Dear Ben: For a Boy Who has Two Brothers with Autism

Background:  For those of you that don't know, we have four children.  Our three boys are very close in age.  Daniel is almost 10, Ben is 8, and Gideon is 6.5.  Katherine is 2. Daniel and Gideon both have autism.  Ben does not.  Ben has the attitude of a middle child with the responsibility of a first born.   

 Dear Ben,

In the past year, you've been asking a lot of questions. A few months ago, we sat around the dinner table and you quietly leaned over and asked, "Is Katherine okay, Mommy?  She doesn't have autism, right?"  Your sweet face was so hopeful . . . and scared.  You were afraid of the answer.

It broke my heart a little.

"No, honey," I explained.  "She's not showing any signs of autism.  You have a perfectly normally developing, bossy, chatterbox little sister who will annoy you for years to come."

"Good," you said, smiling and your little shoulders seem to lift just a bit, like a weight had been taken off.

A few weeks later, you were talking to me about big vacation plans you have.  "When Gideon doesn't have the autism stuff anymore," you began.  "We can go to camping or maybe to Disneyland."

I sighed and, yes, my heart broke a little more.

"Ben," I said.  "Gideon and Daniel will always have autism.  It doesn't go away."

You stared at me for a minute with those big brown eyes.  "But Daniel used to be like Gideon and now he's better."

"Daniel has done very well in therapy but Gideon is a different person.  I can't tell you if Gideon will be different in a few years, Ben."  I don't want to say these next words out loud to you or to anyone because I am so scared they are true.  "Gideon may always be exactly like he is today."

Your whole body seems to droop.  My sweet boy, I think you carry the whole world on your shoulders sometimes.  I hate that you feel that way.  "So he might not talk too much?"

I shook my head, too afraid I might start crying if I said it.

"Will he always have to wear pull-ups?"

"I don't know, honey."

"Is he always going to put weird stuff in his mouth?"

"Maybe."  I felt helpless because I can't give you the answers you want.

I'm a mom.  I'm supposed to make you and your brothers and your sister better.  I'm supposed to kiss boo-boos and apply band-aids and dole out popsicles and everything will be just fine.  But, Ben, the truth is I can't fix everything; I can't fix this.

I know you're sad because your brothers have autism.  I know you want someone to play with you and ride bikes and kick the soccer ball around.  Some of those things your brothers can do but, I know, a lot they can't.  I know that sometimes our family can't go places because it's too overwhelming for your brothers and so you miss out on rodeos and rice festivals and amusement parks.  I know that sometimes we can't go on big vacations or even to a movie as a family because it's hard for your brothers or too expensive.  A lot of our family's money goes to pay for therapy.

I know it makes you mad too.  You want to yell and throw things sometimes.  You slam the door when you go outside because you feel like we don't pay enough attention to you or you feel slighted. You just want your brothers to be like other kids.

I can't make that better for you.

But I want you to know that your dad and I do notice you and we are so proud of you.  God could not have made a better brother for Daniel and Gideon.  He gave you something that many of us don't have a lot of; He gave you compassion.  I mean, real, true compassion.  Every one your teachers has pointed it out to me.  "He's the most compassionate six year old I think I've ever seen," one of your teachers told me.  Do you know how big my heart was that day?

"Everyone is my friend, mom," you've told me before and it's true. I watched you once, when you were at your kindergarten Christmas party, see a little boy with special needs sitting by himself.  You sat next to him and helped him open the present in front of him and read it with him.  No one told you do to it.  You just did because that's who you are.  I know that you would never let anyone who people think are different get picked on.  You would stand up and defend someone who couldn't defend themselves. You understand that sometimes people are different.  Maybe that's part of because of your brothers and maybe that's just part of you.

Don't ever lose this.  Don't ever forget that everyone deserves kindness and compassion.

Sometimes being in our family isn't easy but we have fun too.  We laugh a lot and your brothers never seem to mind if you pick the movie we watch.  You whisper to each other at night in the bedroom you all share together or sneak the light on and read books (Yes, I know about that!). You love jumping on the trampoline together or running through the sprinkler in your underwear or chasing each other around the house.  You all love to annoy me together!

I know our family is different from most of the people we know.  I know we ask a lot of you sometimes.  I know sometimes you will be angry and frustrated and sad.  (Mommy and Daddy are too sometimes).  I know you'll wish things were different some days.

But I want you to know that we are so proud of the young man you are becoming.  Keep being who God made you to be in the family God put you in.

