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Meriah Nichols

Meriah Nichols is a third culture kid, former missionary child. Deaf. Mama to 3. She is leaving soon to drive with her family from San Francisco to Argentina, along the Pan Am Overland. Follow their trip at With a Little Moxie.

The post Choosing Moxie appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Remember when food was that stuff you consumed when you were hungry? Me neither. Somehow parenting changes that. Gone are the days of cooking one meal that everyone will eat and consuming food that is actually warm….

1. Everything is stage. It will pass. Just like that penny your baby ingested.

2. On long trips, let your children eat whatever processed crap you can get your hands on.

3. If you count ketchup as a fruit or vegetable, it’s likely your child is eating a balanced diet.

4. Never tell your child that the ice cream truck sells ice cream. Tell them it sells vegetables.

5. If it’s 6 PM and you have not made supper, declare it “Backwards Day” and serve breakfast for dinner. Limit this to 6x per week.

6. Keep an emergency vegetable tray in the fridge. If other parents visit your home, pull it out and appear responsible.

7. Eating your child’s Halloween candy is akin to martyrdom: it saves your kids the pain and humiliation of cavities.

8. Look for opportunities to practice your child’s literacy skills. Buying food with unrecognizable ingredients aids this educational pursuit.

9. Teaching toddlers to smuggle candy into movie theatres is the first step towards teaching them to become financially independent.

10. Realizing that “meal” stands for “Mommy Eats, Always Last” will help you become accustomed to choking down cold food.

(Adapted from Leanne’s book, Don’t Lick the Minivan. One random commenter will win a copy at 6PM on Wednesday, May 21!)

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Leanne Shirtliffe

Leanne Shirtliffe, of IronicMom.com, is the author of DON'T LICK THE MINIVAN: Things I Never Thought I'd Say to My Kids. She’s also the mother of tween twins, a phrase that’s hard to say after two glasses of wine. When she’s not wasting brain cells tweeting @LShirtliffe, she teaches teens who are slightly less hormonal than she is. She lives in Calgary because she likes complaining about the weather.

The post 10 Facts on Feeding Young Kids appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

We come in all shapes and sizes, all manner of opinion, tradition, and circumstance. We are not born mothers, regardless of what our children may think, though some of us are clearly better at it than others.

Our knowledge does not arrive in a neat little box with a satin bow. We learn by watching others, through sheer will, strength and adversity. We are on the front lines. Some of us hover, some parent from afar. No matter what our style, we are questioned, challenged, revered, reviled. And, fortunately, loved — though never quite as much as we love.

We are mothers.

We are single, married, divorced, gay, straight. We are perfect; we are imperfect; we are tough; we are soft; we keep therapists in business. We are doctors without licenses perpetually on call to remedy ills and fix broken hearts.

We are cheering squads, disciplinarians, realists, dreamers, playmates, chefs, and detectives. We are students of life, professors of whatever the day brings.

Whether we work at home or in an office, our job description is long and our days are too short. Whether we have money to burn or none to spare, our salary is the same. It won’t buy what’s in any store, but it can make us feel richer just the same.

We are mothers.

Most of us do it for love, a few for glory, some just do it. All of us have the power to change lives.

We are nearly 90 million strong and sisters at heart. Still, sometimes we are each other’s toughest critics, and forget we have one another to fall back on — we are our own best source of inspiration, courage, advice and kindness.

We are mothers.

When the earliest memories of our children begin to fade — memories of their first steps, first words, first day of school — we work to keep them alive. We make scrapbooks, take photos, carry images in our hearts.

We are mothers.

There are those of us who believe that mistakes cannot be guarded against, that the old ways are the best. Others say history is to be learned from but should not be repeated — that the future must be written anew.

One day soon, when some of us least expect it, the future will arrive. Our kids will be grown and we’ll move on with our lives separate from theirs. And when it does, and we are in the company of women friends both old and new, we’ll be reminded not of our differences, but of the single most important way we are the same.

We are mothers.

