Once again, thanks to John Lasseter, I’ve left a Disney Pixar film- reeling (pardon the pun). I’ve been crying my eyes out for the past hour and forty-two minutes and I’m not sure if it’s because (a) I could never, EVER, EVER conceive of anything more clever than Inside Out if my life depended on it (although I totally predicted from the second Bing-Bong came on the screen that he had to be “erased”) or (b) I spent the duration of the film inside my own head, analyzing my kid’s head, pleading I wouldn’t conclude that Sadness dominates his helm.

My first clue should have come when my 10.99 year-old son J.R., who has autism, disappeared from my sight as I waited in long ticket line. Kids with autism don’t have time to wait, so I sent his younger brother after him (another cruel irony) and he was found physically latching onto the movie poster’s image of the Sadness character. “Sadness is sad, but she sure is cute mom,” exclaims the boy who is about to consume an Icee larger than my head, and more expensive than my designer sunglasses. I shake my head because I would have bet the farm my son would have found Anger an absolute hoot. Note to self: return J.R.’s birthday gift to Target (Disney Pixar Anger action figure) before he sees it and well, gets angry.

Getting seated and settled in the theater is no easy task- nosebleed seats: check! Loud, inappropriate comments from J.R. right on cue with the quiet time in between previews: check! Hey, I’m sure my son simply screamed what was on every other kids’ mind- Underdogs IS going to “SUCK!!!!!!!!!!!” Oh Joy, how the autism mom relates to your character. Keeping Disgust, Anger, and Fear in check certainly is a full time job when your son feels most at home on Honesty Island.

Inside Out reveals, in THE MOST hilarious way, how a traumatic life event can send one’s already hardworking emotions into overdrive. And how Pixar can’t resist a sequel teaser, yeay! Unfortunately, I found it difficult to watch the film’s opening scenes, which feature adorable main character Riley in her very early years. Why? Like Riley, J.R. must have dozens of “core” memories of his towheaded escapades. What had me distracted enough to not notice my boys’ fight over the popcorn had come to physical blows? Agonizing over what color the bulk of my autistic son’s childhood memories might be. How many of his “orbs” were sadly blue? I can’t imagine not being able to speak was much fun for him. Which orbs were accidentally touched by blue and what role could I (supposedly guided by Joy, remember?) have played in their classification? Translation: many autism moms go to sleep at night, drowning in guilt. This one prays J.R. forms an incredibly deep chasm for a memory “dump.”

Before I allow myself to ruin the movie in my own mind, one headquartered by Joy with Fear gripping tightly to the emergency break, Riley’s mind reveals its Islands. Islands are emotion-sustaining areas of the brain that require joyful memory “feeds” (pun intended this time). How creative. Riley has an island for family, friendship, and even hockey. In that moment, I can’t help thinking what other moms like me will be thinking at this point in the film- what the hell kind of brain islands does my kid have? Hahahahaha! This will be fun! Let’s see, J.R. would require a full on archipelago of sea life Islands, for starters. No wonder his head is so big. Oh and Train Island is a must yet should not be confused with Inside Out’s Train of Thought. And thank you Disney Pixar for portraying even a typical child’s mind with an unpredictable rattletrap for a train of thought. Bravo.

The minute I am reminded that this film is a comedy (thank you Bill Hader), Riley’s islands start crumbling one by one. Her sadness and frustration over moving away from her friends leads to anger. Bye bye Friendship Island. Hockey Island goes once she realizes she can’t get her head in the game. And right at the point where more emotionally stable moviegoers are supposed to feel touched, I start the ugly cry (with noises). My eight year-old is able to dry my tears as he simultaneously screams “SHUT UP J.R.!” who keeps loudly asking for the train scenes to come back. I call Mayday on Brother Island. Does my son even have a Friendship Island? Does J.R.’s own Personality Island block the sun, making it impossible for any other islands to survive? This display of the fragility of the typical human psyche has me feeling darned hopeless about my atypical son’s future.

Enter Sadness. The mere thought of her character should put me over the edge, right? Wrong! Until Joy began physically dragging sad-sack Sadness through Riley’s Long Term Memory, I hadn’t noticed that J.R. lit up every time Sadness spoke. He was glued and in hysterics, as if to say “Amen!” every time Sadness foiled Joy. I was so thrilled he found her entertaining, and he hadn’t once asked to leave the movie. Forget the fact my kid thinks it’s hilarious to be anything but happy. Then comes the line from Joy that ends with “because of Sadness.” Just when she thinks Sadness is screwing up Riley’s memories, she realizes all of Riley’s core memories are results of sadness, alleviated by happiness. A happy memory of a warm embrace is the result of a no good, awful day. This poses the question Does one know true joy without having experienced sadness? One does not. P.S. I am now crying so hard, people (ok, children) are pointing and laughing at me. My neurotypical son wants to move his seat. To Jurassic World.

Raising J.R. has been difficult. I’ve said many times that my memories of his first four years are sketchy at best. My memory “Abyss” may have saved my life, and I should probably thank my brain for holding onto a few distracter memories. 1970’s commercial jingles are the best! And if I had a handful of joyful orbs to peer into, I promise you every positive core memory is a byproduct of sadness. Every single one of my son’s milestones produced insane celebrations, because I’d cried so hard knowing they’d arrive so late. I count three year-old J.R. saying “Pur-ple Cat” as one of the best days of my life. The happiness associated with his first “A” in Language Arts this year eclipsed the tears of receiving six months of failing grades. I had actually forgotten how bad they sucked.

J.R. is on to something as he recognizes and even chooses to embrace sadness at times. It shows me how much happiness means to him- it can be fleeting for some children with autism and he must miss it. It gives me hope to think his successes are felt more deeply because in general, things don’t come that easy for him. To prove this, just observe his giddiness as he successfully operates a microwave oven. I have hope for J.R.’s memory orbs, and God would I give anything to visit his mind’s Islands. Even Sanjay & Craig Island.

I’ve always taught J.R. that it is okay to feel sad. Now I know it’s more than okay. He’s permanently placed Joy as my navigator, regardless, and Sadness knows we’ve earned it.

Now I must go and place an icepack on my eyes, I am happy to say.

The post Because of Sadness appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

photo credit: Etsy Seller OutNerdMe

I thought we were in the clear. I mean, it’s March for goodness’ sake.

Rewind to Christmas, a good one for J.R., which meant my hubby and I were able to breathe a tad easier and drink a little less. And thanks to Amazon.com’s clever wish list system, J.R. easily and conveniently tagged his desired oddities for Santa’s viewing and buying pleasure. There was that plush nursing manatee set (no I am not even kidding), world record-worthy sized microscopic music box, and … wait for it: the time machine. I think he chose an H.G. Wells biography as well as Hot Tub Time Machine on DVD just to cover all bases. Welcome to the wonderful world of the holidays with a side autism.

Now my husband and I knew J.R. was as serious as H.G. Wells about receiving a working time machine from Santa, mostly because he talked about it incessantly. For this reason, the “t” word was avoided like the plague. I recall diving for my car radio touch screen at the first bars of the hallowed 70’s hits “Do That To Me One More Time” (Captain & Tennille), “Too Much Time On My Hands” (Styx), and “Love Takes Time” (Orleans). Sacrilege! One day an oversight involving Jim Croce immediately prompted the “time” conversation again, and this one in particular would stay with me forever. J.R. asked, “Mom, when you borrow my real time machine, will you use it to go forward or backward?”

