would say a horrible thing to another girl. There really was no decent explanation except that I'd been very mean. So, I tried that approach. They still didn't get why I would just do that. I finally broke down.

"I did it because I was with a group of catty and bitchy little girls and they hated her, so I had to hate her, too. It's like code of the female. Don't worry, guys really don't pull this crap."  Yup, I ruined that whole deal.

The kids looked at me in horror. Thomas hid back in the kitchen, laughing silently. Because. The dog wouldn't look at me.

Moral of this story: 

I really suck at teaching some kinds of morals. 

And maybe telling stories about them. 

Please don't send me extra kids, okay? 

*Also, if you're that girl who I called the word that I spelled incorrectly and said sounded like "horse," I'm incredibly sorry. You were obviously not that word (Bay also thought I should write an apology letter to you and your mom). You did not look like a troll. I was just better at making up insults than the other girls due to my extensive vocabulary.... and broken home.

Normalizing an Uncomfortable Discussion

This month is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

This post isn't actually about that. However, this this is, much like others before it, about taking care of you.

I have zero clue as to what the hell is going on with me. The doctors are trying to sort that out. I go in for a test that I didn't think I'd even need for another decade (I'm almost 31)- a colonoscopy. Apparently, I have a higher risk of fun things like colon and stomach cancer due to it running on my dad's side or something. I say "or something" because I don't really know much about my medical history on that side of my family other than my grandfather died from stomach cancer and colon cancer, and that my father has had stage one polyps or something to that effect.

I don't know much about my medical history on that side because I don't have contact with that side. I refer to that side as The Dark Side. 

So, why am I choosing to blog about this? Because, ladies (also known as general readership), it's time to take care of you. 

This isn't about your kids, but it is, it's about you. All this month, hospitals across the United States will be offering free mammograms. Go get one. Especially if you have a genetic risk. Or even if you don't.

Schedule a colonoscopy before you think you're of age to do so and, especially, if your insurance covers it. Most plans considers the latter a preventative health measure. Did you know that?

If you stand a genetic risk for either, getting one of these would be an excellent idea. If you don't, talk to your doctor. I did some Googling and found out that colon cancer is oftentimes not found until it's bad. Really bad.

Mammograms are outrageously expensive, I get that, hence me mentioning free mammograms.

The most important thing we can do, as moms, is to take care of us. This isn't something trivial like get a mental health break (though, that isn't trivial at all, really). I'm talking getting that yearly physical. Keeping at least a semi healthy diet (don't glare at me, I can feel the glares.. and, I love bacon, okay?), exercising (also hate), etc. I'm also talking about keeping up that yearly pap smear, something I've been guilty of allowing to fall by the wayside.

Women's health is important.

We need to openly talk about this stuff in order to normalize it so that it doesn't feel shameful or abnormal when a 30 year old mother of two has to get a colonoscopy. Or a hysterectomy. Or a mammogram.

This is about us being around long enough to raise our kids, and then see our grandkids, if we're lucky enough to be blessed with them.

We aren't infallible.

We aren't invincible.

We fall.

We need to fix that if we're going to be superwomen.

Our children need us and we need them. Let's get to work on all of this, shall we?

When Nightmares are Reality

I had a dream that, at first, was so real, I nearly believed it to be true. We were at the beach. I was healthy, playing with the kids, running around, laughing, free of pain and everyone was smiling. My mind then whispered, "This is a lie. You need to wake up." In the dream, a tidal wave filled with pain washed over me. It tore away the happy moment, the laughter, and the smiles. Then everything went black, cold, and I was in gut wrenching pain.

I woke up drenched in sweat and found that the tidal wave was real. I was in pain, a lot of pain. And that pain was washing over me like a tsunami.

That dream is my reality.

Dreams are, very rarely, reality. Unless they're nightmares.

I keep hoping and praying that this is all in my head.  That this is just a nightmare. That this is psychosomatic, that this really isn't happening. 

But I know it is real. 

It is happening.

I am not making this up in my head.

I'm certainly not dreaming it. 

Illness of any sort will have an effect on any person and any family. In an autism family, like mine, I think it's harder. We already feel like we've been running a marathon for years that is never ending. The finish line, as soon as it's in view, recedes back into the distance (thanks, regression, you're an asshole). Throw some illness in there and all sorts of things pop up. Like Morgan perservating on the idea of me dying, and him scratching his head (new stim) until it bleeds. Then Bay had a potty accident at school for the first time the other day and who has been exceptionally sensitive lately. 