I love you so much,
Mom

_______________

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A New Way to Do New Math

Ah, homework, how I hate thee.  I think I hate it more than my kids do.  I balk and put it off.  "Oh. we'll do it after dinner."  The kids are happy to agree.  And then after dinner, it's sort of forgotten about until the next morning when we are racing around to get ready and pack lunches and find shoes and brush teeth.  Plenty of time to add in a full page of math problems.  More than enough time to read a story about George Washington and answer a question or three.  No problem.

Wrong.

The worst of the worst homework is math homework.  I think I'm a (fairly) competent, fully functioning adult.  I have a college degree.  I even graduated with honors (a completely useless fact, especially since I lose brain cells each time I give birth).

And yet . . . and yet . . . this math homework. Remember when math homework in the third grade was to memorize your multiplication facts so that you could kick everyone's butt when you played "Around the World?"

Those days are long gone.  Here's what the new math sounds like:

Directions: Please do this 15-step math problem.  You have a quarter inch of space to do it in.  Write an accompanying essay on how you solved this problem; use pie charts, diagrams, and number graphs whenever possible.  Repeat for questions 1-10. Remember to ask your parents to help you and then tell them they're doing it wrong. Bonus points if you make them feel like an idiot.

Listen up, Moms. Tonight I came up with a new way to do this new math.  It is the answer to all your cries to heaven to make the math homework go away in just three easy steps. 

You. Are. Welcome.

1) You need the proper supplies:

2) Every time one of the following is said (by you or your child), take a healthy sip of wine:

"I hate homework."
"That's not how you do it."
"I hate math."
"Why does the kid in this math problem have such a weird name?"
"I don't know."
"I don't care what the answer is."
"Why can't your father help you with your homework?"
"I can't find my pencil."

3)  Who cares?  I can't really remember if we finished the assignment or not.  I was, however, very relaxed and happy.

Three easy steps.  You got this, Moms!

*Note to self: Get more wine before picking the kids up from school tomorrow. 

Can You Roll Like an Autism Mom?

If you've ever wondered if you could roll like an autism mom, here are a few things you'll have to get used to:

1.  Limit sleep to less than three hours a night. 

To do this right, stay awake until your kiddo falls asleep (this could take hours) and/or get up when they do (one of ours is up at 5 a.m. every morning.  Every morning).

Once you finally get in bed, lay awake for a couple of hours and let the anxiety creep in. You worry about a lot of things.  Top of your list?  The future.  For instance, most of us have children, raise them for 20 years, send them off to live their lives for 30 years, and then they come back and help take care of you in your old age for 20 years until you die peacefully in your sleep.

But when you have a child (or two) with special needs, things don't work that way.  They don't leave home; they stay.  They don't care of you in your elderly years; you take care of them.  Who takes care of both of you?  Who takes care of them after you're gone?  You worry about the day you may have to put one of your sons in a group home.  You worry about leaving your other children with the huge responsibility of taking care of an adult special needs sibling.

You worry about if you're doing the best thing for them. You worry that you don't give the other kids enough time and attention.

You worry about ARDs and IEPs and SPED programs and ABA therapy and OT appointments and why everything has to have an acronym.  You can barely remember my kids' names half the time.

You worry about if you remembered to put the clothes in the dryer or if you're going to have to wash them again (for the third time). Just FYI-you didn't so your clothing options the next day were, um, creative.

You worry about worrying too much.

Sometimes the only thing you can do late at night is pray until you fall asleep.

2. Become an expert at assessing new environments.

Going to new places is a logistic nightmare because you don't know what you're getting yourself into.  If someone is kind enough (and cracked in the head enough) to invite your gang over, you warn them ahead of time and you ask questions: 

"You put your breakables up, right?  Like way, way up."
"Is your backyard fenced in?"
"How secure is your gate/front door/windows?"
"Do you have poison control on speed dial?"
"Will there be any open flames such as candles or fire pits?"
"How does your dog feel about a very affectionate six year old?"
"Could you use police tape to restrict access to off limit areas?"
"Will there be wine?"
"Can I bring dessert?"

Everyone asks these kinds of questions, right?

Once you get to a new place, you scope out all the possible trouble spots and, of course, possible escape routes.  One of your sons is both a master strategist and Houdini all wrapped in one.  You then spend the rest of your evening on the edge of your seat and with eagle eye accuracy, you count.  You count and you count.  1 kid-2 kids-3 kids-where's number four?  Where is he?  Oh, okay, he's in the backyard eating dirt.  Okay.  Good. 