Wow.

Christmas arrived and thank you Lord that a Lego DeLorean, complete with minifigures of Dr. Emmett Brown and Marty McFly (Calvin Klein?) sufficed as a “real live working time machine.” My husband and I thought our pick was genius and J.R., evolving because he accepted this “off grid” gift. Whew! Oh but don’t think for one minute that we didn’t have Hot Tub in our hip pocket.

Photo credit: AFP

Flash forward back to the present, and J.R. is currently and decidedly “over” the DeLorean ruse a.k.a. the “GODDAMNED FAKE TIME MACHINE THAT DOESN’T WORRRRRRRRKKKK! DAD, I AM STILL HERE AREN’T I?????????????”

This too shall pass, however, I can’t get his question out of my head. What would I do if I had a real time machine? I would turn that bitch back, that’s what I would do.  Let’s see…I would just grab the dial…turn it counter-clockwise and click, click, click …

{cue sound of lightning cracking and other science-y noises that indicate we’re no longer in Kansas}

It’s 2006. I am watching my two year old run down our sidewalk. Away from me. His new behavior therapist asks if I am going to stop him. He is now around the corner and out of my sight. I hesitate, because for every second he is not in my presence, my load feels lighter. All I want (all I am begging for, truthfully) is for my toddler J.R. to grow up. And pronto. God if I can wind his arm a-la Skipper Ken, I will. I wish these days away because my gorgeous, lost boy takes up all of my time. And all I have to focus on is the time: What has he done this time? Is it time for yet another therapy session? Better yet, when is bedtime?

I don’t love being a mom. I am confused and exhausted. It’s a good thing I truly haven’t yet internalized what autism takes from a child. Then I would just be sad. Now where’s that dial again?…

{sound of lightning cracking, my back cracking, and other indications that my frown lines are deepening}

It’s 2015. Suddenly I want all of those awful “times” back. I would give anything (yes, to sit through hundreds of hours of therapy) just to hear my four-year-old string two syllables of Eric Carle together for the first time.

Pur-pul cat, pur-pul cat [what do you see?]

How about the first time J.R. tolerated trick-or-treating, which predated his toleration of an actual Halloween costume? I think he was 8. Please take me back. And I will never, ever forget our first dance. To disco, naturally. So. Many. Memories. I never dreamed the incredible ones would eclipse the awful ones. No matter how few. Damned hindsight!

Sadly, Tom Wolfe reminds us that we can’t go home again. Fine! As a last resort then, I’d like to jam time. Freeze it altogether. Hell if I could re-live this week alone in a constant loop, I would. I say this mostly because when I asked J.R. to blow his runny nose he said “Well of course I will!” It’s the little things.

I don’t want J.R. or his brother out of my sight ever again, because I am afraid if I look away they’ll be all grown up. I simply can’t squeeze enough time in with either one of them (except of course when they’re wrestling, screaming, blaming, burping, or farting). Why must bedtime come so soon? Why can’t their clothes stop “shrinking” before my eyes? Why are they starting to pull away as I grab for their hands?

All kidding aside, it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t confess why I really wouldn’t mind wearing my new Express Boyfriend jeans for all of eternity: because there is no eternity. Time is marching on. I cannot bear to think about J.R.’s statistically grim prospects for the future, much less a future without the person who ties his shoes (me). Will he live on his own? Will he marry? Will he miss me terribly when I am gone? As Dr. Emmett Brown would say, Why are things so heavy in the future?

Given he can be a fairly difficult child, J.R. absolutely loves his current life (just don’t mention the DeLorean debacle). Not only has he exceeded the expectations of medical professionals, teachers, and his parents, he’s light-years ahead of his own. I can see the pride on his face every single day.You see my point? There’s just no reason to move forward.

What gets me through the day as I watch my son and I grow “old” together? J.R.’s self-projected future. And it’s bright. He talks about acquiring girlfriends, juggling multiple wives, cradling babies, and raising turtles. Leatherbacks, specifically. And one day (way too) soon, I’ll be ready to watch him fulfill his dream of becoming a father.  Even if it is to a sea animal. Just give me time.

The post Back to the Present appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

I can picture it like it was yesterday. I returned home from receiving (but most definitely not processing) J.R.’s autism diagnosis to find a package at my door. With my infant car seat carrier weighing on one arm (ouch) and my three-year old tugging hard at the other (ugh), the Abercrombie shopping bag would unfortunately have to wait. I think I know who it’s from anyway, based fact that the store sells size 0000 and the deliverer totally approves of soft porn as an advertising ploy.

I had never felt more emotionally exhausted in my entire life, nor had I felt more blonde. As I yank J.R. across the threshold and quickly slam the door behind us, I stupidly wonder if other parents have it this hard. Do they also worry their kid will dart off into traffic in the time it takes to reposition his newborn brother’s pacifier? Hmmm. Puzzling. Even still, I continue to go over the oh-so-popular autism warning signs checklist in my head, ad-nauseam. You know, the one the therapist handed to me, covered in checks? When would I see the writing on the wall? Maybe it would become visible after I cleaned the poop off?

Clueless, I hadn’t done the “ugly” cry just yet. I can’t wrap my tiny mind around what is happening. Some call it denial, but if I recognize it as such, I wouldn’t be in denial then would I? The package. After my boys are safe inside (a relative term) I grab the bag, the contents of which had obviously been compiling for some time. How else was my best friend able to create a four-inch binder, containing hundreds of sheets printed from internet websites, all in the time it took me to call her on the way home from the therapist’s office? Twenty minutes ago. The plot thickens. And then there are the books. There are at least six here and are all on the topic of J.R.’s specific diagnosis, the now defunct (translation: bullshit) PDD-NOS. I don’t recall their titles, but they may as well have been collectively given the subtitle Just Give Up Now. I open the one with a picture of a very, very sad looking teenage boy on the cover, mostly because I can’t look at him anymore. Who in the hell designed that? Did the photographer actually say don’t smile? I digress. This trash also offers a checklist, but it’s a bit more detailed. I scan the page and feel myself mouth yadda yadda yadda until I come across the most heinous words ever written. I can’t quote directly because I instantly formed a mental block in order to avoid slipping into a coma upon accidentally reading for the second time. To sum it up, it states that if your kid has autism, he’ll never understand humor. What? Effing what? Put a fork in me; I’m done. Apparently Lloyd Bridges and I both picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue.

I cried and cried and cried. And cried some more. I would never accept this “fact.” Ever. Why? Because autism is 100% a genetic disorder (insert present day sarcasm) and I am the funniest person who has ever lived.   This. Is. Literally. Impossible. J.R. is a riot. I think. Isn’t he?

Focus Kristi, focus. I know in my heart that our road ahead will be long, but if it isn’t paved in standup by the likes of Eddie Murphy (specifically, Raw), Brian Regan, Jim Gaffigan, or Dave Chappelle I don’t want to live anymore. Just have Leslie Neilson fly me straight to heaven in his Airplane while everyone else whistles Dixie out of their assholes. And for the record, if John Cleese isn’t God, nor heaven a flying circus, I choose hell.

Nature, meet nurture. You’re about to get married. J.R. will be funny if it kills me.

