Life's a Trip

I wrote this over Spring Break this year and forgot about it. When I came across it today, it brought me good memories and happiness. Do you journal on your trips? I probably would've forgotten this crazy adorable lady if I hadn't written this. 

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This crazy adorable lady with white hair and tan legs stopped my sister and I yesterday and asked to take our picture. We were dumping the sewage from the motorhome that we had driven to Texas for a Spring Break mom’s trip with our collective six kids. We camped next to her and her moustached and suspendered husband for three nights on the beach and every time she looked out her window she cackled and said, “I just love you girls.” 

Later, when I realized I had left the lights on and ran the battery down, Mr. Moustache and Suspenders jump started our motorhome with their beach jeep. They wouldn’t take any kind of payment, I knew they wouldn’t. The crazy adorable lady had a smile all the way across her tan cheeks when she said, “I just love you girls.” 

The next day, during a quick trip into town for sunscreen, we had a small(-ish) fender bender and rolled back into the campsite next to our new friends with the side mirror duct taped back together. As soon as we pulled in, I could hear the crazy adorable lady through her RV’s open kitchen window. Endless cackling… “I just love those girls."

Life’s a trip. Take it. 

Healing Through Peanut Butter

Today I would like to take you on a quick journey through the Stages of Grief. These stages apply to all of life’s really bad stuff, as well as when your freaking kid eats all the Reece’s eggs. An understanding of these stages is incredibly beneficial in healing. Let’s begin.
I awoke this morning, and poured my coffee, unaware of the tragedy about to strike. It was then that I noticed the trash can was full of wrappers from the (previously) carefully hidden Easter candy. 
Stage of Grief #1: Denial. “No, no! This can’t be! Surely this isn’t the same candy I had hidden in our locked closet? It can’t be!” As if anyone else in the house had made purchases for the Easter baskets. Right. 
Stage of Grief #2: Anger. “Travis. TRAVIS. TRAVIS FORGOT TO LOCK THE CLOSET.” Travis has committed a heinous act and is now dead to me. 
Stage of Grief #3: Bargaining. I decide that perhaps, if I say a quick Hail Mary and check the closet, all the Reece’s eggs will be intact and this will just have been a bad dream.
However, upon checking the closet and seeing the carnage, I succumbed to stage of grief #4: Depression. Sadness came crashing in waves. “I JUST WANT TO BE A GOOD MOTHER BUT HOWWWWWW, LORD?” 
As life and motherhood demanded, I carried on with my morning, but the cycle of denial/anger/bargaining/depression carried on in my mind. After time and reflection of the goodness of life and God’s promises, I was slowly able to understand that even though I don’t like what happened (the Reece’s egggggggssss 😭😭😭), I can’t let it ruin my [potentially awesome] day. I surrendered. 
It was then, that something caught my eye. Could it be? Two delightfully intact, unwrapped, fingerprinted Reece’s eggs in the bottom of Waylon’s toy basket. 
And this, my friends, is stage of grief #5: acceptance. 
For just as the sufferings of Christ are ours in abundance, so also our comfort is abundant through Christ [and unwrapped, fingerprinted, Reece’s eggs]. 2 Corinthians 1:5
#okmaybeIexaggerated #justalittle #butyougetthepoint #holyweek #thankyouJesus  #theywerealivejustlikehesaidtheywouldbe!