If you're out in public with wide open spaces like zoos, parks, and, Lord help you, pools, you're on hyper alert.  You can't sit back and relax like the other parents sitting in lounge chairs at the side of the pool; you have to be in the water, whether you are swimsuit ready or not.

You're holding at least one hand at all times at the zoo just in case someone gets the bright idea of jumping into the orangutan enclosure. You make it a point to know where all the exits are as well as bathrooms and first aid stations, and you bring 19,854 snacks and drinks plus charged up tablets.  There's also a change of clothes, and a back up change of clothes, and yet another back up change of clothes for you, and wipes.  You wear a backpack everywhere you go. It's one the boys' old Cars backpack (crossing your fingers for a Frozen one for Mother's Day) so that your hands are always free.

Let's just say you're tired before you get there, just from getting ready to go.

3.  Become a Mama Bear

As soon as you hear an autism diagnosis, you have officially become your child's (children's) advocate for life. You will speak for them, fight for them, defend them, and support them with your last breath.

You will learn all about therapies (occupational therapy, speech therapy, applied behavior analysis therapy, food therapy, music therapy, biomedical therapies).  You will learn the two worst curse words in the history of all curse words: insurance company.  You will learn no is only the first answer they'll give you.  They'll learn that too when you become a persistent and painful boil on their butt until they give you what your child needs. 

You'll attend ARD meetings and create IEPs and learn to follow up to make sure all those accommodations are actually being implemented. Some teachers will love you; others will run when they see you coming. 

You'll get really tired of having to fight for every damn thing your child needs but you'll get over that too.  This Mama Bear does not hibernate; she does bite.

***********

Being an autism mom is not for the faint of heart but I am not a superhero or incredibly special or someone to be admired.  In fact, once upon a time, I even said something like, "I just don't think I could handle having a special needs child."  (You know you're thinking the same thing right now and it's not true.)  If it's your child who is hurting, needs help, needs you, you will figure out a way to help them.  You'll lose sleep and you'll fight.

You'll survive.

 

Snapshot: The Hole

I promised myself that each day this month I would write one post.  My brain is very tired tonight so I settled on finding a picture and telling the story behind it.  This photo makes me laugh every time I see it. At the time, Daniel was five and Ben was four. 
_______________________________________________________________________________

Once upon a time, very shortly after we moved into house, I found myself in the kitchen cooking.  That's not too surprising.  I think all I ever do is make dinner or get someone a snack or a cup of milk or  . . . . well, you get the picture.  This particular day, all three boys (this was back when we only had three kids) were playing in the backyard. 

Suddenly Ben, age 4, burst through the back door, his little body shaking with excitement.  "Mom, you have to come.  Daniel's stuck."

"Stuck?" I asked.  Out of all three (now four) of the kids, Ben is the  one most likely to exaggerate and/or embellish and/or overreact.  Let's just say, you don't want to be anywhere near him when he stubs a toe.  End. Of. The. World.

He nodded his head vigorously, his brown eyes huge.  "Come on, Mommy."

So, I went.  I followed him outside where he led me to the shed we have in the back corner of our yard.  And this is what I saw:

There beside our shed were two jean clad legs topped with shoes that looked remarkably like Daniel's.  Very faintly, I could hear, "I'm stuck.  I'm stuck."

I, of course, did what any mother would do.  I ran back inside to get my phone and took a picture.  Priorities, priorities. 

"What in the heck happened?" I asked.

"I'm stuck," Daniel called.

"There was a hole," Ben said.

"Okay.  So Daniel decided to get in the hole?"

Ben shrugged his shoulders and gave me a look that said something like, "Are you new here? Yes, he decided to get in the hole."

"I'm stuck, Mommy." Daniel said again.

I walked over and gently gave his legs a tug.  Nothing happened.  I pulled harder.  Nothing.  He was definitely stuck.  I didn't have a shovel and before I knew it, I was digging in the dirt with my hands.  It took me a solid five minutes of digging before he could wiggle out.

When he was finally free, Daniel stood up, covered in dirt from hair to toe.  The very first thing he did was look at me, grinning, and ask, "Again?"

"No," Ben huffed.  "It's my turn."

Being a boy mom is never boring. 

Maybe

Maybe you woke up late and you're out of coffee. And patience.

Maybe your house looks like a tornado touched down and then moved in and plans to stay for the next 18 years.

Maybe your two year old decided that her artistic medium today was permanent marker. On your wall.  On your dining room table.  On your couch.