You’ve read my blog. It’s safe to say that J.R. and I have had a lot of laughs together over the years. Or have we been simply laughing at one another? I’ve exposed him to plenty of hilarity, just by playing the role of mom. Maybe every boy, autism or no autism, thinks (wet) burping and (wet) farting is a riot.  As a last resort I can provide photo evidence. J.R. looks like he’s about to bust a gut in each and every picture of him I own. Well, at least in the few I haven’t deleted. Let’s say for shits and giggles that in the past I was in fact in denial about successfully raising the next Benny Hill. My early Valentine’s Day gift, however, confirms that J.R. can make other people laugh. And not just at him.

Last week J.R. was assigned James Patterson’s novel I Funny: A Middle School Story. I could dig that, essentially because the book is jam-packed with illustrations. Seriously, I adore this book. Jamie Grimm, a wheelchair bound middle schooler, doesn’t take his sucky situation sitting down. Well, he kinda does, admittedly. Nevertheless Jamie fends off both bullies and his sad past with humor. And so successfully that he bravely enters a contest called The Planet’s Funniest Kid Comic. I want to jump onto the page and adopt this boy. For him, comedy is the great equalizer. What a concept.

Illustration credit: Laura Park, I Funny: A Middle School Story

True to form, J.R.’s teacher promptly assigned a project that Mel Brooks could only describe as N-V-T-S, NUTS! He was to perform a stand up comedy routine in front of the entire class. At least my reaction to every autistic ten-year old’s dream assignment was appropriate. It went something like this:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! SERIOUSLY? {SNORT} HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! 

The funniest part? He dove right in and I was in total shock. Let’s be truthful, it took us a while to skim through his baby brother’s fifty joke books to find a handful that weren’t over his head. Yet while we practiced his delivery (a whole two times due to the “gift” of a photographic memory) J.R.’s teacher reported that he was excited about the gig. I prayed there were no tomatoes available to throw.

Long story long, J.R.’s debut rivaled that of anything the The Comedy Store cranked out in its heyday. He asked to perform first. He requested his teacher assist with his props. Who did he think he was, Gallagher? I can’t even believe I am typing these words. Yes the entire routine consisted mostly of knock-knock jokes, but I could not have cared less. Because he killed it.

Is there a moral to my story? Nah. Maybe I wanted to brag that for once, my kid isn’t someone’s punchline. Or a joke from God that went flat. Will Rogers once said “Everything is funny, as long as it’s happening to someone else.” The year of J.R.’s diagnosis, I didn’t laugh or smile once. Today, J.R. asked me if it would be awkward to give Valentine’s Day gifts to all of his girlfriends at the same time. Now that’s downright hilarious if you ask me.

Laughter may be the best medicine in my book, but ten years with J.R. has taught me that he requires no cure. He may, however, want a strong dose of Blazing Saddles.

Kristi Vannatta is a mom to two boys, ages seven and ten, and lives in South Florida.  Her blog, Write On!, focuses on her life with her ten-year-old son with autism.  In her infinite spare time (ha!) she runs Puzzle Peace Now, a charity that raises money to send children with autism to summer camp. 

The post I Funny Valentine appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

I first sat and listed all of the common resolutions which include, but certainly aren’t limited to: running, weightlifting, dieting, organizing my life (specifically my shoes), letting go of negativity, remaining consistent, quitting running, ditching weightlifting, accepting mess, buying more shoes, and embracing my bitchiness, all with consistency.

I chose not to make any parenting resolutions because unless I resolve to quit torturing myself about my horrible parenting choices I’d be wasting my time. And then what would I have left to write about? What I have thought a lot about recently are a few of my son’s behaviors, byproducts of that “blessing” called autism. And I hereby vow to not touch them. Why? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: autism sucks ass; however, parenting a child with autism has taught me countless, invaluable life lessons. Not to mention a lot about Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Thomas the Train, sea animals, Australia, and my son’s latest obsession- mastering the pogo stick. So what will I allow J.R. to continue to obsess over in 2015? Here you go; don’t judge:

1.  Naming everything. The second J.R. takes possession of something, whether it be a stuffed toy or ingrown toenail, he slaps a name on it. Oh and God forbid my husband and I don’t keep a mental list of the hundreds (no I am not kidding) of monikers he includes in his lexicon of items he holds dear. Also, guessing is totally out of the question. For example, the other day he was desperately trying to find one of the no less than seventy toys with whom he shares the tub. The instant my mouth initiated the phoneme “d” I was verbally attacked. “HIS NAME IS NOT DUCKY. HIS NAME IS MR. QUACKERSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! AND HE IS MISSING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Yikes. Having to juggle the names, nicknames, aliases, birth signs, family histories, likes, and dislikes of every object J.R. crushes on can be exhausting. The fact that that Eve (hippie Lego Minifigure) and Linguini (surfer Lego Minifigure) are in love but Miz Snoots (the stuffed cow) can’t be in the same room with Nutley (the stuffed squirrel) only reminds me of how far J.R. has come. Flash back nine years ago when my husband and I were trying to figure out what the hell went wrong with our baby boy. Amongst the handful of answers I couldn’t accurately supply to his many evaluators, my response to does J.R. engage in creative play? has always stuck in my mind.

“Mommy, does J.R. (a 15 month-old boy) ever try to feed his dolls?” asked the childless child psychologist.

“Um, no, but he loves cars and busses and taxis and unicycles and…” I replied with enthusiasm.

I now know that believing this common autistic trait of staring at spinning wheels was “creativity” was about as “creative” as assuming we parents weren’t spinning our own. Today, J.R.’s name game shows me that he can engage in such important play. It has shown us that J.R. recognizes and cares about relationships. J.R. has concern for the well being of those around him, even if they are made in China. And I know that he practices this life skill toward humans. My goodness if you could only see the way he beams at the sight of his grandpa (and scowls at his presence of his brother). Have I mentioned how many human girlfriends J.R. is juggling at the moment? Yeah, you know who you are.

2.  Attempting any and every task at lightning speed, barefoot. My furniture and wall color can attest to the fact that I am raising a child with autism. If I call J.R. to dinner (okay maybe dessert), you’ll hear every solitary movement he makes between his bedroom (including dropping a named toy like a two-ton hot potato) and the kitchen table. That sound of a herd of elephants charging down the stairs, slamming into the wall at the landing, then barreling down again toward the tile floor? That’s J.R. Who clocks 70 MPH on his Huffy then ditches his brakes for his calloused heels a-la Fred Flintstone? J.R. I’d like to convince myself that these behaviors don’t simply put J.R. into the category of “sensory seeker.” I’d rather just chalk it up to boyhood, and call it a (fantastic) day. I say this because his neurotypical younger brother is tailing him, screeching “Wait for meeeeeeeeeee!” Who needs nice furniture anyway?

3.  Dreaming big. To say that J.R. doesn’t understand limits would be the understatement of the year, and I can confidently proclaim that just six days into 2015. His ipad volume has one setting: earbleed. His Finding Nemo movie has replaced its “New on DVD” intro sequence with “Really, J.R. ? Nemo AGAIN?” I will hand it to him though; J.R. is a man of his word. “Mom, today I am going to be a daredevil” is a promise. Cue J.R. speeding down the street on his bike again, this time standing with one foot on his seat and the other in the air. J.R. wanted to become a father so badly that he adopted a sea turtle. He didn’t even fuss that Reef already had a name. I don’t know how the boy does it but everything he wishes for, he makes happen. Actually, mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, and Santa Claus make most things “happen.” Nevertheless, I have a fearless dreamer on my hands. And I couldn’t care less how high his head sits in the clouds.