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Melissa Shultz

Melissa T. Shultz writes about life’s journey -- the wistful, the wonderful, and the wry. Her work has appeared in newspapers and magazines including: Newsweek, The Washington Post, The Dallas Morning News, D Magazine, Better Health and Living Magazine, Reader’s Digest, The New York Times, Ladies’ Home Journal, Babble.com, Huffington Post, BetterAfter50.com, The Los Angeles Times, as well as CNN Radio. You can follow her on Twitter @MelissaTShultz

The post The Sisterhood of Mothers appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

The commentary is always the same and I know that it will find me. At preschool pick-up. In the check out line.

There is no return policy.  Children are not dogs.  Adoption is for life.  Did she think it would be easy?  How dare she?  Awful.  Selfish.

What part of forever don’t these horrible people who adopt children and give up understand?  What part of parent don’t they understand?

No part. I understand too well. I understand parenting one child to the trauma and detriment of another.  I understand choosing between the needs of one child and another.

How could I give up?

I will try and paint it for you. If you will try to keep in mind that I am shaking as I write four long years later.

The sun shone in the windows and for the first time in two months, I felt a fragile peace. My traumatized, institutionalized five-year-old son with valid grief, with understandable rage and abandonment issues, actually leaned against me to see the story that I read. The tentative, warm touch of his arm against mine made it difficult for me to focus on the words. He had chosen to touch me. Months of screaming tantrums set off by nothing and rages and incidents with our little ones that I tried to ignore faded away, melted into nothing at my feet. I could do this.  I could do it if we could have these moments. If I could see the progress. If I could have something to give me hope that I was on the right track and he might someday love me and trust me enough that I could breathe.

My one-year-old son, my healthy, untraumatized child toddled back and forth from the bookshelf to us, carrying offerings. He asked to sit in my lap and I pulled him up, but he cried and fussed and I set him down. He leaned against me from the floor and then started to cry and crawled away. Maybe eight or ten times, until I wondered if he was sick, but the fragile bond with my oldest boy held  and so when the baby found a quiet game to play on the far side of the room, I read books and snuggled with him as long as I could.

Shadows fell. I kissed my son and got up to start the evening routine. I sat on the ground to change the baby’s diaper, pulled off his pants and pushed up his shirt. Angry red welts scattered across his stomach. One on his side. One on his back. My heart leaped to my throat. An allergic reaction? Hives? They weren’t raised. They weren’t itchy. In the middle they looked bruised.

I knew, then. I looked up and met my oldest son’s eyes and I knew. The hard, angry heart-breakingly familiar set of his face. Defiant, daring, asking. What are you going to do now? Do you still want to be my mother now? The price for my peace. The price for my oblivion and my quiet and my desperate need to have everything work for just one afternoon. I could see my older son’s rage splashed in vivid red on my baby’s stomach.

I could see the price and it was too high for me. I knew he needed to learn that he would be loved no matter what. Trauma, anger, grief, some part of my brain whispered to whatever small part of me remembered to be his mother. I know. I know. I know. I knew and I still shook with rage at a five-year-old boy. There’s no easier way to say it. I shook with rage at a five-year-old boy.

I took his hand and he writhed and screamed and fought and bit and scratched and I don’t blame him. Pure survival instincts. He sensed the danger as well as I did. I pulled him up the stairs as gently, but quickly, as I could, protecting myself as best I could and I put him in his room and I locked the door.

It wasn’t to keep him in. It wasn’t to contain his tantrum which raged inside, turning over furniture and ripping apart bedding and kicking and screaming.

I didn’t lock the door to keep him in.

I turned the lock because I didn’t think I could open a locked door to hurt a child.

And I didn’t. But I wanted to. I wanted to go in there and spank him until I couldn’t lift my arm. I wanted to hold him down and hurt him like he hurt my baby.

I stood on the other side of the door with my head against it and all my education, all my love, all my good intentions, all my reading, all my preparation, the time with the social workers, the words of the attachment therapist were nothing. Nothing. There was nothing and no one there to help me and I have never been so angry, so on the edge of out of control, in my life.

That’s where we are, these parents the world condemns. That is what the bottom looks like.  Imagine that you stand at the top of a dark well, looking down at a parent, sitting at the bottom with her head on her knees. Would you try to throw her a rope, or would you spit on her? Which do you think helps the child?

I will tell you what helped my children. A family that wanted a child. A family with only teenagers. A family that had parented traumatized, reactive attachment disorder children before. A mother who on the day that my oldest child became hers said to me not only, “we can do this; it’s okay to let go,” but also, “we understand why you can’t.”