Maybe your three year old figured out how to get in the pantry, find an unopened bag of flour, and then open it.

Maybe the mountain of clean clothes to be folded is only rivaled by the mountain of dirty clothes.

Maybe your nine year old has decided he hates everything including school, playing outside, and following directions.  Except his iPad.  He does not hate his iPad.

Maybe you forgot to send that t-shirt to school with your kid for the fifth day in a row and he was the only one who didn't have one which, to have him tell it, was the single most embarrassing moment of his young life.

Maybe the thought of doing homework with your child is giving you a stabbing pain behind your right eye.

Maybe you were late.  Again.  And you forgot to put wipes in the diaper bag.  Again. And things fell out of your minivan when you went through the pick-up line. Again.

Maybe if one more person, big or small, touches you one more time, you're going to have a temper tantrum that will impress even your two year old.

Maybe dealing with The Autism today has got you more than ready for The Wine later.

Maybe your dreams of visiting far away places and taking spa days have been replaced by dreams of eight consecutive hours of sleep and going to the bathroom without an audience.

Maybe the bags under your eyes are permanent.

Maybe your love tank is on empty and there are still 3,564 seconds until bedtime.

I'm here to tell you . . .  .

Okay, I got nothing.
 
I'm in the trenches just like you.  I have no idea what I'm doing half the time. It's a humbling experience to be a parent.  Aren't things supposed to get easier the longer you do them?  Not parenting.  Nope, parenting gets harder.  Then you add more kids (and more personalities and more laundry) to the mix.  The kids keep changing and growing and wanting to be their own person. It's exhausting and I don't even have teenagers yet.

When I feel like I am making a mess of things, I remember once being told that "these are the children God gave me." I tell myself they are mine for a reason and I think about the things I did that really mattered that day:

Did I feed those kiddos and keep them safe?

Did I kiss a boo-boo, wipe a tear, clean a runny nose?

Did I make my kiddo smile or laugh?

Did I pray for them?

Did I tell them I love them?

Sure, it felt like an impossibly hard day. But, no, it's not the end of the world if their clothes didn't match.  No one died from eating popcorn and watermelon for dinner. At the end of the day, those messy, laundry-making, disobedient, precious children know you love them.  So, they give you a final sloppy kiss goodnight, a strangling hug, a whispered, "I love you" and that makes your whole day worth it.

That and the ice cream you're going to eat once they're asleep. 

The Rodeo in the Back Row

One of my dearest friends attends the same church as us.  She and her husband have three adorable little girls and every Sunday these three little girls sit quietly with their mother and father.  They look like stair steps, going from oldest to youngest, dark hair-light hair-dark hair.  They may color or draw or sometimes play on a Kindle quietly.  Once and a while, one of them will curl up and fall asleep in one of their parents' lap quietly.  If one of them has to use the restroom or get a drink of water, they ask for permission quietly.

Did I mention how quiet they are?  

Our family sits in the second to last row, way, way in the back.  Because when you look at our row, it's not sweet little ones sitting quietly.

No, our row is more like a rodeo.

I wish I could tell you Sundays were easy but they aren't.  If I'm not careful, I start to resent them.  Six days a week, at least one of the boys has therapy, and the seventh day is Sunday.

It's not a day of rest, folks. 

First, there's getting everyone ready.  Racing around to find "church clothes" (I know, I should done that the night before. Don't judge) and then getting them in the "church clothes."  Someone doesn't like those shorts, this shirt has a hole in it, and is that even clean?  (Must have grabbed it from the wrong mountain of clothes.  Again, no judging).

I'm not even going to bring up the shoes.  

Finally, we're on our way.  This is usually the point where my husband and I get in our weekly fight.  I have no idea what it's about, why it started, or who wins.  I just know by the time we get to church, there is some door slamming and walking off in a huff.

Sunday school is next and it's not so bad.  There's some singing and some chanting and then everyone goes with their respective age group.  At this point, we have taken our six year old son, Gideon, with autism (who is still potty training) to the bathroom 14,671 times and had one success and threatened Daniel, our oldest son, also with autism, 9,643 times about appropriate behavior in Sunday school and had one success there too. But we're okay.  We're fine.

Then 10:30 rolls around and it's time for big church.

One of the things I love about our church is that it's very family-centered.  Children are encouraged to stay with their parents during the service.  Our pastor has four children of his own and he's learned to block out "kid noises," like most parents.  Everyone settles in.  But, for us in the way back, we're just getting started. 