Happy New Year everyone.  Let’s make this one great!

Kristi Vannatta is a mom to two boys, ages seven and ten, and also lives in South Florida.  Her blog, Write On!, focuses on her life with her ten-year-old son with autism.  In her infinite spare time (ha!) she runs Puzzle Peace Now, a charity that raises money to send children with autism to summer camp. 

The post New Year, Same Kid appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

Last weekend was supposed to be mine.  Every drop of it.  My charity was honored at a wonderful women’s event on Friday night, and I knew how spent I’d feel afterward: a chick like me needs to work hard at presenting her best self, believe me! For this reason, I packed the rest of my weekend with unprecedented doses of fun. I even hired a sitter. Yes you heard that right, a sitter; brace yourselves! By midmorning Saturday, I had consumed a pound of bacon drenched in chocolate (while donning a bacon themed tutu). I capped off the weekend on Sunday by allowing a beautiful Miami breeze blow my skirt straight up and over my head (okay maybe just over my waist- the skirt was a little short). Sandwich about twelve-to-fifteen alcoholic beverages in between and you’ll get a more full picture of the exceptional debauchery. An autism mom like me who spends 99.99% of her time doing laundry and the remaining 85% of her time struggling to help her 2^nd grader with his math homework (surprised?) deserves to go off-grid once in while.  And boy-oh-boy was I glad I did.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I’d face when I got home Sunday evening (insert hiccup sound).

I have one more kid to shower before I get to partake in the most highly anticipated plan of my weekend- an early trip my cozy bed.  Then come the words every parent fears: “Mommy, my head itches.”  I freeze.  Lice had been going around my seven-year-old Jackson’s school, and a quick inspection of his hippie locks confirms my close-to-worst fears. Unless of course it’s normal for one to have piles of bug shit in his or her hair. I wish I were kidding. The look on my face alone sends my ultra-sensitive son into an emotional tailspin. Tears flow. He cries “I’m scared mama, hold me” and I recoil as if he were speaking in Louse. Suddenly I remember that Jackson had been suffering from nightmares and had subsequently crawled in bed with me for the past few nights. Did I mention how much he loves my pillow? I scream out my husband’s name then squeeze my little biohazard, hard.

Ever have one of those moments when you think “Now what?”?  Because I had allowed my cleaning lady (me) the weekend off, my house looks like Charlie Sheen had entertained in it.  I don’t know about you, but it’s hard for me to function when I am surrounded by disorder.  At this moment my mind simply cannot focus.  It’s as if someone came on the intercom of life and announced 1) Elvis has left the building and 2) we interrupt this mess to provide you with an even bigger one.

I text two of my geographically closest friends:

Jackson has lice.  I am in a panic. Send help. And vodka.

J.R., my son with autism, walks into the bathroom where Jackson and I stand, white as sheets.  He asks what is going on.  When I tell him that Jackson has lice and I am paralyzed, he points at as both, laughs, and screams “HA!”  Jackson cries harder.  Then it hits me.  What if J.R. has lice? Advice starts pouring in via text and phone calls. Due to my current unbearable thoughts of autism with a side of lice, here are the few snippets that I glean:

tea tree oil, clarifying shampoo, rosemary spray, nits, hot dryer, buzz cuts, industrial strength garbage bags, liquor store, suffocation, scalp, quarantine, (rubbing) alcohol, clean hair, dirty hair, fine toothed comb, eggs, shower cap, husband > CVS > ASAP, bury pillows, suffocation, burn mattresses, root, shaft, parasite, vodka, swarming, selfies, infestation, YouTube, when in doubt call Louse Calls, Inc.

As I try to relay some of this undoubtedly useful information to my husband he turns and walks out the door, drugstore bound. And not before he says “You do realize that you’re scratching your scalp, Kristi.”

To add insult to injury, my sister texts me this picture (note the caption).

Hey Kris, how’s the family?

It is only a matter of time before my brother-in-law Photoshops the image into a fantastic Vannatta Christmas card.  Fucker! Why does everyone hate me?  Oh and P.S., whatever you do, never EVER Google “lice.”  You’ll never sleep or eat again.

In the end, (um, it’s now Thursday) I realize that nobody hates me but the God who put lice on this planet.  In the process of delousing my home, I realized how blessed I am to have such amazing friends.  Yeah, you know who you are. Neither J.R. nor I ever got lice and I still can’t believe it.  I’ve lived to blog another day and, you guessed it, to allow other families to benefit from my louse-y experiences. Ha! Looking on the bright side (because I heard that lice hate sunlight) I’ve prepared a list of reasons why living alongside a parasite is survivable, and can be a source of unparalleled entertainment.* 

*I’m lying, but you can keep reading anyway.

1. The jokes are great.

Okay there aren’t any, really, because the bad karma isn’t worth it.  Although one friend asked what was “bugging me” and another mentioned it was “lice to see me” after I’d spent 48 hours indoors inhaling carcinogens.

2. You are introduced to new and exciting products you didn’t know could slowly kill you.

Who knew that rosemary is lice Kryptonite? Who knew that rosemary water smells amazing at the first 200 sprays, then immediately morphs into eu-de-plague at spray 201? My ultimate weapon? A product that kills lice and eggs on non-washable items, like furniture and carpet.  I am on my third can, and even dedicated an entire can to Jackson’s right shoe.  I used it on everything imaginable and even considered replacing my deodorant with it.  Not until this morning did the list of “precautionary statements” catch my eye.  Apparently it is hazardous to humans, domestic animals, and anything that wants to live if it isn’t rinsed vigorously with water for 15-20 minutes after accidental contact. Oops.

My 39 year-old eyes are supposed to read this? As if!

3. That chance to start over.

I was almost this lucky.  Near collapse after washing no less than 42 loads of laundry (but who’s counting), I decide to take the advice to suffocate the parasite by placing certain items in garbage bags.  P.S. If you do this, don’t forget to weld the bags shut.  Currently, my garage is overflowing with ginormous bags of stinky Tae-Kwon-Do sparring gear, guestroom pillows, backpacks, baseball caps, pool noodles, my husband’s P90X DVDs, approximately 42,000 stuffed animals, and the neighborhood stray cat.  For a moment, I feared my husband would mistake the bags for real garbage.  For more than a moment, I hoped he would.

4. Your house will never be cleaner, nor will you be more prepared when Ebola reaches American soil. 

Oh wait, it already has. All kidding aside, how often can you brag that every lick of laundry in your house is clean, folded, and put away? Okay maybe that isn’t much of a brag.  And as much as you read about contracting lice and it having nothing to do with a lack of cleanliness, the experience turns you into a full on germophobe.  As I am typing this, Jackson is handing me his tooth that just fell out.  No I am not making this up! I plan to scrape off its tartar then boil the tooth before inserting it into the tooth fairy pillow. Then I will fashion a tooth fairy sized HAZMAT suit of crocheted rosemary needles.  It will be beautiful. Too far?

EPILOGUE

On Fridays, Jackson wears a special t-shirt with his school name.  I hadn’t seen it around, even after washing every single solitary item in my home that I couldn’t burn or throw away.  I just found it crammed smack in the middle of a pile of pillows, blankets, sleeping bags, (40) stuffed animals, and two Pottery Barn beanbags that I had NOT tackled.  They were safely stored in a closet that is rarely used.  Here we go again …

The post Louse-y Parenting appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

We all have those moments (ok sometimes minutes or hours or days) when we ask ourselves “Why me?”  Sometimes the question comes in the form of “@*%& WHY ME???!!!!!!!” and I totally get that.  My most recent “Why me?” moment? Only my kid would wake up thirty minutes before we were to have our holiday photos taken with the worst case of sheet marks on his face I have ever seen.  I would venture to say it looked like Freddy Kruger had a hand in this. At that point I even questioned why J.R. had to be born to me, because on the average my own sheet marks normally start to disappear close to dinnertime.