They didn’t throw me a rope, they built my whole family a staircase and it was in the best interest of every single one of my children, my oldest son most of all.

What can we do to help? What can we offer in the place of judgment, instead of scathing commentary? We don’t have to be the whole rope. All we have to be is a thread.

It is a painful reality that a child can be so damaged in the first few years of life that he becomes a terrifying and heartbreaking impossibility for the parents who have opened their hearts and their homes to try and love him.  But each and every one of us can be a thread in the rope for change and healing.

How about this? The next time you see a mom “with a horrible kid” “losing it” at the playground, take a deep breath and instead of commenting on the “terrible parent doing nothing while her daughter screams,” think:

Maybe this is the twentieth tantrum today;
Maybe she was up all night;
Maybe the situation is ten million times more complicated than I realize;

And then meet that mother’s eyes and smile at her.

Because maybe, just maybe, an hour ago, she walked away from that child’s door. And maybe, just maybe, for the cost of a smile, you gave her the strength to do it again.

Just like that, you’re a thread in the rope. Now we’re helping children.

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Stacey Conner

Stacey Conner is raising four kids and a Great Dane with her husband, Matt, in the Pacific Northwest. She regrets the Great Dane, the rest are keepers. She writes about life’s joys and sorrows, big and small, at Any Mommy Out There.

The post Threads appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Last year, after sharing the news of our upcoming trip to Disney World, I realized why so many parents wait to tell their kids about a trip to the happiest place on earth. It’s not because they want to see the shock and awe on their children’s faces when they are told the trip of their dreams is a mere couple  of hours away. It’s not because they wish they’d had such an experience when they were kids, and it’s not because they’re trying to infuse magic into a normally magic-free existence.

No, no, no, my friends.

It’s because smart parents don’t want to be nagged incessantly over the days, weeks or months leading up to a Disney trip.

Duh.

In case you haven’t taken your kids before, imagine  the unbearable chanting of “are we there yet” you hear incessantly during a long car ride . And then multiply it by a trillion.  Why would any parent willingly subject themselves to that?

This year, we smartened up. I spent the few last weeks secretly weeding through last year’s summer clothes to figure out what the kids’ needed to wear in 90 degree heat. New sandals, new bathing suits, new shorts, new sunscreen; the whole nine  yards brought into the house bit by bit so not to raise suspicion. Hotel and dinner reservations made while the kids were at school and the suitcases loaded into the car last night while the kids slept obliviously a floor above.

Yesterday was a morning like any other. “Get up!!” I hollered, “you’re going to be late for school!!” I shoved breakfast down their throats and told them they could watch 15 minutes of TV before we left or we were going to be late. And then Jeff came in and we unleashed the plan, months in the making. “Do you guys really feel like going to school today?” Jeff asked. Lily did; the boys not so much. “ Well, I don’t want to go to work.”

“What if we could go somewhere else?” I picked up. “Where would it be?”

“Roller skating!” Lily yelled. “Bowling!” Ben proclaimed. Evan just stared at us, wondering what the hell was going on and why he had to stop watching Sponge Bob ten minutes early.

“Anywhere in the world, you guys, and you pick skating and bowling? C’mon!”

“DISNEY!” Ben hollered, right on cue. Jeff and I stood a little taller, preparing ourselves for the royal crowing of Mommy and Daddy of the Year.

“OK!” we smiled as I recorded the happenings.  “Let’s go!!”

And that’s when the best laid plan fell to shit.

Instead of the cheering and exuberance we were waiting for, they scowled at us. “You’re lying,” Lily accused. “Yeah right.” Ben pouted. Evan wanted Sponge Bob back.

“Guys! Go look in the trunk. Remember those flip-flops I made you try on? The new bathing suits? The sunscreen we bought? We’re leaving now. SURPRISE!!!!!”

It took until we were on route to the airport to convince Lily and Evan that it was actually happening and Ben still didn’t believe us until we passed through security at the airport.  Good to know that my children aren’t huge fans of surprises.