In the last year, Daniel has decided that he no longer wants to sit with us.  So he sits across the aisle.  Each Sunday, he tracks down his First Thousand Words in Spanish book and that's what he reads.  While I'm not certain he could pronounce them, I suspect if I gave him a test over those words, he'd nail it. Ben, our middle son, tries to finagle his way into sitting with those three sweet girls (because who can blame him?).  I might add, he is an angel when he sits with them.  When he sits with us, well, not so much. Gideon stays with us through the first 20 or so minutes of the service before he goes to children's worship training.  Gideon likes to lie down.  He's not too picky about where he does it.  Draped over several chairs, the floor, on top of me.  It wouldn't be so bad if Gideon were not a very, very big boy.

This is the rodeo part I was talking about. 

Daniel tilts his chair back, looks at me, grins at my stern look of reproach, laughs, tilts chair back again.  He carries with him a small cloth monkey, a fidget toy, which he employs to annoy the ever-loving snot out of me in various and sundry ways.  Yes, I would like that monkey to disappear.  I never, ever want to say, "Stop playing with your monkey at the dinner table," ever again.  But for now, the monkey stays. 

Gideon is laying on my lap.  "I want water," he says.  So, I take him to get a drink and Ben follows to go to the first of fifteen bathroom trips. I wait for Ben so we can go back in all together, but he is taking forever so I knock.  No answer.  I whisper loudly that I'm going to come in if he doesn't come out.  I'm not paying attention to Gideon who is back at the water fountain and had given himself a shower somehow and water is now all over the front him. 

Ben finally appears.  "Sorry, Mom, I had to go . . . you know."  Yes, yes, I know.  That means I make him go back into the bathroom to flush the toilet and wash his hands.


We're five minutes into service now. Five minutes.

We're back in our seats.  We're singing.  Well, some of us are.  Others refuse to stand and yet another is stimming with loud vocalizations and jumping up and down.  Thankfully, our church family is used to us and no one seems to blink an eye. Ben has to use the bathroom again. Then the worst thing happens.  A new family sits behind us.  I panic.  Sometimes I want to carry around business cards that I can hand out quickly that read, "Please excuse us.  We have two children with autism. We apologize in advance." Instead, I smile (nervously) at them.  Ben comes back from the bathroom and then proceeds to spill 1400 Legos all over the floor. (Who was the dummy that let him bring those?  Oh yeah.) And Gideon wants more water and he's gonna pinch me until he gets it. These chairs should have seat belts and complimentary rolls of duct tape.

I am exhausted at this point.

Finally, Gideon is whisked away for worship training by a buddy (another way our church has been amazingly supportive of our family).  Ben gets to play with his Kindle during the sermon so he commences to blowing stuff up or building spider spawn or whatever Minecraft stuff it is he does. Carl and I can relax.  This may be the first and only 20 minutes of our whole week where we aren't worried about Gideon breaking anything. Katherine, the youngest, is safe in the nursery.  Ben is quiet. Daniel is occupied for now.  We can finally be still and listen to the sermon.

But I have to make a confession.

Sometimes I fall asleep (we still aren't judging).  It's not intentional. I'm not doing it because I want to.  It's just so quiet and I can finally relax for 15 minutes and before I know it, my eyelids get so heavy and then I'm jerking back awake. I'm sure God doesn't approve but then again, God also knows how just plain worn out I am and maybe He understands.


He does give rest to the weary, right?

Being part of a church body is very important to us.  And, may I just say, we have an amazing church family, one that has loved on us, taken care of us, prayed for us, laughed with us, cried with us, and still seem to want us.


So, we will put up with the rodeo that happens in our row in the back.  We will apologize when one of the kids is having a rough day . . . or a normal day.  We will smile (mostly) and feel blessed to be part of our church family because they accept each one of us as a child of God.  Through them, we can see God's love in a very tangible way.  Maybe some of our children aren't able to fully understand that, but they can feel it and they know they are loved.

That makes the rodeo worth it.

_________________________________________________________________________________
As you might know, April is Autism Awareness Month.  For our family, every day is a day for autism awareness.  We try to spread it everywhere we go, whether people like it or now.  I would urge you this month, this very day, to find someone you know touched by autism and do something for them.  Maybe take coffee to an autism mom you know.  Maybe a quick note of encouragement.  Maybe just a hug.  Maybe offer to watch a kiddo (or four) for an hour or two,  so their parents can go on a date (or take a nap).  Maybe find a local organization in your area that gives directly to autism families and find out how you can help too. Maybe praying for them specifically every day.  

