Why I Hate Taking My Kids to the Grocery Store and Why I Can't Stop

"You're going to miss that when they're older."  

I hear this all the time.  I get it.  I know there are a lot of things about motherhood I will miss when my babies get older but I have to tell you there are also an equal number of things I am not going to miss one tiny bit.  

For example, I will never miss changing a diaper.  Not gonna miss it.  Not once.  Aside from the normal, diaper changing duties for toddlers everywhere, we also have an older child who is not fully potty trained (thank you, autism). I'll admit to getting a little (or a lot) annoyed, frustrated, even angry, when I have to put yet another pull-up on him.  But, you guys, the day we don't have to use diapers anymore in this house, there will be a party.  There will be cake and ice cream and fireworks.  I might even hire a petting zoo and give out pony rides for free.  This day, secretly called, "The Day of No Diapers" in my mind, Will. Be. Epic.

I'm also not going to miss getting an 18 month old dressed.  For those of you that have never had the pleasure, imagine dressing an octopus except the octopus is super angry so all eight of his arms (or are they legs?) are synchronously moving in opposite directions.  Then add screaming. And biting. That's pretty close what it's like to dress a young toddler.  This, incidentally, should be an Olympic sport; I've been training for ten years now. 

I will not miss buckling a child into a car seat. This is almost like dressing a toddler except from some hidden depth in their tiny little bodies, toddlers find body strength to rival The Hulk.  It's not unusual to see a mom laying on top of their child as they try to buckle them in.  But the experience does not end when the last snap is done.  Oh, no.  Now, for the next twenty minutes, your angry little human will let you know as only angry little humans can exactly how terrible it is to be buckled in.  (Pro-Tip for you:  Turn the radio up.  It drowns out the wailing). 

But, what I truly loathe with a burning fire of a thousand fires is taking my children to the grocery store.  Is there a fate worse than death?  I'm not really sure but death seems pretty peaceful to me after a short (Ha!), easy (Yeah, right) trip to the store with kids in tow.  

Here's what this usually looks like:  Today I had three of the four with me (Gideon was in therapy).  I had a list (in my head, of course, which is stupid) and I wanted to get in and out expediently.  Before walking into the store, I doled out threats and promises of candy if we could just make it through without screaming, running away, or knocking down any displays (yes, that happened once.  Apparently the stacks of toilet paper were just too much for Gideon to deal with.  But, hey, at least it wasn't glass jars of tomato sauce).

All the children nod in understanding when they hear both the threats and promises.  I really do think their intentions are good in the beginning but about 53 seconds into the store, a pattern emerges.  First, Daniel, age 10, doesn't want to be at the store.  Or walk.  So he's dragging 20 feet behind me.  Ben, age 8, would like to get to the candy at the end so he's rushing though. He's 20 feet out in front.  Katherine is determined to not stay seated so she's already wriggled out of the safety belt 96 times and is now wailing away because I insist she stay seated.  (Note to grocery cart manufacturers everywhere: Please consider placing five point harnesses on grocery carts.  Or cages.  Either one would sure help keep my kid in her seat).

I try very hard to avoid all whine-inducing aisles like anything with candy, cookies, ice cream, and chips.  (Although this whole trip is wine-inducing for me).  I do pretty well.  But I'm not celebrating yet because Katherine grabs a box of macaroni and cheese as we whiz past.  I pry it out of her tiny little hand infused with super human strength and set off a series of gnashing of teeth and pounding of chest by my little princess (Suuuure.  Princess).  Ben comes back to soothe his sister but makes it worse because now she wants to get out and walk like "Bubba."  She lets us all know that by yelling.  And Daniel?  He finally catches up to us but because he's not paying attention, he runs into an end cap of toothpaste.  (Neither he nor any toothpaste were harmed in this story).

By this time, I have exactly three items in my cart.  One was on my list; two "appeared" when I wasn't paying attention. At this point, I. Don't. Care.  I just want out of this place. Finally, we make it to the checkout.  Oh, look, more trouble.  A whole rack of candy and gum, all just waiting for my children to beg. But, again, I don't care anymore.  Get whatever you want, kids.  Throw a whole box of M&M's in the cart.  15 packs of gum?  Great.

Can we please, please, please just make it to the van?