In all honesty, however, I have never, ever wondered why my son’s autism “happened” to me.  Make no mistake, I’ve been known to scream “WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?” (while banging my head on my steering wheel) once I realize I’ve left the house having applied makeup to only one eye.  Catch me any day of the week quizzing my boys with a “Why?” (or ten) as they engage in knock down, drag out “pee war” over their cringing toilet seat.  My point is that though I am never beneath asking (or SHOUTING) “Why?!” the query doesn’t seem to ever be formed for the most obvious reason:  J.R.’s autism.  Though I hate autism for more reasons I can count, my whys come for different reasons.  Yet I may still have autism to thank for them.

Why Jackson?

Why or how is it that I can have one child with autism and the other who is, for lack of a better term, the anti-autistic (not to be confused with the anti-Christ, although he does have his moments)?  My second child Jackson is so “typical” that I barely know how to raise him. I am not kidding.  Three years with an only child on the spectrum will do that to a girl.  If it were not for my “typical” (not be confused with “normal”) husband, Jackson would have needed to be farmed out to be raised more properly.  Like to a pack of wolves.  Why, why, WHY Jackson?  Why Jackson when statistically speaking, you should be on the spectrum too? And why must your personality and gifts be a perfect marriage of both your dad’s and mine? Well I know where you got the “perfect” part from.  I will never know the reasons why I get to have you.  The bigger question may be are you here to fill the hole in me or to serve your brother? So.  Many. Whys.

Why Are People So Damned Nice to Me?

Though guilty in the past, I swear I am not fishing for compliments on this one.  I have said it before and I will say it again- there is nothing special about me because I am raising a child with autism.  Yes, I have questioned my own “specialness” due to my queer understanding of J.R., but honest to God I still don’t get it.  I know the day will come, but in my ten years with J.R. not one person has doled out as much as an eye-roll (at least not to our faces).  I run into kindness wherever I go, crazy kids in tow or not.  And to think I was a “mean girl” when I was in middle school!  Okay don’t ever repeat that.  Is it geography, the mostly sunny weather, or my horribly split ends that cause others to constantly extend a kind hand to me?

Why Am I So Happy?

I don’t think I have ever admitted that depression runs in my family.  Not to worry, because nor has the family to whom I am referring.  Clap along!  I was raised by a bunch of jokers (funny people, not fools) who laughed their cares away. Troubles were masked behind corny potty humor and a can of Busch beer. From an early age, I knew how unhealthy this probably was.  I also knew I shouldn’t have tried to jump out of my dad’s (moving) International Scout at age five, shoot bow-and-arrows at age seven, nor drink out of a hose but hey, it was the 1970’s. Still, I am thankful for my upbringing because we all were, well, hilarious.  To this day, laughter is saving my life.  Happiness may not be a part of my nature, but a product of my nurture (or lack thereof- there were no such thing as child car seats back then, were there?).

Fast forward a few decades and my own winter of discontent would begin.  There simply isn’t enough time or energy to begin to list the bonafide reasons why autism delivers a devastating blow to a family.  Yet if I’ve learned one thing while raising a child with autism, it is that one never knows the load that another human being may be carrying on his or her shoulders. I think my perma-smile does a decent job masking my anxieties, frustrations, and fears.  I would hate for anyone to see on my face that the last thing my son said to me today before he left for school was “I HATE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GODDAMN YOU MOM!!!!!!!!” This leads me to believe that so many others plug along in spite of unimaginable burdens.  I guess happiness has become my “truth” (thanks Pharell) because I am constantly counting my blessings.  I can only assume that those blessings are affirmed daily as my happy face greets another’s with a quiet understanding.

The bottom line? I am one lucky girl who can apparently find bliss no matter how or why she has been thrown (okay, pelted with) one of life’s curve balls.  There is doubt I have a village to thank for that. For better or for worse, I am sharing this life with that awful, terrible, no good autism.  There is NO question that I choose to inhale the better.

*** *** ***

Kristi Vannatta is a mom to two boys, ages seven and ten.  Her blog, Write On!, focuses on her life with her ten-year-old son with autism.  In her infinite spare time (ha!) she runs Puzzle Peace Now, a charity that raises money to send children with autism to summer camp. 

The post Why Me? appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

I am constantly asked this question:  Kristi, just how do you do it?

My gut reaction is to snap back with something like Do what? You following me? I swear that wasn’t me who let her shopping cart roll off and dent the side of that Range Rover.  Second, I fear the is person quizzing me about my parenting and is doing so in an attempt to note what NOT to do. I imagine her wishing she had a giant invisible scratchpad to utilize, and I can’t say I can blame her.  If you haven’t witnessed me threatening my kids with a hose, you honestly haven’t lived, nor truly appreciated your own behavior management skills.

Once I realize I may be receiving a compliment, I offer my staple answer. How do I do “it”? I just do. I wake up every morning and pull on my Daisy Dukes one ashy leg at a time, just like everyone else. I experience great days and horrific moments but really, who doesn’t?  And if by now you are thinking I am a complete airhead, I totally understand that I often get this question due to the fact that I am raising a child with autism.

I’ve been told that I make things look easy and even look good while making things look easy.  I so totally appreciate the glowing endorsements, but what I really want people to really know is that there is NOTHING special about me or my ability to dress myself (most days) simply because I am raising a special needs child.  I’m just like you, really!  Don’t ask me the last time I vacuumed or cooked (or bathed or brushed for that matter). Okay if this doesn’t describe you, do me a favor and keep it to yourself. In all seriousness, there is no magic formula to “succeeding” as a special needs mom. I wouldn’t even venture to say that moms like me appreciate the “little things” more than moms of neurotypical kids.  Why? Because every mom, every family for that matter, experiences hurdles they must tackle.  As I crawl under some of those hurdles, I know I am in the company of every mom.

Make no mistake.  I am not at all suggesting that my job is a walk in the park, nor will I gloss over the horrific situations that too many special needs parents are put in on daily basis.  I for one stopped reading newspaper headlines that contain the words “autism” adjacent to “parent” because the stories too often end tragically.  I think my point is that I don’t want to be treated like I deserve a prize.  I just want to be thought of as any other mom would be.

This being said, can you believe I find myself asking the same exact Just how? question of other moms living my same autism “dream”? How exactly do they balance parenting a child with autism (or six) while attempting to do anything else?  Like peeing.  Do they know something I don’t? Like the address to a closer liquor store?

Darlene Giol, a great friend of mine who also has a child on the spectrum, is worth any mom’s admiration.  She is parenting a 7 year old daughter with autism and 4 year old neurotypical son. To celebrate Special Mother’s Day (yes, Special Mother’s Day!), we decided to interview one another and share it on our respective blogs. It was great fun. Enjoy, and remember that we’ll never know if you’re gleaning items for your what not to do list by reading this.  We can’t see you.

*** *** ***

Kristi:  So I hear that today is Special Mother’s Day.  Happy Special Mother’s Day… I think?