They are both terrified and I can't blame them. Their mom isn't their usual mom right now.

My biggest fear is not being able to take care of my children.

When we noticed autism in Morgan, one of the first things I remembered thinking is, "I can't die. I can never die because no one will be able to take care of him the way I do." I find this sentiment to be true for a lot of special needs families. I try not to think about it, but it's always there. 

That dream was easy to interpret for me. This pain washes over me in waves, stealing moments that should be, by all rights, mine to enjoy. It knocks me down, tears everything apart, and even knocks me out. It's drowning me. 

This is scary. 

I am trying to be so damn brave in front of the kids. To not break down. But that is incredibly hard when I can't escape my own body.

*Editor's note... I promise sometime soon I will get back to talking about autism. I swear. It's just that right now, this is what is going on in our life as a family and it's the vortex that sucks everything in. This blog is also my place to vent. I won't make apologies for that. 

I Cannot Break

I am writing this through tears. I am in an unconscionable amount of physical pain. Today alone, the pain has been so severe that I have vomited, fainted, and then fainted after I've vomited.

Something is wrong with me.

I cannot break. 

I am mom to Morgan and Bay. I am Mom. I am wife to Thomas. I am the axis upon which their world spins. But something is not right.

I am in pain. A lot of pain.

I cannot break.

I was promised relief three years ago when they made me less than a woman, when I had "everything" that makes me a woman taken away. I wasn't okay with this, but I did it to watch my boys grow. To grow old with my husband. And now, it seems, one of those monsters is back. And it feels like it is eating me alive.

I'm so mad. 

The past 72 hours or more have been pure hell. I can't eat. I can barely sleep. It hurts to actually laugh. I'm scared to walk outside and I refuse to drive because I might lose consciousness.

I cannot break. 

I am in a lot of pain.

My kids are scared, very scared. I keep explaining that Mom can't die, that I just need rest. But how does it look to them, at the ages of eight and five, to see their mom passed out on the floor? To find me vomiting? To see me on my hands and knees, crying, and begging God to please take away my pain?  To see their mother crying uncontrollably because she just can't escape the hell that is her own body?

They've seen me sick too many times. This isn't right. No child should have to experience seeing their mother in a hospital. This time is different than the others, but they are older now. They remember last year. They know that when Mommy is feeling really awful, things aren't good. They are anxious.

I say I cannot break, but I feel so broken. 

I'm so angry at my body. And hurt. Why would it do this?

I have an amazing support system, both virtually and in real life, I've discovered. When I was in the ER last Sunday, I kept getting texts from people I've never met in my life. Yet, these people cared enough to ask how I was doing, how the kids were, how Thomas was handling things. If you're reading this, please know that there will never be enough "thank yous" to express the amount of gratitude I have for your act of kindness.

I can't break any more than I already have. 

I feel, right now, like there isn't much left to break.

We Are Not Invincible

How many of us go through each day as if this could be our last day with our children? So, we give them extra hugs, kisses, and pencil in more time for them. We shut off our phones, unplug the iPads and laptops, turn off the televisions, and allow our families to just be. 

I'd be willing to say not enough.

We are not invincible.

We are not superheroes or giants, rushing out to save the day, put out fires, and slay the evil dragons. Our children might sometimes see us this way. I hope the schools do, to an extent, but this just isn't how life works.

We are not angels, of mercy or otherwise.

We are human beings. 

We are parents.

We are people who just happen to be raising people with different abilities.

We rarely ever take the time to consider a lot of this and become so overwhelmed in the day in, day, of it all that we don't breathe. We barely listen to what our hearts and minds tell us we should be doing.

How many of you are kind to yourself? I know I'm not. I'm probably the least kind person when it comes to self loathing I know. Don't follow my example, please. This can be a very dark place and this hole is hard to crawl out of.

Be kind to you. 

We put things on the back burners because "there will always be tomorrow." I hear that mantra a lot (hint: I hear it from me. The mantra comes from me.). But there may not be a tomorrow. Or your tomorrow might look drastically different than you imagined.

Soak up the moment, it will help you savor the here and now. Don't allow one bad moment or bad thought destroy the entire day.

We are not invincible. 