And blessedly, we do. By the time  I slide into my seat, I'm sweaty, disillusioned with life and questioning my ability to parent.  My pants are ripped and the buttons on my shirt are mismatched now (How in the Heck?!?!).  It is, of course, as I am pulling out of the parking lot that I realize the one thing, the very thing I had to go to the store for?  Yeah, I forgot it.

So, why in the blazes am I taking my children to the grocery store with me?  It sounds horrible, right? It is.  But one thing I've learned as both a parent and an autism mom is this:  if you want your kids to change their behavior, you have to give them opportunities to practice.  That's something all of us parents know, right?  I mean, if you want a baby to eat a new food, you have to feed it to them 17,497 (rough estimate) before they don't spit it in your face anymore.  If you want bedtime to go smoothly, you build a routine and then you follow it until it sticks.  

Our two boys with autism have been in ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapy for years.  I've done parent meetings and training sessions more times then I can count.  One of the tenants of ABA therapy is repetition, doing the same thing over and over again until the skill is mastered.  (Some of you homeschooling moms know what I mean by that too).  When Daniel was around five, a therapist started coming to the store with us to help us "practice shopping."  At first, it was awful.  He refused to stay in the cart, let alone walking next to it.  But months of practice (and I mean, months), he was able to calmly walk next to me in the grocery store while holding onto the cart.  He was quiet and attentive, well mannered, even polite.  He was like a different kid.  But it taught me a lesson--practice, with patience (both his and mine), does work.  

How my kids act and how I react are both areas I need to work on.  A lot.   Look, it's not going to be pretty.  Grocery shopping (or whatever place or thing you'd like to substitute in there) isn't going to magically become awesome.  It's going to take a lot of reminders for my kids on how we act at the grocery store, why we do this and not that.  It's going to take a lot of deep breaths and prayer under my breath but eventually, we'll get it.

Now, I'm not advocating two hour grocery excursions every other day.  We're taking it slow.  A short trip once a week is about all I can handle.  But these little trips help us transition into trips to the zoo or a museum or shoe shopping (yeah, there's a story there too).  They carry over into other areas too. Being patient with my kids is, well, hard for me sometimes.  I find myself staying in a rut (like staying at home all the time) just so I don't have to deal with the "hassle" and the conflict.  I want to be able to take our whole family somewhere without them acting like crazies (relatively speaking, of course).  If I stay at home, they can't learn how to behave at public places and they miss out on a lot of experiences.  As an autism mom, I'm careful about where we choose to go because I have to take other things (sensory issues, elopement issues, etc) into account but that doesn't mean I get to avoid the hard task of training up kids who can act appropriately (I will settle for okay-ish) in public.

So, I'm doing this (even though I don't want to).  I know it may seem silly.  I know you may have conquered the grocery store long ago.  I know you may have perfectly behaved children but for us?Little steps, baby steps.  As long as we're making small progress, it's still progress.  So, yes, friends, I hate taking my kids to the grocery store but this summer, I'm going to change that, one aisle at a time.
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In Defense of Mom-cations

Mom-cation (noun)
1. A vacation for a mother in which she travels away from her entire family and uses this time away to sleep, go to the bathroom by herself, eat an entire meal in one sitting, and watch whatever she'd like on television.  Preferable destinations include any place where no one knows her name.

Example: If she didn't go on a mom-cation soon, her children were going to find out just how creative she could get with a roll of duct tape.

I bought my plane ticket last week.  In just two and a half months, I'm going to board a plane by myself and fly across the country by myself.  I'll stay with one of my dearest friends and for five whole days, I will be on my own.

Did I mention I would be by myself?

I'm going on a mom-cation and I cannot wait. Please understand that I love all of my little people very, very much.  They are the cutest, the (sometimes) sweetest children God ever made.  But these little people take every single ounce of my patience, every second of my time, and every drop of my blood.

My children are my heart and my kryptonite all in one.

My strength and my weakness.

The reason I get up every morning and the reason I want to go back to bed an hour later.

So, every now and then, I need a break.  I need to be by myself and recharge so I go away.  My first mom-cation was almost five years ago.  I rented an $80 hotel room literally twelve minutes away from our home.  I arrived as soon as I was able to. The room was modest but neat.  The television worked and it had cable with a working remote and the remote was not lost. The bathroom seemed spacious without three other people in there with me.

I did crazy, wild things like take a bath.  With bubbles (See? Crazy).  I drove across the street and picked up Chinese takeout and then down the street for a pint of ice cream.  I ate it all by myself.  Every single bite.  I had the queen-size bed all to myself and, especially since it was August, I blasted the air conditioner and no one was there to complain about it being too cold.