Know that whatever you do, it will appreciated.   

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Of Fossils and Hope

I met Melissa our freshman year in college when were both placed on the same floor in the dorm.  Looking back, I can see how very, very different we were from each other.  Melissa is athletic and loves sports; I . . . um, walk. Melissa had fun, went to parties, and hung out with friends in college; I spent a lot of time in the computer lab.  Melissa loves Stephen King; I'm a romantic at heart. Despite all that, both of us grew up to be English teachers.

A few years ago, we reconnected on Facebook and I've been following along as her family grew and she's been following along as we found (are finding?) our way with The Autism.  Over the summer, I received a personal message from her and it meant a great deal to me.  With her permission, I get to share it with you all.

"Hi Sharon,
I just have to share this random story with you, simply because I was thinking of you the whole time it was occurring. So, last night, we went to a BBQ at a house of a guy my husband works with. My husband had told me that this man, Greg, was "different" or "odd," but a really good guy. I took in the info and off we went to the BBQ. 

Upon meeting Greg, I almost instantly recognized several signs of someone on the autism spectrum. He avoided eye contact; his house was what I would call "cluttered" (although I later found each and every thing had its place when I moved something); we were not offered metal utensils and only used plastic as he does not like the feel of metal; he asked me if I liked fossils (yes), then proceeded to show me his fossil collection with a scientific explanation behind each one (this lasted about 1/2 hour and he never once looked me in the eye or sensed my waning interest); each trinket he showed me had an exact place for it, and when I placed one back in the wrong spot, he danced around a bit and basically moved me out of the way to get it back to its precise location. 

There's more, but you get the picture. Now, I don't claim to be a spectrum expert, but with 15 years of teaching experience, I can usually spot the signs, and Greg's were overwhelming. 

Why share this story with you? Greg has a successful career, is married to a neat woman, and has two very unique but fabulous children. He has converted his garage to a climbing gym, allows his children to climb to the tops of doors (or anywhere else), has a whole room full of awesome reptiles in aquariums, and is living a very great life. 

Knowing how much we love our children, I thought of you, and this wonderful life you live with your boys. My eyes were opened a little more last night, and I thought about you. Thanks for always sharing your life, your struggles, and what the future may hold for you. I think I might have seen what it could be last night. I hope this isn't weird or somehow offensive--if it is, please do let me know as I did not mean anything offensive. It was just such a cool inside look at how "that weird kid," as I'm sure he was labeled, can grow up to be a really cool dude!"

I love so very many things about this letter but the thing I love the most is this: hope.  Of course, I hope my boys go on to lives as successful, independent members of society.  Many people with autism do.  Sometimes those people have never been diagnosed with anything except being "weird" or "quirky."  I would bet if you looked back, you could name a college professor or two that had some very strong spectrum-y qualities.  

The flip side is also true though: many autistic adults will not be able to live independently.  Most still live at home with their parents.  Many may not be able to work or communicate.  Many will not marry and have families of their own.  

Our two sons represent both sides of the coin.  

But the hope for me in this letter is this:  I can have hope because people like Melissa exist.  She sees the person and not just the autism.  She found the beauty in the quirkiness.  She wasn't put off by lack of eye contact or detailed (I can just imagine) descriptions of his fossils.  She appreciated him for those things.   

She accepted him for him.

That.  That right there.  That's the hope. As a mom of two autistic boys, I'm always worried that people see the diagnosis and not the person.  And because of this, that they'll be treated as less than a person. It's a constant, daily struggle for me.  Thankfully, our family has been very blessed to be surrounded by friends and a church family that see our boys and accept them just as they are--the good, the bad, and the quirky.  

See, my sons just want to feel accepted and loved no matter who they are or what their quirks happen to be.

Then again, I think all of us could say the same thing.

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As you might know, April is Autism Awareness Month.  For our family, every day is a day for autism awareness.  We try to spread it everywhere we go, whether people like it or now.   I thought to challenge myself this month to share story about autism in our family every day.  Every day this month.  That's a lot of days but, then again, I have a lot of stories.  

I would urge you this month, this very day, to find someone you know touched by autism and do something for them.  Maybe take coffee to an autism mom you know.  Maybe a quick note of encouragement.  Maybe just a hug.  Maybe offer to watch a kiddo (or four) for an hour or two so their parents can go on a date (or take a nap).  Maybe find a local organization in your area that gives directly to autism families and find out how you can help too. Maybe praying for them specifically every day.  Know that whatever you do, it will appreciated.