I'm Just Saying, Maybe You Should Try It

Listen, you guys. I don’t usually dish out parenting advice. I just don’t. I think us moms need to stick together. Motherhood critiquing is not my mamma jamma. But I have a pretty solid parenting technique, and I’m just saying it might work well for you. You should try it, mothers of this ridiculous century. It’s called Teaching Them To Fend For Their Damn Selves. 
Now, listen. I’m not saying you gotta be raising your kids in a boot camp. Love them. Adore them. Be their biggest fans. From like, maybe 20 yards away. Let them trip and learn to brush it off. Let them land on their butt at the bottom of the slide. And for the love of all that is holy- teach your kids to pump their feet when they’re swinging. There are zero reasons for a mom to be killing herself pushing kids on swings. Zero. Every adult raised in the last five decades knows you can fly crazy high on a swing set without an adult's assistance. Don't. Be. A. Sucker.
I took Lucy to one of those fancy indoor playgrounds today- you know the kind. I paid $10.10 for "free wi-fi" and a juice box at the "coffee bar" so my kid could run and jump and do kid things while I could get a few things done. The problem was, none of the kids in the place could fend for their damn selves. There wasn't a mom in there with less than 10,000 steps. Guar-an-teed. They were hustlin toddlers through inflatables like Secret Service members during a presidential parade. A kid bumped into another and then they gathered for a parent initiated peace talk and then apologized in harmony and shook hands and signed a peace treaty. 
I just can’t, guys. 
So I sat over in the corner, and ordered groceries online (because Jesus loves us and wants us to be happy). I could see Lucy everywhere she went (except for the tip top of the inflatable slide but if she nailed another kid going down it I’m certain one of them would let me know). If these moms would've just sat down I could've seen her even better.
She is so loved and adored and I just can’t get enough of her, you guys. But I also let her solve her own problems on the completely padded playground today.
Moms. The world is crazy. You gotta pay attention to your kids. But maybe also try Teaching Them To Fend For Their Damn Selves. You’ll thank me.

this one

This one freaked me out bad. We already had a minivan and a (big enough) house and a family insurance plan. So expanding our family should have been simple. But life was busy and chaotic and filled with poop and I wasn't sure I could give my heart to another just yet. 

This one came into the chaos and fit right in. She learned to walk and then run and then whip and nay nay. One of her first sentences was, "Everybody calm down." Now, almost four, she leads our pack of weirdos in all her weird glory. 

This one says things like, "Mom, I can help. Cleaning poop is my middle name." And then I resign that this part of motherhood is probably not for me and I just let her do her thing. Cleaning poop is not my middle name. It's not that I wanted to hand the job over, it's just that you might as well leave it to the expert. 

Adding this one to the family has been such a joy. Sure, there are added stresses- I have to make sure six people have regular dental visits and clean underwear now. But, the joy. There is so much joy here that we are currently wearing halloween costumes in front of the Christmas tree. It's January 27.

This one wears what she wants and eats what she wants and tells the much older and bigger than her people in this home to get it together, and listen, I am just tired and a little appreciative that someone else around here is trying to be in control. So this is how we live. #YOLO, man. 

I am so very thankful to be this one's mom. She has brought immeasurable joy and laughter into our home. I can't help but think, nevermind- I can't help but know, that this one was part of God's masterful, wild, and crazy plan for my life. 

Tell me I'm not the only one that has this one. Let's hear it. Did God freak you out and then fix it?

I am all in for God's crazy plans exceppppptttt I'm about out of seats in the Toyota, soooooo... 

vacay narrative

So, we went on a vacay. It was everything that twelve days in a 1997 motorhome with seven people could be. (Amazing, with a few frightening and hilarious stories.)

We explored caves, 

hiked mountains, 

floated rivers, 

and swam in the ocean. 

We took the World's Best Sitter along and she basically saved my life and I wanted to kiss her at least once a day but I refrained because I didn't want to scare her away and I realllly needed her help.

We saw the World's Largest Rocking Chair and the World's Largest Mailbox, and the World's Largest Wind Chimes, and all that walking gave me the World's Largest Chaffing on my thighs. 

We went to see a life size replica of Noah's Ark. In case you didn't read the story, spoiler alert: Noah built a boat that was freaking huge. 

and had a son named Shem that was suuuuuuper hot (and could totally pull off a man bun if he wanted to). 

We had a blast at our family reunion and by my observation we weren't even the weirdest people there. Which is really saying something because I mean...