At least Jeff and I escaped the alternative of inevitable and non-stop whining leading up to the trip. One morning was bad enough…

{We’re heading to Disney as part of the Disney Social Media Moms Conference. I paid a conference fee, which included hotel accommodations, park tickets, meals, and other gift items. I was not required, nor asked, to write about the conference. Opinions are my own. Obviously.}

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Jill Smokler, AKA Scary Mommy

What started as an innocent on-line baby book to chronicle Jill's stay-at-home days with her children, (Lily, Ben, and Evan) quickly transformed into a vibrant community of parents, brought together by a common theme: Parenting doesn’t have to be perfect. Learn more here.

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The post The Disney Reveal appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

Last year on this day, I was 6 weeks pregnant with my third pregnancy. It was unexpected and I was conflicted and overwhelmed, but I was excited at the possibility of another baby in my arms.

Today, my sister-in-law went in for her first appointment for her first ultrasound with her first baby. She is 10 weeks pregnant.

Last year, when I was 10 weeks and 4 days pregnant, I went into my obstetrician’s office for an ultrasound. I was spotting. When I was 10 weeks pregnant, I was told that my baby no longer had a heartbeat. Part of me died in that moment.

Today, I was texted a photo of my sister-in-law’s ultrasound with the outline of my beautiful and healthy new niece or nephew. I was thrilled and then almost immediately, I felt kicked in the gut.

I’m not super sensitive or depressed but the fact is that last year around this time, I found out that I was pregnant. On April 31st at 10 weeks and 4 days along, an ultrasound tech told me that my baby no longer had a heartbeat. It was the worst moment of my life. The next morning I was wheeled into surgery to have a D & E because of how far along I was and because nothing was passing on its own.

I still have the photo of the ultrasound that I made them take again before I went into surgery that morning, just to make sure there was no heartbeat. It’s on my phone. I am afraid to erase it because I am afraid that I will erase the fact that my baby was ever here. That photo is my only tangible evidence my baby #3 ever existed.

Today, my sister-in-law, who I truly am very happy and excited for, went in for her first appointment, she is 10 weeks pregnant. She texted me the ultrasound and suddenly, what I thought I had learned to live with, those feelings, that pain came bubbling to the surface.

She sent the text as I was headed to afternoon pick up so I had all those feelings swishing around, trying to boil over, my heart hurts and I just want to cry. I can’t because my kids are here. I can’t write about it on my own site because I don’t want my sister-in-law to read it and think that I am not happy or to worry that her joy is bringing me misery. It is not.

I am happy for her and my brother-in-law; it’s just that every progression of her pregnancy is a reminder of my loss and the sadness I feel about it. These residual emotional time bombs left over from the loss happen at the most inopportune times. So I have to write about it to process it or I will explode and start blubbering inappropriately. I want to be excited with her. I want to celebrate. I want to embrace it all but my heart has not caught up with my head yet.

When will this ever stop? Will I ever feel truly happy again? When will I stop feeling like I’m going to burst into tears every time someone I love tells me they are pregnant?

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Deborah Cruz

Deborah Cruz, online known as @TruthfulMommy on Twitter is the creator of the snarky, often entertaining parenting site The TRUTH about Motherhood. She’s a writer, a wife, and a work-at-home Ninja Mommy who’s trying to do it all well; usually falling short.

The post Moving Past a Loss appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

1. You find yourself willingly holding a living creature that you would usually run away from screaming.

2. A girl makes eyes at your son and you have this weird urge to pull her aside and call her a “slut” (whether she’s 6 or 16).

3. You have an unhealthy knowledge of the point/gem system for Temple Run, Dragonvale, Bakugan, Plants vs. Zombies, Cube Runner …

4. You can’t muster the brain power to recall what you ate for breakfast, yet you can inherently transform a Transformer (without the 30 pages of directions it came with).

5. You bought a car based solely on how much equipment you could fit in the trunk.

6. Your child asks you to marry him and you’re totally considering it.

7. You know what a Ripstik is and you’re not afraid to use it.

8. You spend much of your days in a fog of fart odor and some of it is proudly yours. (What? How else can you impress your male offspring?)

9. A little penis seems to be constantly whizzing by (well, let’s hope that’s your sons).

10. You’ve actually placed yourself under a tree with the feeling that, if that kiddo loses footing you’ll at least be there to break his fall.