Do me a favor, do something. Anything. Just do something. I don't care if it's doing that craft project with Suzi that she's been begging to do, or if it's zip lining. Spend real time with your child. As in, one on one time, not shuffling them back and forth to sports or therapies. Paint with your kid. Go looks at bugs. Spin and flap. Just try it out.

I'm scared to death that one day, my kids will look back and see more "bad" moments from me, moments of me feeling like crap thanks to RA, autoimmune disorders, VVS, and female problems than anything else. That isn't the mom I want to be known as.

I'm not invincible. But I'm their mom and I have to be a great one. Period.


Don't forget, you don't have to be supermom, just be a good mom.

Go be great today. 

Getting Back to Me

As the parent of an autistic child, how well do you take care of you? If you're anything like me, you're allowing yourself to fall by the wayside. You keep a smile pasted on your face, crack jokes, and drink wine, but you're not taking care of you.

You skip your doctor's appointments (including the really important ones) because you don't have the time. Or the babysitter. Or the courage. 

Sometimes, or all the time, you might feel as if you're losing your mind and you don't know where to turn. You might actually go to the doctor, explain that you have OMG stress, and the doctor gives you pills, a pat on the back, maybe a pep talk, and sends you on your way. You get a momentary shot of confidence, of "things are good." But what about after? What happens then?

Something is missing.  I've been missing.

I've been pretty cruel to myself and those around me for quite a while. I've allowed myself to get caught up in the autism and life gauntlet of worry, worry, and more worry. The stress of trying to sell a home from 800 miles away and the financial implications of that have tapped me out. I worry all the time.  I've stopped taking time for me. It's okay, we all do it. But at what cost?

Due to stress and other nonsense issues, I've stopped creating things I enjoy. The thing is, those used to be my stress relievers.

I'm considered a creative person. Yet, I don't do many creative things anymore. I stopped making sea glass jewelry, hair pretties, and getting excited over finding "just the right color" of paint or finding a deal on a canvas.

I've been angry. At what, I cannot tell you. I just know that I've been incredibly angry for a very long time. I have a lot in my little large Pandora's box of secrets to be angry about. Anger hurts so many people around you and it hurts you worst of all.

This week, I found out that I've been back in surgical menopause for a while. I had a hysterectomy three years ago, so without the right amount of hormones, this is always a possibility. I have not been on the correct amount. At all. My doctor was wonderful and put me on a new dosage plus a lovely sedative.

Nearly instantly, I could feel a difference. I didn't hate people! I started a yarn wreath for fall. I began making plans for more crafty things that I know I can finish. I wake up feeling, if not refreshed, excited for my day to happen. And, TMI, but I want to have sex again. Granted, I get a bit weepy from HRT charges, but whatever.

I've ticked more things - both tangible and mental - off my to-do list in the past four days than I did in the past month. Some of them were completely frivolous. Most of them involved taking care of myself or doing something for me.

I've spent nine years now as someones mom. Ten as someones wife. I love those roles. But I feel sometimes as if the things which make me, well, me have been pushed onto a back burner. The person really pushing those things back there was me.

People don't really know me because I keep myself bottled up tightly. Those who do know me are sometimes surprised when they find out little factoids about me. Sometimes this weirds them out and has, depending on the subject, hurt feelings. For as much as I do say, there is much so more that I don't.

People know I'm snarky, they know I can be funny, loud, love to drink wine and coffee. But how many know that I'm a complete bookworm? Or that my favorite colors all revolve around the shade of teal? Or that I love, love, love to create anything pretty? Or that I once spent 24 hours nearly straight carving pumpkins for the kids because I love doing that (also, everyone knows that the pumpkin is one of the neatest mediums for carving, period.). Or that, every year, I buy unfinished porcelain ornaments and nutcrackers around Christmastime and hand paint them?

I never finished my college degree, yet I'm far from stupid. I'm a survivor of sexual, mental, and physical  abuse. I believe passionately in the death penalty in a lot of cases for the reasons I just stated.


When I said, "I don't live out loud," I meant that I'm not very honest with myself and, as a result, others. I love helping people. But how am I to do that if I don't even help myself?

How am I being a good mom, wife, and person if I'm not being good to myself?


Are you good to yourself? Do you take even a few minutes for yourself at least once a week? Have you given up something that you love doing? Do people know the real you?

Welcome, Anxiety my Frenemy

Somehow, I'd almost forgotten this breathless feeling over the summer. This feeling where I cannot breathe from the moment I wake up. But school starts tomorrow and my unwelcome guest, that monster anxiety, is out in full terrorist attack again.