Waylon discovered swimming naked is more fun. I learned how to put trunks back on a 10 year old with the ocean waves beating against us. Turns out, when ocean waves are free to move about Waylon's business, he can't. stop. giggling.

Note the lobster that washed ashore. Little known fact, the lobster's wife suggested sunscreen and he politely declined.

Have no fear, my friends: I know this narrative cannot possibly give justice to our epic vacation- so I am currently creating a soon-to-be Oscar nominated short film titled, "Getting There Is Half the Fun, So Zip It." Production has unfortunately been halted due to a tragic accident involving the laptop and a child who is still in police custody. JK. But if that movie is not in the cloud when the laptop returns from Apple Purgatory I'll probably drop him off at the jail for a night. (Unless they're willing to keep him longer.)

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So listen, there's been this thought floating in my head and I just need to get it out. Usually it takes me about a lifetime to write a blog post and get it published. But this is important- I cannot wait any longer.

The ocean makes me believe in God. 

Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts...

But seriously though.

When I look at the huge/enormous/mysterious ocean, my soul moves. When the waves lap against the sand, delivering beans and leaves from somewhere that I can't see, I am in awe of His power. And when I lightly run my foot through the wet sand and see ten little shells with slime in them appear and then quickly burrow down to bury themselves in my giant shadow, I am in awe of His creation. The vastness of it all makes me... and my rubbing chaffed thighs... feel so small. I think about all of the times that the Bible says that God created and loves every creature, and I think, "EVEN ALL THESE SHELL THINGS?"

Voted People's Choice for Most Unattractive Feet in a Beach Photo

Well, we're home. The people of the Mississippi Delta (have you ever been there?? ...whoa) suggested duct tape instead of waiting for a repair shop. So we drove the last ten hours without AC or TV like it was 1990 or something. Which was ridiculous and I don't know how people survived but whatever. 

The dirt on that foot though.

So now I am in Kansas- the middle of the United States- and I'm searching for more of that ocean feel. But I'm looking for it in my kid's dirty toes that are growing by the second, my overgrown yard that allows my kids to grow up in God's country, and my patients at work that change me in new ways every shift. The ocean is a little harder to see in Kansas, but it's there.

Where do you see the ocean? 

deodorant and feelings

I am not typically an overly emotional person. I am not one to lose my temper or to "cry over spilled milk" (unless it is milk that I have painstakingly extracted from my bosoms for the nourishment of my offspring– this I have been known to spill and shortly thereafter freak the heck out).

Anyways, one might think that I would handle it well when I sent Travis to pick up Waylon's hygiene supplies for school, and he came home with this:

WHAT THE WHAT

The school supply list said "deodorant" (which I already object to, because my sweet little mama's boy smells as delightful as the lavender Johnson & Johnson's that I still bathe him in) NOT DEGREE FOR MEN. Cripes.

I did not handle it well.

Perhaps Travis was caught in the crossfire of all the feelings I have been feeling these past few weeks. 

I have been feeling a little bit stressed over a rather large therapy bill from the summer, and I have been feeling a little pissed at the insurance company for not paying it. I have been feeling a bit confused about how to decipher CPT codes and EOBs, and I have been feeling a bit like screaming-bloody-murder at the poor little insurance customer service lady because insurance companies are stupid and life is hard and MY HUSBAND BOUGHT DEGREE FOR MEN FOR MY EIGHT YEAR OLD.

I have been feeling pretty nervous that the clock is ticking and he is eight and he hasn't miraculously recovered yet. I have been feeling a little sad that Waylon's class handbook said they will be working on life skills and participating in the Special Olympics this year- things that I should be feeling excited about, but am just not ready to swallow. 