11. You know the pain of stepping on a Lego … and may in fact, have one imbedded somewhere in your body right now.

12. There’s a finger in your eye, your ear, or up your nose and it’s not yours.

13. You understand what I mean when I say “bleacher butt,” as in, “My sits bones are literally numb, I have bleacher butt.”

14. There’s a rogue Bey Blade in your purse.

15. You’ve found yourself saying things like, “No, you can’t ride the dog.” and “Yes, you do have to keep your pants on in public.”

16. You’ve had in depth conversations about who would win in multiple variations of match-ups involving Spider-Man, Iron Man, Captain America, X-Men, Daddy …

17. You can’t wait until he’s old enough to watch Airplane, The Naked Gun, Caddy Shack, Vacation, Fletch, The Three Amigos…

18. Though you claim to be an absolute pacifist, you’ve had a talk that involved you urging, “Sometimes you gotta push back.”

19. You’ve considered leashing your son at a theme park and he’s 12.

20. You’re on a first name basis with the orderlies at the ER who provide slings, splints, casts, and those velcro boots.

21. You may have shamefully thought, “It wouldn’t be so bad if he married an orphan.”

22. At some point you notice the change in smell from “OMG sooo sweet” to “Get that tween some AXE.”

23. You can use your keyboard, phone, iPad, but there’s a good chance your fingers will get stuck to it.

24. You can’t find a single pair of pants without holes in the knees.

25. There’s a love you feel for your son that’s too great and sometimes too scary to fully explain or even comprehend.

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Jenny Isenman

Jenny Isenman AKA Jenny From the Blog is the humorist behind The Suburban Jungle. A card carrying Gen Xer and columnist at Huff Po and The Stir, her goal is to you keep herself sane and to teach dolphins to read. She is failing at both. Join the insanity on Facebook and Twitter.

The post 25 Ways You Know You Have a Boy appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

My Disney mission? Accomplished, with flying colors.

In other news…

Congratulations to When Crazy Meets Exhaustion for winning the last stop on my book tour with a whopping 1700 votes!! Pittsburgh, here I come! I can’t wait.

Fortunately, the runner up (Lisa with over 1200 votes!) lives in Cleveland, which is only a couple of hours away, so I’ll be able to stop there as well. Need to work out the details with the ladies, but hope to have some sort of open event as well (even if that just means meeting at a bar.) Details to come!

Finally, Scary Mommy Nation will be sending a check for $925 to Boston’s One Fund. Thank you so much to everyone who donated; every dollar was matched and I’m proud that we will be able to make a small difference in the lives of those affected by the tragedy last month. You guys rock.

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Jill Smokler, AKA Scary Mommy

What started as an innocent on-line baby book to chronicle Jill's stay-at-home days with her children, (Lily, Ben, and Evan) quickly transformed into a vibrant community of parents, brought together by a common theme: Parenting doesn’t have to be perfect. Learn more here.

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The post Met My Match At Disney… appeared first on Scary Mommy: An honest look at motherhood.

“I won’t grow up…

I don’t want to wear a tie…

Or a serious expression…

In the middle of July…”

 
The words of the Peter Pan song float down the hall and give me pause. I grin and tiptoe into the hallway. I peek my head into his bedroom, where he sits among his Legos.

“What are you singing, sweetheart?”

He gasps upon seeing me. “MOM! You can’t hear it! It’s supposed to be a surprise!”

Wearing the look of someone properly chastised, I ask, “Hear what? I didn’t hear anything. Did you?”

The smile that melts my heart spreads wide across his 7 year old face. His eyes alight and his nose wrinkles as he answers, “I know you’re kidding, Mom.”

Scrambled eggs topped with a slice of American cheese. A hanging plant. A new pair of running sneakers. A pair of gardening gloves…typically pink. A trail hike along the Wissahickon. And four hand-drawn cards. These are my gifts every Mother’s Day.

One card is crafted by my oldest son under slight protest, and contains very few words…just a small illustration drawn in pencil with a cute joke. When he hands it to me, he leans in and allows me a treat…a hug…very rare for this private boy in the midst of his tween years.

Another card is drawn in marker…illustrated in detail…and typically pictures me, grinning broadly, face covered in freckles, donning a cape. That card comes from my 10 year old. With it comes a hug that lingers just a touch, delivered by the arms of an imaginative boy whose right hand and left fingertips still bear the dark blue smudges of the markers he’s used to create my card.