Darlene:  I should first say that I’m sure whomever came up with this idea had the best intentions. Personally I have mixed feelings about the use of the word special as it is. I mean, all people are special, aren’t they? We all have something about us that makes us uniquely different than anyone else in the world. As a mom of a child with autism, I don’t see myself anymore “special” than the next mom who has challenges. I have a lot of mom friends and I can’t think of one who hasn’t dealt with something that is difficult in their life. So while I appreciate the sentiment, I think I will stick to beIng just a run of the mill mommy who is doing the best job she can to raise her kids. We definitely have the hardest jobs in the world as parents and there’s nothing wrong with having a special day for that. I’m sure the good ‘ol, regular Mother’s Day has us covered.

Kristi:  I agree, unless of course Special Mother’s Day suddenly grabs the attention of De Beers or Tiffany & Co. and they agree to corporate sponsorship. Okay question number two: What is the hardest part of your day and how do you deal with it?

Darlene:  There’s really not just one part of my day that’s hard. It comes in waves. I would even say that some days it all seems like a breeze and I’m all “you got this girl.” I have this moment of relief like autism just left the building or something.  Then a bad night of sleep and a change in teachers for the day causes your child to throw herself on the floor constantly, scream so loud the glass break alarm goes off, and repeat herself incessantly for the rest of the day. Now your anxiety level has been kicked up several notches, you have a pretty good idea of what the rest of the day has planned and you are just trying to survive until wine o’clock. Where do you struggle the most during the day, Kristi?

Kristi: You mean besides in the potty?  Kidding! I really do need to hydrate better.  Ok seriously, the second my kids get into the car after school my stress levels are through the roof.  My “you got this girl” mood instantly turns into a “I wanna be a gone girl” one.  On the other hand, I often find the hardest part to be the times they aren’t with me.  This is when you’ll find me fumbling through my day trying to fit it* all in so that when they do come home, I can focus on them. Translation = go potty between the hours of 9 a.m. and 1:30 p.m., or else.

*it = exercising (I lie), cleaning, laundry-ing, food shopping, cleaning, volunteering, writing, helping out friends, cleaning, and of course, the dreaded cleaning.

Kristi: Do you feel ever feel like you are neglecting your (other) loved ones trying to balance it all? Please say yes.

Darlene: I definitely feel like I have neglected a lot of people and a lot things that I used to love to do.  I live so much in the future and worrying about what it holds for my daughter.  It’s hard to be present when you are in that place so much. My husband and I don’t get a lot of time alone and when we do we are exhausted. Our son spent a lot of time when he was really little being shuffled back and forth to therapies and even participating in them to help his sister. I wish things could be different for all of them, especially our daughter. I feel like I do the best I can to make sure everyone knows how much I love them, but I wonder the impact it will have down the line. I’m so focused on getting my kid all that she needs and being the best mom I can be, that everything else seems insignificant.  I’ve gotten so much better about being intentional and present. That sometimes means letting things go and not everyone can appreciate that. We have a great life together and try to make a lot of great memories together.  It’s just different and sometimes a bit more complicated than people realize, but whose life isn’t, really?  How are you juggling your family, friends and everything else on your plate?

Kristi: It’s a constant struggle.  My real secret is that I don’t sleep.  Don’t hate.  At the very least, I am rarely still. Oh and I don’t watch T.V. either, with the exception of a little HGTV or Access Hollywood on the DVR (but rarely a full show). Sad, right? The truth is that I would probably be bored if I had less on my plate.  I do make it a priority to carve out time for friends, which is the best recharge.

Kristi: Please tell me that you too love to hate social media.

Darlene:  Some parts of social media have become necessary for my business, but aside from my obsession with photography it is a love/hate relationship.  I know that we’re just watching the highlights of a life and that everyone has their struggles they aren’t posting there, but some people’s lives just look like a walk in the park. It almost feels like they have more freedom to go wherever they want and do whatever they want. There is definitely a loss of that in so many aspects of your life, when you go through what we and so many others have. Sometimes social media is a constant reminder of that, but in the real world, there are so many people dealing with way harder stuff than this.

We find ways to have a lot of fun and sometimes in comes in the form of road trips with our kids in our minivan, making PB&Js, singing songs and playing travel bingo. It’s not luxurious, but we wouldn’t trade it for the world. I do post those pictures on IG and send them through to FB, so take that highlight reel! All joking aside, I really love Instagram and all the beautiful photography I get to indulge in there.  I’m just an amateur photog, but taking pictures really puts me in my happy place and gives me a creative outlet.  I did one of those photo a day challenges for two years and I have to say, I really enjoyed it and it was a huge stress relief for me. What’s your beef with social media? P.S. We need to get better about taking pictures. Some crazy selfies are in order.

Kristi: Selfies- yes! Is that done on #Sundays or is that day reserved for #funday? Help! I really have no “beef,” other than the fact that I’ve realized that keeping up with social media (not to be confused with Keeping Up With The Kardashians) can be a full time job.  Shit, I can’t even commit to waxing! I rely heavily on local support for my charity, so I work hard (and maybe not smart) to build Facebook engagement.  Instagram has become my evening treat, because I sometimes participate in Fat Mum Slim’s Photo a Day.  I have you to thank for turning me on to FMS, and I challenge everyone to try it!  Twitter gives me a #headache, although I get that its power is immeasurable.  I don’t anticipate anything I have to say will demand a worldwide audience anytime soon so I am in no huge hurry to build a Twitter following.  J.R. is though. LOL!

I’m not a fan either of how social media can make one feel, but for a more ridiculous reason.  We all can see what friends/followers like, share, retweet, etc. and doesn’t sit well with me when certain ones “selectively” do so.  In other words if a person doesn’t note certain posts, my mind races.  Did this person not approve of my “fun” or “fortune” or who I am having said fun with? I mean seriously, I have a kid with autism.  Please “like” the fact that I applied mascara today! It’s not a competition, I swear! And I often don’t know who I am embarrassed for more- the person who knows everything I am up to but pretends not to, or for myself and the fact that I am even giving this a second thought.  In the end, I think both parties need to understand that posts are (like you said) mere snapshots, and rarely ever reflect real life. And let’s not forget the fact that I am uber-sensitive person to begin with. Speaking of real life, what is your go to stress reliever? 

Darlene:  Who’s stressed? Lol! I would say my go-to stress reliever would be a good book and a coffee or a glass of wine. If I have lots of time, I love taking photographs and writing.  These days anxiety has caused me to cut out my favorite beverages so I’m left to read, write, take pictures and drink lots of water. You?

Kristi: Sometimes just getting fresh air helps.  On weekends that we don’t have many plans and I start to feel cooped up, I simply sit outside.  And sip a simple vodka tonic. Or four. My final and BURNING QUESTION for you Darlene is this:  How do you have time to do all of those amazing crafts with your kids? The mere thought of trolling Pinterest for ideas for crafts makes me lightheaded.  

Darlene:  Pinterest is overwhelming, but every now and then I find something easy the kids and I can make together.  It’s really nice when it can be something we create that becomes a part of our home. I follow a lot of blogs and I sometimes get inspiration from all those fab DIYers out there.  When you are the one woman mommy summer camp, you will search high and low for projects that you can make last several days.  I feel like I need to come over there with my glue gun and glitter and get you rolling. I make a mean set of glitter pumpkins. It’s practically Thanksgiving. You up for it? I’ll pour the wine and watch you drink.

Kristi: Deal!