I put HGTV on and lazed in bed, reading and half listening to whatever show was on.  Pure gluttony.  I painted my toenails, a very rare treat for me.  I deep conditioned my hair. I enjoyed the quiet, the pleasure of my own company, the absence of "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" being chanted every three seconds.

In the morning, I trekked downstairs at my leisure (after not having to dress anyone but myself) and gathered some food to take upstairs.  On the way past the front desk, I stopped to ask the woman manning the counter a question.

"What time is checkout?" I asked.

She looked about  my age and, I would bet, a mother herself.  "It's at 11 o'clock."

I frowned.  "Okay.  What time is it now?"

"It's 10:07."

I sighed.  Was it already time to leave?

"So, are you just passing through?" she asked, making small talk.

"No, I'm on a mom-cation.  I'm taking a break." I explained how close I actually lived and that I had three children and a couple of them had autism.

Her eyes rounded.  "Really?  That's so cool."  She tapped at her keyboard and then grinned.  "You know what?  We're not all that busy.  You go ahead and do the late check out.  No charge."  So, I stayed until 1:59pm (because late check out was at 2:00pm).

The first year set the precedent for mom-cations.  The next year, I did the same thing.  The year after,  I drove four hours away and hung out with a good friend.  And this time, I'm flying all the way to Oregon by myself. 

"But, what about your children?" you're wondering. "Who will take care of them?"  The answer is: my husband.  He's their other parent.  He won't be babysitting or doing me a favor; he'll be parenting.  He'll also be taking care of me, his wife.  See, he understands that these breaks are important for my well-being.  I'm sure he's feeling a little overwhelmed at the prospect of all four of our children to himself for five days.  That's five days of breakfasts, lunches, and dinner.  Five days of dressing them, changing diapers, saying, "Get that out of your mouth, Gideon," and five days of bedtime.  All on his own.

Is my house going to resemble a war zone when I return?  Yes, probably.  Will something get broken, lost, or colored on?  It's very likely.  But there's only one real rule anyway: everyone must be alive when I get home.

Besides, my husband can handle it.  In fact, I think he needs to handle it.  Spending a few hours one afternoon by yourself with the kids is nothing compared to a few days.  It's important for me to give him these opportunities to be a parent on his own.  It may not be fun for him but I notice something when I've been gone for a day or two.  My husband starts to understand what my life is like every day and he appreciates me just a little bit more than he did before.

And me?  What do I learn?  Inevitably on my mom-cation, late at night when I'm laying in bed and the lights from the television flicker on the walls, I start to get a little lonely for my people.  Yes, that's right.  I start to miss them.  Just a little bit.  But it's enough to make me excited to see them when I get back home. That time apart helps me to remember just how blessed I am.

Give yourselves a break, Moms.  Dad's got you covered (don't overthink that).  Everyone can survive for a night or two without you.  When you come home, you'll be more relaxed, with a full love tank, and ready to tackle motherhood again.

That's what a mom-cation is all about.
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When There Aren't Words

It was Valentine's Day, two years ago, a warm day of spring-like weather.  My husband came home early from work, not because we had a date. (Finding a sitter for four kids, two of whom have autism is challenge.  Most of the time I'm not up to the challenge financially or emotionally). He just wanted to spend a bit of extra time with us.

He and the boys bounced around like pin balls on the trampoline playing the much requested "Tackle Game."  As you  might imagine, this game involved tackling or avoiding being tackled, depending on your role.  They played for almost an hour.  The backyard was filled with giggles and shouts and the bouncing bodies of little boys.  Nothing out of place happened.  Kids got knocked down--that's the nature of the game--but never once did anyone cry or yell or seem hurt.

Which is why, 45 minutes later when I called everyone for dinner, I couldn't undestand why Gideon, then four years old, refused to use his arm.  I tried everything to get him to move it.  Like a good mom, I resorted to bribery.  "Gideon, if you'll just use that arm, you can have this popsicle."  "How about a cookie?  Here, use your right hand there and just pick it up."

But nothing worked.

The arm looked fine, not cuts or bruises.  It was swollen or red.  Gideon himself seemed fairly even keeled. He wasn't overly upset.  The only time he made a sound was if I tried to move that arm.