I have been feeling hopeful about the boatloads of {hella expensive} progress he's made this summer. When I say, "What's your name?" and he says "Way-yun" I feel like jumping out of my pants with excitement. When I got the text from his new teacher with his first teacher/Waylon selfie of the school year (because he is the cutest {and apparently best smelling} kid in class, you know), I was feeling so so so proud. And when I was trying to post this freaking adorable picture on facebook but I couldn't because MY FACE WAS WET (see first line... "I am not typically an overly emotional person." LIE.) <--- see what I did there with the boldfaced lie.

I was feeling like melting into a big puddle of mom love. 

Really look at this picture. Look at it. These kids are so in love with each other. Gahhhhhhhh. Mom love.

When I clean up my wet face and shut up about the deodorant thing and really take a look at my life, I feel like the luckiest mom on the whole entire planet.

Even though MY HUSBAND BOUGHT DEGREE FOR MEN FOR MY EIGHT YEAR OLD. Cripes.

I'm imperfect.

I'm imperfect. 

There. I said it.

I'm totally guilty of flooding facebook and instagram with pictures of my kids {because they are really, really cute} but with the pile of laundry cropped out, and a filter that makes my carpet look Valencia, not Vomit.

But I also like to keep it real. Therefore, I think you should know that the ABA therapist says talking to Waylon in a calm voice will get the best results, but I yelled a lot this morning. I know it's not going to "get the best results", but I'd had it.

And I said it was going to be ok if Waylon didn't make his First Communion with the other kids his age, but then I bawled like a baby all the way home from the First Communion Mass.

Guess what? I'm imperfect.
Sometimes you've got to take your tiara off, Princess, and scrub that vomit up out of your carpet when your hubs is out getting crazay at a bachelor party (and by crazay I mean fishing and throwing horseshoes) and you don't want the house to smell like curdled milk all weekend. Sometimes you've got to count backwards from ten and put a smile on your face and put a shirt on your kid for the sixteen thousandth time in ten minutes, and then sing Kumbaya while you hold that shirt on like a straight jacket the whole way to the minivan. And sometimes you've got to swallow your pride and say "God loves Waylon just the way he is. First Communion or not. And I didn't have to buy an overpriced suit and rosary this year. Boo-yah."

Accepting imperfection can be a challenge. But I think this is something that might be a little easier for moms of kids with special needs. It's like we don't really have a choice: Junior only wears camo swimming trunks right now, so the family photo is going to be mismatching this year. OR, it took us twenty minutes to get from the garage door to the carseat, so we're going to miss the readings at Mass. (Um, this happens to us EVERY SINGLE WEEK. Probably more of a sin than an imperfection).

So moms, special needs or not, I'm asking a favor- DON'T GET ATE UP WITH PERFECTION. Just try to not be so hard on yourself for a while. I think you'll eventually find that it's okay for your family photos to be mismatched. And it's okay to lose your patience every now and then. And it's okay to have gross carpets. Because that's life.
Can you live your life with #nofilter?

And you know what? If you choose your battles wisely, you can stop worrying about your carpets, and start worrying about having enough time to play with all the kids before bedtime.
And that's the kind of life that's perfect.

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Last week Waylon's therapist called to let me know he was pooping turquoise. Dead serious.
"There were blue cupcakes at the support group meeting last night," I said without hesitation, "and we let him have three. Oops."
His response- "Good!  I was betting Play Dough. Cupcakes are way better."

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 Disclaimer: This idea of living life with #nofilter is strictly metaphorical. There is no way that I am in a position to begin detoxing myself of instagram filters. Either I hire a carpet cleaning man (who would have a coronary when he walked in) or I continue to Valencia the crap right out of my photos.
Kapeesh?

My tank runneth over

I'll just say it: This has been, by far, the most difficult year of autism we've experienced thus far.

Major behavior changes have brought weekly team meetings, medication changes, new doctors, new therapists, and two exhausted parents.

Today, a need for some free wi-fi (and Rose Mary and Caden's begging) brought us to the library after school. Yes- Waylon's first trip to the library in years. 