Two more cards are thrust into my hands, but I don’t look at them immediately. Their givers wrap their small arms around my neck, climb onto my lap, and lean their heads on my shoulders.  They are 7 and 4. Nothing about them smells of baby anymore. But it doesn’t make them any less my babies. When I glance over their resting heads at the cards they’ve made, my eyes well with tears as I see the white pieces of printer paper bearing the words, “I LOVE YOU, MOM”.

The simplest of messages.

The most poignant.

The only words that truly matter.

Written by boys whose awkward grips on their writing instruments are still a bit too firm. Whose letters are written with painstaking concentration by hands that’ve yet to know their shapes as second nature.

It is a few minutes before 8AM on a Thursday morning. I sit in a pew among a sea of fellow kindergarten parents in the school chapel. We await the entrance of our sons. I suspect I’m about to hear the song I stumbled upon my son singing last week. The song about staying a boy. And the lump begins in my throat.

The conversations cease, the parents sit straighter, and iPhones are hastily retrieved from jacket pockets and handbags as our boys file into the chapel. They wear hats…chef hats, fireman hats, hard hats, and fezzes…and wave enthusiastically at us as they take their places on the stage.

My boy doesn’t see me immediately. He peers out at the audience from under his hard hat. I know he spots me when that grin of his…the one that warms my heart all the way down to my toes…spreads across his face. I wave to him, blow him a kiss, and he tips his hard hat in response. And that lump in my throat warns me a mere fraction of a second before it happens that the first of my tears is about to fall.

“I won’t grow up…

I don’t want to go to school.

Just to learn to be a parrot…

And recite a silly rule.”

I wipe the tears…first with my fingertips, then with the heels of my hands…as they fall.

“If growing up means…

It would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree…

I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up…

Not me!

Not I…

Not me!”

I cry because this boy…the third of my four sons…has come so far in just a year. I cry for the enthusiasm with which he sings…and because I know that enthusiasm has quite possibly reached its peak…it will soon drop off slowly or maybe more abruptly as I’ve witnessed with both of his two older brothers.

“I won’t grow up…

I don’t want to wear a tie.

And a serious expression…

In the middle of July.”

I cry for the magic of kindergarten. The innocence of their precious existence. The excitement of new friendships. The joy of learning to read and write. The independence that’s begun. The pants which were a smidge too long in September and are suddenly…surprisingly…an inch too short.

“And if it means I must prepare…

To shoulder burdens with a worried air…

I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up…

Not me…

Not I…

Not me!”

I cry for Kate. For her first Mother’s Day without Gavin, the miraculous boy who made Kate a Mom. The courageous boy who imprinted on the hearts of so many without ever uttering a single word.

“So there!

Never gonna be a man…

I won’t!

Like to see somebody try…

And make me.

Anyone who wants to try…

And make me turn into a man…

Catch me if you can.”

I cry for the parents of the victims of the shooting in Aurora, CO, last summer. For the Moms who will spend their first Mother’s Day without their children by their sides.

“I won’t grow up.

Not a penny will I pinch.

I will never grow a mustache…

Or a fraction of an inch.

‘Cause growing up is awfuller…

Than all the awful things that ever were.”

I cry because there is something more awful than growing up. The group of Moms a few hours North of me can attest to that. The group of Moms whose children…the same age as my boy who sings so passionately before me…will not take the stage and sing in celebration of this Mother’s Day. Or any Mother’s Day. I weep for the babies of Newtown, CT, who never got the chance to grow up.

“I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up…

No sir…

Not I…

Not me…

So there!

We won’t grow up!

We will never grow a day…

And if someone tries to make it…

We will simply run away!”

I cry for Denise Richard, whose young son, Martin, died so tragically in the Boston Marathon bombings. For the shrapnel that lodged itself in her brain, and for her daughter who lost a leg in the same explosion that took her beloved boy.

“I won’t grow up!

No, I promise that I won’t…

I will stay a boy forever…

And be banished if I don’t!”

I cry for Jeff Bauman. Who lost both legs in Boston. I cry for Jeff’s Mom and stepmom, who will celebrate a different kind of Mother’s Day this year. They will hug Jeff from the confines of his wheelchair. Because the recent loss of his legs renders him unable to stand up and wrap his arms around them in a Mother’s Day embrace.