As the evening wore on, his mood changed to, for lack of a better word, grumpy.  He held the arm close to his body still and no amount of cajoling would make him reach for anything.  Finally, just before bedtime, I got a dose of ibuprofen in him (a feat not any easier for his lack of two working arms) and put him to bed. While he slept, I called the pediatrician on duty, gave her a bit of Gdeon's background, and expressed my concern.

"Did he hurt it?" She asked.

"I don't know."  Because I had no idea.  A few hours ago, he was fine.  Now he wasn't.

"Did he tell you it hurts?"

I sighed.  "No . . . he doesn't . . . he can't tell me if it hurts."

"Well, did he cry or yell or anything like that?"  The doctor questioned.

"No," I said firmly and more than a little annoyed. I hoped my frustration was evident; I was worried about my child.  "As I told you, he has autism.  He doesn't talk.  All I know is he won't use his arm.  What do I do?"

Following her instructions, the next morning, Gideon and I headed to the emergency room at the local children's hospital.  Eight hours later, several exams, x-rays, and one surprised doctor later, we discovered that Gideon had a broken arm.

He never once told me it hurt.  He never once cried.  He never once yelled or screamed in pain.  He sat stoically holding his little arm across his body in silence.

See, the thing is that Gideon is non-verbal.  I should say he is very limited verbally.  He has a handful of words that he uses when we make him.  He says things like, "I want water," or "I want cookie," or "I want crackers."  (Huh?  I guess his words revolve around food). He also scripts.  Scripting is when a person repeats back something they've heard, often song lyrics or lines from television shows.

Gideon with his broken arm in a sling

The point is that Gideon rarely communicates.  

For me, this is one of the most difficult aspects of autism.  I remember praying in the emergency room I could just have one "autism free" day for Gideon so he could tell me how he was hurting.  I felt useless, helpless, and like a failure. Yes, a failure.  There were so many questions I couldn't answer.  When your child doesn't speak, you are their voice. You have to put what is happening to them into words.  And sometimes, that's nearly impossible.

I know Gideon is smart.  He reads books; he plans and executes like a very successful bank robber. He understands me . . . when he wants to.  But just imagine never having a real conversation with your child.  Imagine if you didn't know if his tummy hurt or if a bee stung him or if he broke his arm. Imagine if they only time he said he loved you was when he was repeating the words back to you.

It's heartbreaking and frustrating.  For Gideon.  For me.

Most days I feel like some kind of CSI agent. All I have are clues to help me figure Gideon out.  I've become an expert in watching him closely, using his body language, his stims and \anxiety levels, his behavior, to understand what he wants to communicate. Sometimes I get it right and other times, I just don't know.  He lashes out, lately with hitting and biting and pinching.  I have to teach him that those behaviors are not acceptable when they are the only way he thinks he can talk to us.

Out of all my children, I worry about Gideon the most.  Will we ever find a way to give him a real voice?  How will he be able to function in the world without communicating? Will he ever be able to tell me what he's thinking, how he's feeling, that he loves me?

The answer is: I don't know.  I can't see what the future looks like.  Heck, I can hardly see what tomorrow looks like. I just know I have an ache in my heart for him, for him to know how much he is loved, for him to know that we want to understand him. All I have are prayers, a plea that one day, some way, Gideon will speak to communicate with us.  Maybe the way he speaks will not be the way we expect it, when we expect, or how we expect it.

But I don't care. All I want is for Gideon to have a voice.
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I am not a SAHM

Not too long ago, I was filling out an application that asked for my occupation.  I dutifully wrote down, "SAHM."  Then I stared at those letters for a moment.  Is there any occupation on the planet who's title is as far from the truth as possible as "Stay At Home Mom?"

So, I scratched out those letters and wrote my real job title in: Lion Tamer.

That's right, folks.  It's time you knew the truth.  I don't spend my days "staying at home" mommy-ing around.

No, siree.  I am a bonafide, chair-wielding, death-defy Lion Tamer.  (Those capital letters are definitely earned). I know my children aren't large wild cats exactly but there are some striking similarities. For example, try to split three Oreos between four kids.  Just try.  If you don't get the portions exactly right, there will be snarling, growling, posturing, and, very possibly, biting.