During the summer, I can break things down into what I can sort of control/micromanage (everything that happens under my watch) and what I cannot (other people). Since more happens under my watch, I might even appear to be relaxed and joyful. However, during the school year, I really cannot control anything and so, I worry. A lot. The more I worry, the more anxiety is fed and the more breathless I become.

If anything, I'm a giver when it comes to feeding that monster anxiety during the school year. My brain never shuts up, day or night, and sometimes the most random things will filter through it.

It's like a damned ticker tape in my head.

We had a great year for second grade. Was it too great? Does this mean that, in order to balance the order of events in this world, third grade is going to suck as badly as first grade did? *Mrs M., if you're reading this, no offense. We loved you, but first grade was traumatizing.

Morgan has shown gains, clear gains. But those are clear to me, are they going to be clear to a teacher who does not know him?

Did we have enough fun this summer? I mean, I had fun, but it seems like we could have done more.

I wonder why the kids cannot figure out how the heck to turn off the lights? It's not hard.

When the school does evaluations (He turns nine this year and needs to be re-evaluated.), are they going to find that he's labeled something else? Does that matter? In his gains, has he made too much progress to get the help he very clearly needs?

How are the budget cuts going to directly impact my child's education?

Is Bailey ordering another thing off of Amazon? I need to tell his new teacher. What if that child gets a hold of her cell phone? Oh God.


Please let him learn to self-advocate. 

God, please let him be comfortable in his school's environment. Please.

Maybe this will be the year he makes a friend who will love trains as much as he does. Or at least has an interest in them. And Thomas the Tank Engine stories. Who will also understand Morgan's British/Thomasish slang for things. I might be shooting for the stars on this one, but Thomas doesn't seem to be exiting Morgan's life anytime soon and I'm not booting him out. It'd be nice for Morgan to have a friend with shared interests.



Did I buy him the "right" kind of shoes? This is so stupid. Is he going to get teased for that back pack? Crap, still stupid.

Is that IEP good enough?

He's really having problems with auditory processing. I need to mention that. I cannot forget to mention that. I need to put that in his introduction letter to the teacher.

Who is his teacher? I'm freaking about this one and would really love to know about a month in advance so that I can thoroughly cyber stalk this woman or man. Who,"Hi", if you found this blog because other members of the school's faculty read this! I'm not nuts, I swear. Well, maybe a little "neurotic." I care about my kid, a lot. I'm one of "those moms" who write about a thousand letters a school year. I also then turn around and forget a lot of things. I'm sorry about that. Life is complicated at all times. But my kid? He's great! Also, since my other child is in school this year, too, I can volunteer. A lot.


My mind ping pongs like crazy from subject to subject, sometimes not solving anything, but always worrying on something which, normally, I won't be able to solve or impact in any way. Everyone has stress and mine is no more than most people. I just wish there was an off switch to my brain.


But still, it was nice to breathe for a bit.

Breathing spot, sort of. Before the jellyfish.

Don't be the mom I want to shank

This is a topic I've been kicking around in my head for a long time, but I have not wanted to really follow through on writing because it's kind of mean. I know I will come off as a sanctimommy at some point, but damn. Just, damn. Some things need to be said, okay? Keep in mind that I'm bouncing around from special needs parenting to typical parenting with this rant, please.

pin this

I asked for input from other moms and received big time. 

For starters, if you take your child to the pool, interact with that child. Go on, do it. It is not my job to watch your child and make sure he isn't drowning, splashing, or krakening the hell out other children. Don't be pissed off whenever I finally get fed up and bring him to you and expect you to do something other than read your magazine, okay? This child came out of your uterus, you get to take care of him, so do it.

Playing off of that, don't ignore your children. It's rude, for starters, and it shows the rest of us the quality of your parenting or lack thereof. Want to know what ignoring your children looks like? Talking about them like they aren't right next to you. Or flat out ignoring requests, bad behavior, and not knowing what's going on in their world. Stop it.

Don't take advantage of people who don't ignore their children and assume that they would love to babysit your spawn. "I'm tired of being the babysitter for the neighborhood because I pay attention to my own kids," says my friend Amanda from Confessions From HouseholdSix.

Don't assume because my child is autistic that he's stupid. Or that because he's wanting to play with your younger child that he's incapable of playing with your older child. Maybe your older child is a jerk.