“And Never Land will always be…

The home of beauty and joy…

And neverty…

I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up…

Not me!

No sir!

Not me!”

They bow. We applaud. I quickly wipe the remainder of my tears. Aware that my two older sons are several rows behind me. Knowing they’ll be embarrassed…possibly by my mere existence and certainly by my display of emotion…if they see fresh tears upon my cheeks.

This year, on Mother’s Day, I will savor every bite of my eggs. I’ll stop to inhale my fragrant flowers. Slip on my brand new running shoes. Slide my hands into my clean gardening gloves. Enjoy every step of our family hike…even the steps that are accompanied by complaints of tired legs and empty bellies.  Save each of the cards made for me by the four people I love most in this beautiful world…this beautiful, scary world whose tragedies rocked the existence of so many mothers in the last year.

In honor of all the Mothers whose children will never grow up…and for those Moms whose children cannot stand up…I will soak up every delicious second of my Mother’s Day.

Lucky to be surrounded by my children.

Painfully aware that so many Moms will not enjoy that simple…that most important…luxury this year.

Love, peace, and healing to you this Mother’s Day.

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Bethany Meyer

Bethany is a wife, a mom to 4 boys, a runner, a lover of yoga, and a dedicated list-maker. Her work has been featured on The Huffington Post and in I Just Want to Pee Alone. She can be found on her blog, I Love Them the Most When They're Sleeping, on Twitter as @4godssakeboys or on Facebook.

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As the prevalence of autism increases, many are finding themselves in conversations with parents of children with autism and not knowing what to say. People are good. They want to say the right thing. They want to encourage. They want to offer hope. My son was diagnosed with autism seven years ago and it has taught me how wonderful people truly can be. In their efforts, though, sometimes the things they say have the opposite effect of their intentions…

1. “He can’t be autistic because…” I heard a million reasons why Casey couldn’t be autistic when we were in the process of getting him diagnosed. They ranged from “He just looked me in the eyes!” to “He’s nothing like Rainman!” Parents have a hard enough time coming to terms with their child’s diagnosis all on their own. We spend months saying those very same things to ourselves. Then we get to a point where we know that what we are doing is right and seek out help. Having to constantly defend what we are seeing is taxing during a time where we don’t have much left to give. Autism comes in all shapes in sizes. It’s a spectrum of abilities and disabilities. It’s never the same in two children with the same diagnosis.

Instead, say: “I’m new to autism; can you tell me more about it? What’s Casey’s autism like for him?” I love when people ask questions. It means that they are stepping outside of the stereotypes they know and are really wondering what autism means to us. It means they care and they want to learn more about my son. I don’t expect everyone to be an expert on every diagnosis out there. What I needed most was for people to just be there for me. After Casey was diagnosed, one of the greatest things said to me was, “He’s still the same kid he was the day before he was diagnosed.”

2. “He’ll probably grow out of it.” It’s been seven years since my son was diagnosed. He has not and will not grow out of it. He was born this way and his autism is a huge part of who he is and what makes him amazing. He has achieved so much through his hard work and through the talents of many amazing teachers and therapists, and he will continue to be autistic. Saying he’ll grow out of it discounts the hard work he has or will do. It also discounts the many good things his autism adds to who he is.

I want people to accept Casey for who he is, autism and all. I love it when people accept his quirks and even embrace them. My friend Erin has always done this. For a while after we first met, Casey would greet her by running headfirst into her. So she would turn around and do the same thing to him. It made him giggle uncontrollably.

I love it when people embrace him. I love being asked what Casey likes. I love it even more when people ask him what he likes. Anyone who is around Casey for longer than ten minutes ends up loving him for who he is, and that’s not in spite of or because of his autism. It’s because he’s a great kid.

3. “I read that autism is caused by…” Please. Please don’t tell me that you’ve found yet another study that says it’s the mom’s fault. Please don’t post it to my Facebook wall that my being a little overweight or my living by a highway caused my son’s autism. I feel enough damn mommy guilt as it is. There is a new “study” published every week. I’m a fan of good research. The problem with these studies is that they are correlational. Correlation between two things does not mean that one caused the other, as is erroneously implied. More and more, the cause of autism looking to be all genetic. But, if you’re slightly masochistic or just enjoy a good argument, mention either side of the vaccine debate. See how that goes.