Let's not forget that the "stay at home" part of SAHM is a misnomer.  I find myself always rushing around to take someone to school, pick someone up, head to soccer practice, and, for two of our kids, make our way to therapy (lots and lots and lots of therapy).  Am I home more than if I worked?  Yes, but some days, I feel more like a "Drive By Home Mom."  I swing by to grab a bit to eat, change a diaper, move clothes from washer to dryer and then I'm off to take someone somewhere else or to grocery shop or wait in the school pick up line.  I find as the kids get older, this is even more true.  Then they want to have social lives and see their friends or play more sports or go and do things.  

Honestly, I'm doing a whole lot more than "mommy-ing" all day long.  I am chauffeuring, budgeting, planning, chef-ing (yeah, I made that up), cleaning, shopping, ministering, doctoring, daydreaming of a nap, and I could go on and on.


Oh, and the lion taming.  Right.  Well, there's a lot of that.  I might have to remind (read: yell at) a kid or two to stop roughhousing ("No, we do not bite our brother for touching your cookie."), to use kinder words ("Do not tell your brother to 'Shut his mouth.'"), or put some clothes on like a civilized animal, er, person ("Why are you jumping on the trampoline in your underwear?").

These kids aren't going to tame themselves.

I was once at an adult coloring book party at a local bookstore. I sat at a table with a couple of people I knew and about four others I didn't.  We chatted and colored intricately-drawn pictures (or they colored.  I have no patience for it) and ate cookies (that I have plenty of patience for).  We also had the following conversation:

Stranger:  So, what does everyone do for a living?
Another Stranger: I'm a nurse.
Yet Another Stranger: I'm an accountant.
Someone Else:  I'm a behavior specialist.
Stranger, turning to me:  And you?
Me:  I have four kids and I keep them all alive.

I'm not embarrassed to be a SAHM, I just think SAHM is hardly descriptive of what we moms really do.  But maybe you don't think you qualify as a Lion Tamer.  Here are some other title options for you:

• Houston: As in, "Houston, we have a problem."  Mom, we all know it's your job to fix it.
• Zoo Keeper: An acceptable option if you like to be inclusive of all animals.
• Wonder-Woman:  Yup, that's you.  Don't you wish you had a Lasso of Truth and an invisible jet too?
• Chief Home Executive Officer:  Fancy, right?  The pay isn't great unless you like kisses, sticky fingers, and bedtime stories (which I totally do).

Me?  I'll stick with Lion Tamer.  My wild cats need someone to keep them in line, after all.  All I'm saying, Moms, is let's call us what we are.  We are more than women with kids who spend our days at home eating bonbons and gabbing with our friends.  Our "jobs" are a calling, a lifetime of work, and anything but passive and boring.  Exhausting and frustrating at times?  Oh yes.  Humbling and confusing? Yup. Satisfying and fun?  That too.

But never, ever a dull moment.
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To Daniel, On His Birthday

Dear Daniel,

Don't be alarmed if you finding me surrounded by your baby pictures and crying tomorrow.  It's not that I'm upset or mad.  I'll be a little sad but mostly happy.  I love looking at pictures of you, remembering how tiny you were when you were born, how you smelled brand new, how you spent most of your time curled up on my chest by my heart.  You were this tiny little person your daddy and I prayed for and waited for.  A precious little baby full of endless possibilities.

Tomorrow you will be ten years old.  You aren't so tiny anymore and you aren't exactly smelling brand new anymore (I'm not quite sure what that smell is but it's nothing a shower can't kill).  You can't curl up on chest anymore or even my lap.  In fact, you make me ask for hugs now.

We've seen so very many changes in you this year.  You're stretching your legs a bit and trying to find your independence.  I'll admit this scares the snot out of me sometimes but I know it's important for you to face the world on your own.  After all, you've been doing that one way or another since you were born. You've always made your own way in a world that doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you and you don't just survive, you thrive!
Seven year ago this month, you were officially diagnosed with autism. It was a hard, hard day when I sat down with the psychologist to go over your evaluation.  I knew it was coming.  I knew the words she would say but it still hurt.  Let me be clear.  I was not embarrassed by your autism or angry about your autism.  I was hurt.  Some of that hurt, selfishly, was for me because things would be more challenging for me as your mom.  But most of my hurt was for you because I knew things would just be harder for you and it broke my heart.  There was a lot of tears that day, sad tears.

But you didn't much care about having autism.  You were just content to be you.  Every day since that diagnosis you've surprised me, made me smile, made me want to pull my hair out, made me laugh, made me so, so proud.