Get over being a victimommy. Autism and other special needs aren't pretty, I get that. However, your child's autism isn't about you. I know that meltdowns, IEPs, visits to the doctor, etc., are a bitch. But this, at the end of the day, isn't about you. It's about your child. Feel free to cry foul to people who know you best but if you're just meeting someone, don't do that. You sound like someone I might want to avoid.

On that note, venting is always good. There are plenty of Facebook groups, therapists, etc., if you don't have friends. But please, practice some decorum, especially if you're doing this online. 

Of course, sometimes it's the simple things that piss us off.  "Talking. They should just refrain from talking," says my friend Flannery from The Connor Chronicles. She gets it.

Stop the comparisons with special needs. We are each on a different path but on the same planet. You don't know what I go through any more than I do; there is no sense in telling me I have it easier or harder than you and then listing the reasons why.

Stop letting your children get away with asshole behavior. This applies across the board to all parents. I'm a firm believer that parents create asshole kids. You allow you child to get away with asshole behavior once, twice, three times without saying much and guess what? Your child ends up being "that kid" we all tell our kids, special needs or not, to avoid. And you end up being that mom we want to shank- repeatedly.

Saying, "all kids do that." I've heard it, my friends have heard it, we all hate it. When we are discussing our autistic child's habits/obsessions/behaviors and another parent (the clueless wonder) says that, we all feel like that parent is trying to invalidate our experiences. If little Johnny is still obsessively lining up cars at the age of eight, flapping like a bird, and can repeat Nemo line for line... he might be autistic. So bite me.

Offering up prayers or unsolicited advice will make me want to slap you. I've actually had people offer to pray for my son's autism to go away. What is that? Pray for my sanity to stay somewhat intact while I raise him and his little brother, pray we get our house sold soon so I can move out of this apartment, but please, don't pray for my son. He isn't sick, he's autistic.

Giving looks of pity. 'Nuff said.

Allowing your NT kid to have fewer manners and social skills than my autistic kid is bad form. Really. I don't feel like I should have to elaborate, but here we go! This goes back to allowing your kids to be assholes, too. Teach your children manners, it isn't hard. Teach your children that it's mean to be mean. Teach them to respect other people. Want to know how to do this? Practice what you preach.

Don't pull your kids away from my kid when you hear the word "autistic." You're teaching them that autistic is bad. You're telling me that you're a bigot. And an asshole.

Starting a sentence with, "I would never allow my children to..." which is in reference to my child still carrying a lovey, using a pacifier, wearing second hand clothing, or eating food which is probably riddled with dyes and GMOs. Guess what, asshat, I'm doing a lot of things I never thought I would, either. Don't judge. I'm willing to bet you hide in your closet and drink cheap boxed wine at night. That's not organic, just sayin.'



I'm leaving a lot out, but this was turning into a book. What I'm getting at is just be a good person. Be a good parent. I know I practice unconventional parenting, but my children are polite and fairly pleasant creatures. Most of the time.



What would you add to this list? What parenting practices are you seeing that drive you insane and would cause you to not want to interact with another parent?

Some firsts of sorts

Even though it's early for a list, this summer, we have had some "firsts" in our home. They might not be the same milestones other parents would celebrate, but we sure do. We believe in celebrating big and small things with slight abandon in our little family, so here they are:

Morgan tried on clothes in a dressing room- by himself. No real prompting needed. I'm not sure if this is an age thing or what, but he picked out the clothes independently, he tried them on, and he was patient as we went through the process.

Without a mom interfering or making plans for them, Morgan and Bailey were invited over and went to a friend's home. This friend, an excellent NT boy around Morgan's age had them over to watch a movie one day after the pool. His older sister was there to supervise. I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself for that hour and a half of quiet time. They live right underneath us, so I mopped my floors, kept very quiet and tried to keep an ear out for... well, anything. Guys, nothing happened. It was uneventful. They had a good time and the boy's older sister said that all three kids were very well behaved. Iknowright?

Happy taste buds.

Morgan tried (and liked!) a new food! His daddy brought home about 10lbs of fresh Gulf shrimp. Oh, they were so good. Anyways, Morgan hates shrimp. Or, he did. We boiled up about four pounds the first night and that kid ate what I gave him... and had seconds! Then, last night, I made another shrimp meal (see picture, please). He ate shrimp again.