*** *** ***

Darlene Giol lives in South Florida and is a mom of a four-year-old son and a six-year-old daughter.  She mentors and leads a team of business owners across the country.  When she can, she shares her stories of finding peace through raising a daughter with autism on her blog The Peace To My Puzzle.

Kristi Vannatta is a mom to two boys, ages seven and ten, and also lives in South Florida.  Her blog, Write On!, focuses on her life with her ten-year-old son with autism.  In her infinite spare time (ha!) she runs Puzzle Peace Now, a charity that raises money to send children with autism to summer camp. 

The post This Is How We Do It appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

Naoki Higashida

If I count how many times someone has offered me a book about autism or a mom’s “journey” to cure her child’s autism, I can count how many times I’ve wanted to punch someone in the face. There, I said it.  Many have even read the book in advance in an attempt to relate to my situation. Very kind, yet still worthy of a black eye in my book. Thankfully, in spite of my immaturity, I have great people in my life who want to help me any way they can.  And the amount of titles I’ve been gifted over the years pretty much proves that I need all the help I can get.

Pride is an awful trait to inherit (thanks dad!), and I can now admit that I never wanted to be told how to parent J.R. Or “treat” his autism.  I didn’t want to learn from, or in my eyes be shamed by, another mom’s published “success” with her kid.  God forbid I read up on others’ misadventures in autism, for maybe I would have gleaned a bit of wisdom!  The way things were going for me, the only thing I would have been able to put to print was What To Expect When You Aren’t Expecting Autism, One Mother’s Tale of Hatred Toward Autism Related Titles.  Thankfully, I am evolving.

In an effort to keep from going to hell (and mostly out of peer pressure), I reluctantly picked up The Reason I Jump:  The Inner Voice of a Thirteen-Year-Old Boy with Autism by Naoki Higashida. And wouldn’t you know, it instantly changed me. Yes, instantly.  The Reason I Jump is a non-verbal autistic teen’s rare account of what it’s like to be, well, like him. Let’s go over that again:  the boy does not speak.  He has learned to communicate through a “board,” which to a layperson looks like a Ouija board.  With the help of his mother and therapist, he graduated to typing. And boy oh boy does he have a voice now.

I was glued from page one.  Its short Q&A style make The Reason I Jump a quick read, and Naoki’s replies cut to the chase.  I skimmed ahead anticipating and wanting certain topics to be included. I was not disappointed.  Get ready to for frank, mind blowing replies to questions such as Why do you do things you shouldn’t even when you’ve been told a million times not to?  Do you find childish language easier to understand?   The topics alone had me tearing up. It is as if his soft, gentle voice is speaking right to the you, the stunned reader.  I want to hug this child so hard for the gift he has given me.  Why? Because his eloquence relays myth buster after myth buster. More like myth napalm.

The theory to which I have always subscribed, at least when it comes to my son, is that autistic behaviors are driven by anxiety.  I would have guessed around 99.9% of them. Repetitious behaviors, atypical obsessions, and “immature” interests, are products of a child’s need to feel comforted. Knowing what to expect in a world that is overwhelming and ever-changing calms kids like mine, right?  Wrong. Intrigued?  Buy the book. I will offer one gut-wrenching tidbit.  Naoki schools the reader by revealing this: he has little control over his body and nobody feels worse about the burden he places upon his caregivers than he for not being able to have that control. Wow.  And the words “having to apologize day in, day out totally drained me of hope” pretty much put me over the edge. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

If you aren’t totally convinced, here are three reasons why Naoki’s “teachings” have left me (yes me) speechless:

1. You may already know that J.R. is sporting a cast on his arm. On the few days my husband and I can coax J.R. into bathing, we put a plastic garbage bag around his cast to keep it from getting wet. It took many tries to get him to let us even come close to him with the bag, even when we knew he fully understood he couldn’t get (nor did he want) his cast wet.  He screamed something unintelligible on the few attempts to “bag” his arm, until I finally realized he was saying “I am not garbage.”  My gut reaction was to laugh, but after reading The Reasons, I knew he meant what he said literally. Heart. Officially. Broken.  I was happy, however, to explain to him all the reasons why he was definitely not garbage.  I held him tight, and said over and over “you are not garbage; you are beautiful” to which he replied “Thanks. You know I know I am different, right mommy?”
2. J.R. is the most agile klutz I have ever met.  It is a miracle he hasn’t broken every bone in his body.  The boy can’t walk down the hall without severely stubbing a toe (daily), but at the same time he can fly down the street on his scooter, safely flirting within a millimeter of a parked car.  The other day he ran into a wall, then lost it.  “I HATE MY BODY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” he screamed.  I now understand that he often experiences zero control over his own body, and now we can talk about that too.  You know, instead of me constantly telling him to slow down (or to pay attention, or to watch out….I could go on and on).
3. Last night J.R. was scanning Netflix titles on the television.  I assumed that no matter what struck his fancy, he would hit his go-to, Rotten Tomato award winning James and the Giant Peach.  Watching the same crappy flick over and over calms him, right? Suddenly my thoughts went to The Reasons Why and I realized that J.R. may desperately crave variety.Why else would he even bother previewing other movies?  Naoki submits that J.R.’s autism does not allow him to go “off grid,” no matter how much he wants to.  There were no words exchanged this time.  I just felt sad for him.

My point in all of this? Nobody is more aware of J.R.’s autism than he.  Sadly, this is complete news to me.  I see autism too, but I hadn’t seen seen him.  And if he is anything like Naoki all he wants is my compassion, not reprimands or reminders. His frustrations come from not only his heightened awareness of his condition, but my loathing of it.  He is who he is.  I hope I experience more a-ha, speechless moments.  I pray that my speechlessness sparks open, honest, loving conversations with my amazing son.  And when it comes to what he has to say, I will be all ears.

For more information on The Reason Why I Jump, you’ll want to catch Jon Stewart’s interview with author/translator David Mitchell:  http://thedailyshow.cc.com/guests/david-mitchell

The post No Words appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

On a scale of 1-10? Worst possible wait.

Last weekend my son J.R. broke his arm in two places.   He lost his footing climbing on the playground, and the result was deformity that looked like a lightning bolt jutting from his elbow down.  Needless to say, I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.  I can’t even explain the feeling. It was surreal and disturbing and if my husband weren’t with us I’d probably still be standing in the park, frozen.

Thank God that J.R.’s unusually high tolerance for pain matches my un-motherly low tolerance for his screams.  However, once we reached the emergency room (and he got a good view of my sheet-white face), I think he realized that things were about to get REAL.  At that moment J.R. jumped on a Crazy Train O’ Pain and not even Ozzy Osborne’s medicine cabinet would get him to jump the tracks.

J.R. rocked, moaned, and repeated (oh I am sorry, REPEATEDLY SCREAMED) nonsense phrases over and over.  The only one I could make out was “HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTT!” He was scaring the other E.R. patients away.  I am not even kidding. Thank goodness the nurses had a sense of humor. Either that or they figured hey, what’s three less patients?

Where did my brave, funny, accomplished J.R. go? He exited the instant his radius and ulna simultaneously snapped. And we’d have to wait FOUR hours before the doctor could set his arm?  I couldn’t even go all Steel Magnolias on the hospital staff because J.R.’s morphine drip was clearly visible.  My husband and I tried everything to try to get him to calm down from holding him close to holding our hands across his mouth.  When our final autism-taming method didn’t work (bribery), we knew we were finished.  Personally, I’d break my own legs for a trip to the Bahamas. Best case scenario, J.R. loses his voice.