I'll tell you a secret, just between you and me.  I love all of your brothers and sister just as much as I love you but I love you all differently. You will always be special to me, not because of your autism (although that makes you special in a different way) but because you were my firstborn.  You were the sweet little boy who made me a mom.  I know it was ten years ago but I will never, ever forget seeing you for the first time, marveling at each tiny part of you, thanking God for the gift that is you.

So, just remember you will always be my baby even when you're taller than me (and that will happen practically any day now) and you think you know more than me (which will also happen practically any day now).  I will always be your biggest fan.  I'll cheer the loudest, smile the widest, fight the hardest, and hug you the tightest.  I will always have your back, even when you make mistakes, especially when you make mistakes.

All I ask is this:  you keep being you, kid.  You keep being exactly who God made you to be. You keep smiling and laughing, struggling and overcoming, working hard and falling down, and surprising everyone with your intelligence and wit and everything that makes you Daniel.

You are still full of endless possibilities and I can't wait to see how you shine.

I love you,
Mom

Things Autism Has Taken From Me

Last year, I lost a tooth.

When you're seven, it's expected that you'll lose a tooth.  When you're ninety-seven, it's expected that you'll lose a tooth.  When you're thirty-seven, you should not lose a tooth.

But I did.

I lost that tooth because several years ago, I had a root canal and a temporary crown put on but I was pregnant with kid number one at the time and so my dentist decided to hold off on the permanent crown.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.  See, I hate the dentist and so when he gave me permission to not worry about it for awhile, I held onto that.  Because then I got pregnant a year after the first kid was  born.  Then when the second kid was six months old, we moved away from my dentist and then we didn't have dental insurance anymore. 

And people, crowns are expensive, like mortgage-payment expensive. 

But everything was fine.  My temporary crown was awesome.  I avoided eating crunchy things on that side and lived in happy ignorance.  Until one day, the temporary crown fell out but that wasn't so bad because we now had dental insurance except we now had two children with autism.  Kids with autism need things like ABA therapy and occupational therapy and speech therapy.  All of which cost money. So, I didn't get it fixed and the filling fell out and I still didn't get it fixed and finally, the tooth fell out in pieces.

Every day, I am reminded of this because I have a hole where my tooth should be.  It's embarrassing. I know many of you are thinking, "Um, why didn't you just go to the dentist and get it fixed?"  I'll tell you why: I am terrible at taking care of myself.  I'm terrible at putting myself first, at spending money on myself, at taking the time to do any of it.

Most moms have to put a concerted effort into self-care. They have to make time to get a haircut or a manicure or exercise and they tell themselves to not feel guilty about it (because they shouldn't).  As an autism mom, the guilt is worse and the amount of work is just more.  If you think about it, most typically developing six year olds can dress themselves, tie their shoes, and get their backpack ready for school.  My six year old still needs me to do all of those things for him.

So, when it comes to taking care of myself, I have less time and more guilt.  If it costs money, it's especially difficult for me to do because I can't enjoy myself.  I keep thinking about paying for that therapy session or that Daniel needs new glasses again.  If I'm able to sneak away for a nap, I feel guilty because I'm resting and not taking care of things I should be doing.  The hassle, the money, the time.

That tooth is just one of the many things autism has taken from me.  Here are a few others:

My Pride

I've always been an extremely independent person.  I like to take care of things on my own. Another way of saying this is: I don't like to ask for help.  But, as our autism diagnoses came in, we became more and more overwhelmed and it became obvious we did need help.  But it hurts.  It hurts just a little bit when I have to ask for help.  And each time it gets a little easier too because each time a bit of that prideful nature of mine gets chipped away.  Guess what?  Things are easier with help. Guess what else?  People want to help.  They just aren't sure how sometimes.

Little by little, I've had to come to grips that my family is not perfect or "normal."  Our family looks different and acts different.  We're loud, we don't follow directions well, but we're here to stay.  Sometimes, it's a hit to my pride when I see how different we are.  It's humbling but it's us; It's who we are.

My Judge-iness

It wasn't so long ago that I was that person who saw a kid throwing a tantrum in a grocery store and thought, "I will never be that mom with that kid."

Aaaaaaaand now, I am that mom with those kids.  Having kids with autism has made me lose the judgement and gain some compassion.  Being a mom is hard; being a mom with a special needs child is really hard. Being kind, empathizing, offering help, those are ways to react when I see a parent struggling and a child melting down.