This child hasn't had shrimp since he was about a year and a half old, at my mom's wedding. This might not sound like a huge deal, but we live in a coastal area. The other three members of this family love shrimp. This is huge.

Bailey is now swimming underwater, no floaties, in the shallow end! I'm so proud of him. He's "deep end shy," so he will get out of the pool and request his floaties if he wants to swim with his brother, but this is great progress.

I'm so proud of him!

Morgan, completely unprompted, and without us showing him hand over hand, began trimming his nails and toenails. The child who, up until two years ago, needed gummies or some form of bribery and up until three months ago complained and sometimes cried no matter how careful I was, has decided to take this rather big step in self grooming. I was floored when I looked up the other morning and saw this:

My kid... cutting his toenails. WOW.

This is the first summer I've ever been able to relax a bit when out with my children. I don't fear the unknowns so much. I'm allowing their wants to guide me. Sound a bit crunchy-granola to you, too? I'm a complete helicopter mom, this won't lessen any. However, this is the first summer I've sat back and allowed the kids to be in the pool and not been hovering right on top of them at all times. This isn't to say that I walk off and leave the kids alone. I just mean that I'm not micromanaging their every move. It's kind of nice. Granted, I'm saying "no" to Bailey just as much, but here's hoping that this will lessen as well.

And, for the most important "first" of the summer:

Morgan's reading. As in, he's reading and not stumbling about 90% of the time. The reading program he's only been in since May 30 seems to be working! He's comprehending (it appears) what he's reading. He's wanting to read. A year ago, I didn't know if I would ever write that sentence or hear myself say that out loud. He actually took a book inside of the bathroom to read the other day (I know, TMI, but we're joking he's now a "man"... also, I'm never touching that book again). He's wanting to read to his little brother during story time before bed.

Some of these are things might sound completely silly to report on, but they're important to us. We're all about the celebrations in the Deciphering house!

Sometimes, He's "Just a Boy"

Sometimes I forget that Morgan is "just" an eight year old boy. That, like an eight year old boy, he's going to exert his independence and ask to do things, just like any other boy his age. See, he does some things that are not "age appropriate," and sometimes my head mistakenly gets wrapped all up in that. This is a parenting fail on my part. Morgan is very good about putting me in my place when this happens. Last night was such an occasion, though it was juxtaposed by him clinging to me as well.

He's still my boy.

Morgan's growing like crazy ( He's currently, we think, around 5'2 and about 105lbs) and clothes shopping is an issue. Or, it is now. He must try things on. I've been hesitant to do this. Gah. Textures? Smells? Gross dressing rooms? Just... no. However, since he's no longer wearing his school uniforms and in need of summer clothes, he needed a to go shopping. Thankfully, he doesn't hate clothes.

We went to Target. I love that store. So pretty. So organized. Nate Berkus has his stuff there. Sorry, I digress. I struck a deal with the big kiddo, "Try on clothes and check out trains, k?" We selected some shirts he liked, all in this really great thin material (thank you, Target!), and some shorts. We headed off to the dressing rooms. And then the big kid emerged.

"Mom, you stay here. RIGHT HERE. You can't see me almost naked. K?"

"Um, okay? I'll wait right outside. See, right here? But you have to let me know how each thing fits, okay? AND DON'T WALK OUT OF THE DRESSING ROOM WITHOUT PANTS!" It was a valid concern, alright?

Seriously? My kid just told me not come into a dressing room with him?! The same child who needs me to shampoo his hair? I know, I'm over sharing, but WOW. 

Y'all, he was great. Just awesome. He was even great when I had to exchange two pairs of short and get different sizes! No meltdowns. No tears.

Maybe I was projecting my own feelings of hatred for the dressing room onto my son. Morgan was just a champ in there.

When we walked out, I had to do some shopping of my own, in the ladies' department. Morgan proved to still be my little boy. He walked around with his arm around me, giving me kisses, totally not like other eight year old boys. At least not the other eight years I know.

Then, when we were at the cash register, he pulled a total Rico Suave on the cashier...

Bailey to the cashier: "Oooh, I really like your store!"

Cashier: "Thanks! I think?"

Morgan: "I really like your eyes..." <as he batted his>

I'm going to have to put this kiddo on a leash... he's becoming too independent, lol.

Can the Non Experts Please Shut Up?