I sat in the parking lot and gave everyone the shpeel: be quiet, behave, 2 books each, no arguing. Waylon and I strategically waited in the library's front hall, alone (except for the free wi-fi and the Walter family- neither of which pass any judgment) while the others checked out their books.

Momma Walter said "Wow! Waylon is doing so good!" and I was like

Holy Crap she's right!

We chatted for a bit with the Walter fam, we sat in the window seats and sang songs, we looked at the art, he licked the Beatrix Potter display.

It felt so... normal.

Just a mom and her freaking adorable kid chilling in the library.

A new BCBA (that's fancy for behavior therapist) came to the house last week. He said to pretend that Waylon has an "attention gauge" on his shirt... and when the gauge looks like it's about half-full we should go ahead and fill up his tank- by sitting down with him and giving his favorite deep hugs and singing his favorite songs, before the gauge becomes dangerously close to empty (meltdown time). Brilliant! Right?!

Well, I realized that these past few months have left my tank dangerously close to empty. The new behaviors have nearly zapped my strength and my sanity. I was so busy worrying about the kids, and making phone calls, and filling out paperwork, I didn't realize that my gauge was running low.

Today, Waylon filled up my tank.

Now my tank will start to empty again (actually I think I lost 1/4 of a tank between 4:00 and 5:00 tonight) and I will have to find ways to fill it back up.

And you know, here's the thing: although our date nights are very important, and our time at work being "normal people" is important, and being able to crush candy at 10pm in a silent house is important,

that's actually not what fills up my tank. That's survival stuff. 

Love. That's what fills up my tank. Love.

Today, Waylon- my boy who can't talk, and can't hardly look at me, and mostly screams, showed me love.

My tank runneth over. 

That's my boy

His eighth birthday has come and gone, and as usual, I find myself measuring him up against other kids his age.

Talking. Reading. Making friends. Playing sports.

Why is it that I always seem to measure Waylon by what he is not?

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Waylon is:

Happy. Loving. Non-judgmental. He holds my hand and gives me kisses and takes out my trash every day (even if it's empty). He does not bicker or argue. He is never rude. He loves his family more than anything in the world (except maybe Lightning McQueen). He did not ask Santa for a Kindle fire or an iPad or a Playstation. He only wants my love and Nacho Cheese Doritos.

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How does your eight year old measure up? 

That's my boy.

Harvesting Green Beans

It was a crazy week of school meetings, football games, class field trips to the pumpkin patch, prepping for a big fundraiser at the kids' school Saturday, fundraiser clean up on Sunday, and oh yeah I work full time, I'm pregnant, and I spent most of the week with poison ivy on my face.
Not trying to complain, just making excuses for why I didn't have time to download my audio book this week. Nothing to listen to during my hour-long commute meant I actually had time to reflect on the day and let my mind wander. (Which makes for good blog content.)
So bear with me here... And prep yourself for what is likely the strangest analogy you've ever heard.

I love home grown green beans. (I said bear with me here.)
So I love home grown green beans, and when I was a kid, we spent our summer mornings bent over the rows in our garden, sifting through the plants and picking the long ones. Then we spent our summer evenings in lawn chairs at the ball fields, watching my brothers play ball while we snapped beans into Pence's IGA sacks so Mom could can them the next day.
Most of the time, I didn't mind it. It was just what we did. We were the family who snapped green beans at the ball fields. But sometimes, when I saw all of my friends running around having fun and I was just snapping beans, I got jealous. It wasn't fair.
Even though I had those fleeting thoughts of despise for all things green bean, I sure loved having those home grown green beans all winter long. And those other kids running around at the ball games had no clue how delicious homegrown green beans are, because their mommas were just buying the 79 cent cans of rubbery beans at Pence's IGA. They didn't get to enjoy year-round home grown green beans, and since all they ever tasted were the rubbery canned ones, they never knew what they were missing.