4. “I heard that you can cure autism by…” Oh, you are stepping into a minefield with that one. This has to do a lot with number three, above. We don’t know for sure the cause, and there is no cure. In fact, using the word “cure” in conjunction with autism pisses A LOT of adults with autism off. They like who they are, autism included, and do not want to be cured of something that makes them who they are.

Beyond that, there are too many shady doctors out there peddling snake oil treatments at an obscene cost. The “treatments” range from the benign waste of money to just downright dangerous. You can find everything from bleach enemas (I kid you not, ask Jenny McCarthy!), hyperbaric oxygen chambers, chelation, to funky saunas (You know, because people with autism love being enclosed in small, dark and hot rooms). Too many times people, whether they be celebrities who think they are doctors or doctors who care too much about being a celebrity, act as if you’re not doing everything they are doing, buying every one of their expensive and unproven treatments, you are not a “warrior mom” and you’re not trying hard enough for your child. I’m sorry, that’s bullshit.

Most parents go to great lengths to treat their child’s autism and to give them the best chance at being their best selves. My son has had speech, occupational and physical therapy since he was 18 months old. We tried alternative diets, but they didn’t work out for my son. These were never in an attempt to “cure” him, but to help him have the best chance at success, however that comes to him.

I’m always grateful that people are paying attention to autism related stories. It’s really nice that people care enough to want to have a dialogue about autism. I’d much rather have you say though, “Do you have any favorite books about autism? Where do you go for your information?” This is so much better than inadvertently making us feel like we caused our child’s autism and now aren’t doing enough to cure it. (On a personal note, if you say to me that “Jenny McCarthy cured her son, why haven’t you?” You’re likely to get punched in the throat. )

5. “You’re my hero!” “God knew you could handle this!” “Special kids for special parents” and other such platitudes. I swear there will come a day that I roll my eyes too hard at one of these that they’ll get stuck inside my head. I get that you’re trying to be nice. I get that you think you couldn’t do what I do. I know you want to think that there’s something amazing about me that gives me the ability to handle having a child (or two) with disabilities. But there is nothing fundamentally different about me than any other mother. I am a normal mother in an abnormal situation. I do what I do because I have to, and you would too if you were put into the same situation.

I cannot emphasize this enough: special needs kids aren’t sent to special parents. Some parents are amazing without even having a kid with special needs! Some parents just plain suck, and some of those do in fact have kids with disabilities. I am not some sort of hero. I have not been endowed on high with some sort of powers that make me any better at parenting two children with special needs than you would be if you were in the same circumstance. Like with anything with parenting, you learn as you go. You make mistakes. You cry, scream, swear and start over the next day. Saying that I’m some sort of hero puts me on an impossible pedestal that I don’t even care to be on. I am a normal mom in an abnormal situation. What I need you to say is, “How can I help?” This is the not-so-secret secret very few parents of children with disabilities will tell you: we aren’t perfect. This is hard. We need help. We need a break. We need sleep.

If nothing else, a very simple, “You’re doing a great job!” goes a long, long way.

6. “____________ ” Way worse than saying any of the items from the list above is saying nothing at all. Autism can be a very isolating disability, for both the person with autism and the family members. It makes getting out and doing family activities or sports very hard. Socially speaking, we are taught and subsequently teach our kids to not stare at and to ignore someone who may be behaving in a way that seems weird. Not surprisingly, teaching someone to ignore a person that behaves differently a lot, ends up leaving that person ignored completely.

In writing this list, my greatest fear is that in telling you what not to say, it would make you afraid to say anything at all. That is the last thing I want from this. Most parents of children with disabilities are perfectly comfortable talking about our kids. We are every bit as proud of them and their accomplishments as you are of your children. Talk to us. Ask us questions. There is nothing you can say if you are well-meaning that could ever be worse than saying nothing at all.

Author information

Lexi Sweatpants

Lexi Sweatpants is a writer, wife and mother of four. Her middle son has autism, her daughter has Down syndrome. She has sleep deprivation and a deep passion for candy.  She writes about all of this and more at Mostly True Stuff.

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