Why do people, who have very little basis to do so, give advice? Why do non parents want to publicly- in forums, on their blogs, on Facebook, Twitter, blogazines, etc,- want to tell us all of the ways in which we're doing it wrong? Same goes for people who have no medical right to tell everyone else how to eat, work out, and cure cancer or other diseases.

I'm not making that last one up. I've actually, today alone, come across five mentions on Facebook of completely unqualified people telling me and God knows how many others how to "cure" cancer and other diseases. By diet.

Because screw genetics.

However, I'm digressing. What has really pissed me off this evening is coming across a discussion from a non parent of how autistic wandering, or bolting, is the fault of the parents. Not a new concept, I know. However, this is supposedly coming from someone who dispenses advice to parents. I'm finding this puzzling.

I 100% get why my son would run from loud noises. From the wrong sensory input. I get it. But, you know, I've had enough.


If you are a non parent, especially not the parent of an autistic child, back off on the public judgement. To say that autistic children "bolt to escape abusive situations" is pretty heinous. Maybe some do. Who knows? Or that parents called this wandering in order to lessen the guilt when they are bad parents and their children run away? Bull. Shit.

I find it appalling that anyone who is a non parent would dispense parenting advice. It's like someone giving medical advice who isn't a doctor.

How dare anyone infer that children such as Morgan bolt in order to escape abusive situations? My son is not being abused. He's so far from it that it's almost funny to imply there is such a thing in this house.As children who were both abused by our father figures, my husband and I are incredibly careful in our discipline with our children. Other parents might not be this way, I cannot speak for them, only for what goes on here.

I know what it is to bolt from danger. My son is not trying to do that.

However, other kids? Maybe. I cannot speak for them. But when I see discussions going on, more discussions that only serve to fuel this intense fire that blames parents, I become livid. Especially when that fire is fanned by a non parent, someone who is not even parenting by proxy. This isn't just one person, either. I mentioned it earlier this week.


Thing is, I would laugh this off if parents weren't being vilified by so many people already. It's not a "poor us" mentality, either. At least not from where I'm sitting. From this view, it's a "just shut the hell up already, world, because frankly, you're not living your life correctly, either." We deal with criticism (not constructive) from our relatives, our friends, teachers, administrators, and strangers sometimes daily. Do we really need someone else? Someone who is based in the Autism community? Hell no. 

Bottom line? Good parents, like me, blame themselves for things every day that, in the long run probably won't matter that much to our children. Blame the parents who truly are abusing their children. Don't make assertions about situations you have zero experience with or very little firsthand knowledge.

A letter to my boys

Dear Morgan and Bailey,

They're so close..

I know that with Mother's Day being on Sunday, you're supposed to do something for me. To show gratitude. You know, that whole "I gave you life and haven't retracted it yet" thing. I know that the two of you are excited about giving me the cards that you've hidden (Bailey, you need to move yours... putting it into the mail pile is not hiding it, sweetie). But boys, this year, I thought I'd thank you instead. If it weren't for the two of you being here, driving me slightly batty - or really batty - daily, I wouldn't be able to celebrate this day with millions of other moms. Plus, this gives me a chance to post cute pics of both of you.

And SO crazy...

You see, before y'all came along, I didn't really think I'd ever be a "mommy." I knew I'd probably be a mother, but I just didn't know if I had it in me to do "mommy" things. I thought I was missing a gene to do this.. this stuff somehow. Maybe I still am, but I know that the two of you have brought out something in me that I never knew I had. You both taught me how to love. I loved your daddy already, but loving a child is different. As others had said, to have a child is to have a part of your heart walk or move around outside of you for the rest of your child's life. You know, or something like that.

Morgan, you've inspired both your daddy and me to be so much better than we ever would have been. We would have been incredibly selfish people, bent on God knows what. If there is a high power, and I believe there is, he or she knew what to do in sending you to us. Those first few days were scary. Bringing you into the world was so hard, and there were a lot of doctors and nurses there. We were terrified. But you were great.

A quiet moment, at 3 months old

You've always been full of surprises. A lot of things, you did early. Some others, you've had to work so hard for. Morgan bear, I'm so proud of you. Without you, I don't know who I'd look up to. Before your brother came along, it was just you and me a lot of the time because your Daddy worked so hard. You taught me how to really laugh and that life can be enjoyed through the eyes of a child.