Goodbye judge-iness.  Hello compassion.

My Peace of Mind

I live in a constant state of half-worry.  My children, their autism, their futures, it's always on my mind.  What will happen to my boys when they aren't cute little kids with autism but grown men with autism?  How will they survive?  What will happen to them when I die?  Who will fight for them?  And the ever-present, am I doing enough?

The worry is always there, in the back of my mind.  Some days, the worry coats everything and just makes the world seem lackluster and hazy, makes it hard to see the good things. But I do know that God allows me (okay, sometimes forces me) to see Him in my children, especially during these times.  He gave them to us; He will equip us.  On the bad days, I have to put that on repeat in my head to drown out everything else.  It seems no matter how many times I give up the worry, it comes creeping back in.  It's insidious.  I don't think it's a lack of faith.  It's a symptom of my struggle and where God will continue to work on me.

My Money

The U.S. Department of Agriculture estimates the cost of raising a child in the US until the age of 18 to be $240,000.  They also estimate the lifetime cost of raising and providing for a child (and adult) with autism to be $1.4 million.

Times two in our family.

The End

My Decorating Style

When I first got married, I was excited to make our house into a home.  I liked visiting home decor places, getting ideas online, and window shopping for things like couches and end tables.  Now, my decorating style has changed a bit to take into account our friend, Autism.  I just need to ask these three simple questions before making a home decor purchase:

Is it breakable?
Can it be destroyed in under 30 seconds?
Will Gideon try to eat it?

If I can answer yes to any of these questions, that item does not belong in our house. 

So, what are we left with?  Garage sale couches, thrift store coffee tables, and a lot of pillows.    It's definitely a . . . look.


My Heart

Honestly, the biggest thing autism has taken from me is my heart.  How can I not look at my two handsome, smart, funny boys and not lose my heart to them?  It's not always easy.  There are some very hard days (and weeks and months).  There will be more of them to come.  But my heart has been taken by these two boys who see the world so differently and yet find a way to live in it.  Their courage and their smiles go a long way to help me remember the hard stuff is always worth it. 

Parts of the Story

Someone recently reminded me that each of our lives are like stories--beginnings, climaxes, characters, lessons.  Each part of the story becomes a part of us and makes us who we are.  Each event changes us in some way, teaches us something about ourselves, about life, and about how those parts all come together.  I do believe things happen for a reason. Some times, we'll never know the reason.  I don't know why I have two children with autism but I do.  It's part of my story and it's changed me. The beginning of my story changed me too and, I think, in many ways, prepared me for being this mom of these children.   

As a child, I was quiet and, as my mother says, reserved.  When I wasn't buried in a book, (and I was always buried in a book--in the bathroom, on the bus, by the night light), I watched people.  I watched them closely and I learned early on that people are not the words they say, they are the things they do. 

I still believe that.

School was a safe place for me and maybe that was because no one really knew what home was like.  Plus, there was a library and, if there was a library, I was in it.  Lunchtime, before school time, during school time, anytime I could--I was in the library.  I read voraciously and constantly.  Books were another safe place for me.  Situations wrapped up in tidy little bows--the whodunit solved, the lovers united, the ending happy.  I ate it all up.  Books were an escape then (and now).

As you might imagine, teachers loved me.  I was quiet, respectful, and I loved to read.  Except for my sketchy desk organization skills (a sign of things to come, right?), I was kind of awesome for a little kid.  I loved most of my teachers, looked up to them and wanted to be them when I grew up (also a sign of things to come).  I thought I did a pretty good job of pretending things were just fine when I was at school but, looking back, I can see that some of my teachers knew.  They may not have known what but they knew something.

I don't remember a time when my mom sat me down and told me not to talk about my home life to anyone.  I don't remember being told it was a secret but I knew it was and I knew it was important to keep it that way. 

What no one knew was that my home life was not easy.

The real secret was my step-dad, Vince, the only dad I've ever known.  He was full blooded Italian American and used to call himself "Vinny from South Philly."  Charming and charismatic, he was easy to like.  He had a way of saying things so they you'd believe him. You were sure that the promises he made would come to pass.  But they didn't.  Vince was a promise maker and a promise breaker.