The next six weeks of my life began flashing in front of me until I heard someone utter the word surgery. Unable to locate a clean floor to faint on, I cracked.  Please.  No.  In a desperate act of self-preservation I yelled out “Anyone want Subway for lunch? I’m totally going there.” Gross, right? I had to get out of that room, and my husband certainly wasn’t beneath a sub-chips-cookie combo. It was the worst feeling in the world knowing that I couldn’t deal with seeing my child suffer- a version that many parents face day after day.  It was not my finest moment.

It wasn’t until I drove toward Subway, shamed and shaking, that I realized how unhappy I would be if I were in J.R.’s (crooked) position.  A cast? What? A whore-bath routine and no SUNbathing for six weeks? Cut and maim all of my Michael Stars tees? Oh hell no!  No wonder he is so out of sorts, so I thought.

Praying that my son was not as vain as me (and that the sub maker would hustle; this line of double-meat lovers was creeping me out) I had an epiphany.  J.R.’s through-the-roof anxiety had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the waiting.  Lying in a hospital bed without a Disney Fast Pass was not cutting the mustard.

After arriving back at the hospital to deliver my hubby his lunch, we didn’t have much longer to wait (mostly because I drove really slow).  The orthopedic surgeon appeared and I think J.R. sensed that the worst was about to be over. A wave of peace (and jealousy) came over me as J.R.’s anesthesia took effect.  As I stared into my baby’s drifting eyes, I couldn’t help thinking Dante missed the mark in creating his deepest circle of hell.  The inability to calm a child in pain (real or imagined) is a place I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy visit.  Finally, the doctor explained to me that I would probably want to head back to Subway rather than see or hear him put J.R.’s bones back into place.  Before contemplating an answer I rushed out of the room, thankful he didn’t need surgery.

I assumed J.R. would wake up in a panic, but I was wrong. With the wait finally over, he was rested (can you imagine how exhausted you’d be, screaming your head off for five hours straight?) and happy.  I reveled in the adorableness of:

How long did I sleep?

Where’s my pretty nurse?

Is grandpa going to be at home when I get there?

Is my arm bionic? Am I as good as new or better than new?

Here comes the point in my blog where I normally reveal the silver lining of my adventures in autism.  This entry?  No.  Can.  Do.  And I know you’ve been waiting for it, sorry. Fast forward one week and I am a mess.  J.R. handled his splint well at first, but his patience quota has been met once again. Can you blame him?  He flails around, frustrated beyond words (but not beyond screams) and it is scaring me.  Without a permanent cast (yet), the chance of J.R. making his injury worse is pretty good.  Then what?

I am experiencing the most challenging week I’ve had in years, and I have been crying a lot. My heart is broken in more places than J.R.’s bones.   What next?  I guess we’ll ALL have to … wait.

The post Wait for it… appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.

In the middle of praying that no amount of technology could track the number of times I’d viewed the Fifty Shades of Grey trailer online, I got to thinking that 1) Universal Studios hadn’t received my audition tape for the role of Anastasia and 2) there are more than a few ways an autism mom can “get off,” and they have nothing to do with a grey tie.

I will admit one thing: after finishing the 50 Shades trilogy I fell into a mini-depression, the symptoms of which only Nestle Toll House cookies could ease. I should have learned my lesson years ago when I realized that a three-hundred-year-old teenager wasn’t going to come to my window and offer me a spin in his Audi. That debacle earned me five pounds.  Call me a masochist, but reality can truly bite.

So what possessed an autism mom like me to risk turning fifty shades of red as I scanned erotica in my son’s therapy waiting room?  Was it the fantasy of having a beautiful, yet tortured man want to do FANTASticly tortuous things to me behind closed doors? Nope. I won’t brag, but my (certainly tortured) husband is not too shabby and would JUMP at the chance to create a room of pain for just he and I (as long as it isn’t a gym, because there are some places even I won’t go).  Riveting plot aside (ha!), what is it that is so engaging about mommy porn when you take out the porn? I think I know.

1) The male protagonist is rich and powerful and his singular goal is to make the female character sickeningly happy. 

Why Anastasia Steele got her panties in a knot over Christian Grey taking care of just about every detail of her life is beyond me! Christian honey, how about you ditch that ungrateful brunette and arrange to take my ten-year old autistic son to the dentist. He’s too big for me to hold down, and he lacks cognitive skills to be reasoned with.  Christian, your “fifty shades of fucked up” (your words) pale in comparison to our fifty shades of delay.  Now jet over to my place and dominate already.

P.S. I am blonde and am fully aware that I am not your type. I don’t care. Just get on the horn and do what you do best. Threaten to fire some people. You can start with every doctor that told me I was nuts for letting Jenny McCarthy in my head. Finish off your day by purchasing every insurance company that told me they’d cover twenty-five speech therapy sessions in one year when my son required thirty in one month. Then run each one of the companies into the ground. Oh and if it’s not too much, be a dear and lend me your bodyguard for just one evening. I’d like him to visit the homes of those individuals accused of abusing defenseless kiddos like mine. Let him put your handcuffs (and other choice accessories) to good use. Oh yeah, I can already feel my pulse racing baby. I want your power so badly right now.

2) The male protagonist is relentless in his pursuit of the abovementioned goal. 

Pardon the pun Christian, but where were you as countless professionals pussyfooted around and refused to diagnose my barely verbal thirty-five month old? I could have used your honesty and directness back in those days. It would have saved me the need to turn to “shady” novels. And shadier doctors.

Christian, I noticed you like a challenge and would go as far to say that you dig a good chase. Great. Couldn’t you just fly Charlie Tango over to pow-wow with the “great” minds in this country who aren’t as blessed with your gift for fixation? Remind them that autism is an epidemic. Ask them what they plan to do with the millions and millions of people that will be living with autism right around the time I will be needing someone to take care of ME. Don’t organize an autism walk. Don’t fund a bullshit study. Don’t light up a thing (unless it’s a fire under someone’s ass). And. Don’t. Stop. The thought of one person becoming laser focused on cutting to the autism chase is the biggest turn on I can imagine. I may need to find an elevator before I get to my third point. Going down, Christian?

3) The male protagonist takes the female protagonist to places where time stops. 

No exotic locale (nor local red room) is required for a mom like me to feel like she is on an escape. Come to think of it Christian you do give a girl a comforting bath, but I digress. Christian, bring over a few toys and sit with the kids for a bit. Wait; save the toys for me. Just provide a place I can decompress, even for an hour, and before you can say Laters! I will return a better mom (and hopefully with a pedicure). Did you know I spend more time tied up (get your mind out of the gutter) planning how to break it to my son that a vegetable doesn’t qualify as a friend than most moms spend planning a birthday party? For that matter, I spend most of my time wondering where time itself has gone.  What happens when my son graduates from high school in a few short years? What happens when MY time is up?

Moms like me need an escape, even if it is from our own thoughts. Is it possible that we autism moms are drawn to fantasy because our reality is a bit more “real” than that of other moms? Maybe. Now that I am all hot and bothered, let me ask this final question: ultimately, do we moms require a Christian Grey in our lives to help us feel “rich,” empowered, or “timeless”? Nah; if you recall, it was 50 Shades’ female lead who had those balls of steel.

The post 50 Shades of Delay appeared first on Puzzle Peace Now.