You taught me that silence is a gift worth appreciating, that sometimes, one really needs to sit down and take a break. I'd never considered that raising a child would be taking a break, but at first, that's what it was for me. You taught me to breathe, while, at the same time, you were teaching me to hold my breath in anticipation. Motherhood is a huge oxymoron.







You've taught me more about advocating, loving, and seeing people for who they are and not what they are labeled than anyone ever could. Thank you. I love you sweetie. You will accomplish so much in life. You already have.

My youngest son... we'd developed a better sense of humor about parenthood and pregnancy by the time we found out about you. I love you as much as I love your brother. Your mom is incredibly silly. And crazy, by the way. The picture of the pumpkin is my belly when I was pregnant with you during Halloween.
Bailey... You are, by far, the most hilarious and challenging child I have ever encountered. When I said that my heart walks outside of my chest? Well, son, with you, my younger self walks around outside of me. Your middle name should have been "Karma." I call you my gingerbaby/demon for a reason, darlin.' You're my baby. You are the last child I'll ever have (Seriously, stop asking for a sibling. It's not happening!). I've spent more one on one time with you than I even did with your brother and I'm so grateful for it. I've been right here for every single milestone- those in the baby books and not.. like trying to shave the dog.






Bay, you are a pistol. I know I stay on you about your behavior, but it's honestly because I want you to one day be a great person. I want you to, yes, stick up for people, but to stop pointing out who might be a "real live swamp person and eat squirrel" when we're in restaurants now. You're impulsive, a complete chatterbox, and you never stop moving- even in your sleep. I love every bit of you. I especially love how I never have a day pass where you tell me how much you love me, too.

You, too, will go on to do great things, I know it. Please excuse me whenever you overhear me cracking jokes about saving for your bail fund. It's only a joke. Honest. I know if you go to jail, it'll be for an awesome protest for a worthy cause. Hey, you've already begun to protest my cooking, television shows, and certain clothing options.

As much as this might frighten you and gross you out, I love you because I see so much of me in you. That's also why I usually know what you're up to. Take this as a warning for your teenage years. Okay?

Boys, I know that I'm scary sometimes. I'm supposed to be, I'm your mommy. I'm supposed to scare you out of making bad decisions (Just wait until you bring home your first air headed girl who lacks any clue as to what the Anne of Green Gables books were. It will get real then, okay?). I will encourage you to take risks, but will usually make sure that they are within the confines of the law. This is because I love you. I will challenge you, embarrass you, and ground you in more ways than one.

You both know that life can be uncertain sometimes. Remember last year? When I got pretty sick and we didn't know what was going on? Or the year before? You were both so strong and the thing that sucks is that neither of you needed to be. You're kids. But you were and you're great for that. You have had to see your mommy sick more often than any child should. No child should ever have to see that. You've both dealt with my medical problems really well.

I was pretty sick here. It sucked.

By the way, when it comes to Autism, you both rock my socks off. I'm guessing it's because neither of you know any different, but I'll take what's working. Bay, you are terrific with your brother. I know you get impatient with Morgan, but stay calm. You are each other's best friends and biggest supporters. I've seen how close the two of you have stayed. Please stay that way.

And please, please, please... abide by this list of rules for life, okay?

• if you bring home a pregnant girl before the age of 40, expect your mother to dissolve in hysterics. It'll happen... even if I love the girl.
• if you get arrested, I will be pissed. Beyond pissed, got it?
• I expect you to meet challenges head on. Morgan does it every day. Bay, you do it, too. The challenges will get bigger every year. Chin up and muscle through it. Mom will be waiting with cookies.. or something... when you're done.
• Be nice. Have manners. 
• Use sarcasm properly, if you're using it at all.
• Stop using double negatives. Bailey, this is you I'm speaking to.
• It is always okay to make an ass out of yourself as long as you own up to it.
• You are your own worst enemy. No one else can beat you down as much as your inner voice. Shut that voice up.
• Your mom is slightly psychotic when triggered. Proceed with caution, okay cupcakes?
• Pick up your dirty boxers. That's gross to not do so. 
• Your father is not always right <haha!>.
• Always listen to your dad. If unsure (because he rambles), come to me.
• Never, ever, ever, put anything on the Internet that you wouldn't want me to see. Because I will stalk you and find whatever incriminating evidence there is to find. Got that?
• Live life fully and deliberately. 
• I love you. Remember that always, even when we're mad at each other.

 Morgan's Mother's Day gift to me, 2013