He was also a heroin addict.  I understood very early in my life that this was not good thing and this was not something other dads did.  As much as my mother tried to shield me from it, I remember seeing him shoot himself up with a needle.  I remember how good he felt when he was high and I remember how horrible he felt when he wasn't.  If I came home to find him curled up on the couch, sweating and grimacing, I knew those weren't good days for him.

Vince could have been an amazing father; he had it in him.  He was a wonderful cook and could be silly and fun.  He taught me to play cards and watched Jimmy Stewart movies with me. But he chose drugs over us every single time. He didn't hold a job very often but found ways to earn money to feed his habit.  He was very good at shoplifting.  In the 80's, the anti-theft devices that stores used were almost non-existent.  Vince made a career of walking into department stores, filling up a cart or a bag,  and walking right back without paying.  He'd then return the items for cash.  I know this is how it worked because when I was five, I was with him when he did it and saw him in action. It was impressive and, of course, very illegal.  A couple even saw him do it, followed us out to the car but Vince calmly explained, "My wife is inside paying," and then loaded the car with stolen goods and drove off.

My mother, on the other hand, worked hard, sometimes working as many as three jobs at a time.  She often worked the swing shift or night shift.  As a nursing assistant, she didn't make much money so she supplemented as a home care provider when she could.  We didn't have any family so the load fell on her shoulders, both in supporting our family and in raising my younger sister and I.  She has always been a harder worker, both at work and at home.

When I was in the fourth grade, Vince was arrested and sentenced to four years in prison.   We spent one weekend every month driving an hour and a half away to visit him at the penitentiary.  We were allowed a hug and sat at round white cafeteria-style tables and talked about all kind of normal things (in a decidedly un-normal place).  It was another thing I knew other kids didn't do.  At school, I was smart and confident in that.  No one knew I spent weekends visiting my dad in jail.  I was quiet and stayed to myself.  When I was in the eighth grade, my dad was released.  The next couple of years, he stayed clean and worked hard.  But it didn't last.

My high school years were the most difficult.  We were homeless a few times, having to live on the kindness of friends, my mom and sister and I often sharing one room. My dad drifted in and out of our lives, sometimes living with us, sometimes not. If it wasn't nailed down, Dad took it and sold it--my sister's bike, the small college books' fund I'd saved and hidden in my room, anything of value.

I hated being home when Vince was home.  I hated seeing what he did to our family.  I hated seeing how selfish he was.  Whether or not you call addiction a disease, its influence, its destruction, spreads it's way through whole families.  It leaves broken homes, broken kids, broken lives in its wake.  It's not to just the addict that suffers.

I could easily have been a statistic, another drug addict's kid following in his footsteps.  Besides school and my books, there was one more place I felt safe and happy and that was at church.  One Sunday morning when I was six years old, my mom put me on a church bus and I heard about Jesus.  More than that, the most important part, God got a hold of my heart and He did not let go.  He has always been a constant, faithful presence in my life. I honestly believe without His hold on me, my life would have gone down a much harder, darker path. 

Looking back, I see how all these pieces were parts of my story. The lessons I learned as a kid prepared me for life as a grown up.  The lessons I learned from my dad are hard ones.  I learned to not trust easily and to be suspicious of people who use nice words and make promises.  I've learned that addiction is a powerful, ugly thing. His actions, the way he lived his life, also taught me to protect who you love and that nothing is more important than those people.  I learned that I didn't want to be anything like him.

But I also learned forgiveness even when, especially when, it's not asked for.  I've learned that forgiveness is a gift I freely give without expectations or requirements. Because, in the end, the forgiveness is for me, so that I can go on with my life without bitterness.

The lessons I learned from my mom were different. My mom worked to support my sister and I and I learned the value of hard work, standing on your own two feet, taking care of what matters and to be strong when you don't want to be.  All those lessons have carried me through many times as an adult and as a mom to two autistic boys.

I've thought a lot about whether I'll tell my children about Vince's part of my story.  Do I want them to know about this?  It's not pretty; those memories aren't warm and fuzzy.  But at the same time, it's also a part of me and, for better or worse, helped me become the person I am today.  So I have to embrace it. No more secrets.

My children's stories are being told right now, the parts of their stories that will shape them as adults. Just like mine, some parts won't be easy or pretty, but God will not stop in the middle or leave them hanging; He will always finish the story, even if we don't understand it until Heaven.  The beauty in that is that each life is precious; each story full of trials and triumphs, hurts and pain, strength and loveliness.  Each story is written by a Master.