So here's where the hours of commuting with a wandering mind turned into a really bad analogy.

I think having a kid with special needs is kind of like harvesting green beans.
I told you it was bad.
I love Waylon. Man, I love him. And as his mom, I spend every moment hovered over him, worried about him, planning for him, telling people about him, trying to get services for him, worrying about how to pay for the services for him. The aches in my back and sunburn on my shoulders while harvesting green beans as a kid have nothing on the amount of stress I have endured while trying to "harvest" Waylon.
The time I spent snapping beans in lawn chairs at the ball field have nothing on the amount of time I've spent trying to contain Waylon at the ball field, at church, at family things, at restaurants. And we don't even take him to the grocery store, to places with lots of people, or anywhere after dark (finding him would be next to impossible).
And most of the time, I don't mind it. We are the family who have a kid with special needs. It's just what we do. But when I see my friends at the ball field, or potlucks, or fairs, or even just running errands with their cute little well-behaved kids, I get jealous. It isn't fair.

Here's where the analogy gets ripe.
Even though I sometimes have those fleeting thoughts of despise for all things autism, I love Waylon more than you could ever know.
And those other moms running around with their perfect little families have no clue how rewarding parenting can be. Their kids look fine. They play sports and have friends. They don't make funny noises or throw dirt or crap on the floor. And they're a heck of a lot cheaper to raise. They're kind of like the 79 cent cans of green beans at Pence's IGA... fine, if you've never had the homegrown.

But my son, is being harvested. I get to watch as he learns and grows. I get to appreciate each new development and reap the rewards of our hard work. I have gained the ability to see the finest details in life and feel the most subtle hints of his love. Things that most other moms take for granted, I get to enjoy and savor year-round.
He, like green beans turning from a pack of seeds to a jar of deliciousness on the kitchen table in December, is a miracle. He is a very special gift.

If having a child with special needs is "My row to hoe", I am planning on a bountiful harvest.
Thanks for bearing with me.
Happy Harvest!

 “Life is what you make it. Always has been, always will be.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

Picture this

Picture this:
3 kids in the car with Mom and everyone has to pee.
If you get out at a fast food joint, inevitably it is assumed to be supper time, regardless of the actual time of day. You leave $25 poorer than you were before everyone had to pee.
If you stop at a gas station you have to strategically maneuver past the pop and orange candy slices and pray there are no venereal diseases lurking on the toilet seats.
So anyways, pick your poison and stop the car for twenty minutes of torture.
Although we've really outgrown the likes of the small stall, if one wants to urinate in the big stall they must keep one hand on Waylon at all times and complete all other business with the other. One slip of the hand and he's got the latch open and he's headed for the orange slices. And you've got your pants down.
On rare occasions (okay, it only happened once, last Monday) you'll hear a cute little girl say "Mom I think there's a camera in the toilet" and you turn to see that alas, your phone slipped from your coat pocket during the pee rodeo and it's now sitting in three different sources of urine at the bottom of the basin.
But don't forget to keep a hand on The Wanderer at all times, even during phone retrieval, or he'll be at the orange slices and you'll still have a phone in the toilet.
Add to the equation his fear of automatic hand dryers, and you get to hear shrill screams and wince as he plugs his ears with germ infested hands every time an innocent bystander tries to dry their hands. Or during the entire time you're trying to dry the pee off your cell phone.
Get everyone back in the car and start passing the hand sanitizer. Drive to the cell phone store as fast as you can.
The end.

the naive one

Once upon a time, there was a couple with an amazingly cute, charming, well-behaved three-year-old, and a growing, losing-the-baby-look, busy, giggling one-year-old, and they said "Parenting is easy. Let's have another!"

And God smiled.

So they were blessed with the naive one.

The naive one does not know what autism is. She has a brother who is sometimes annoying, but she loves him so much. She gets in his face. She drags him around. She is bossy, and rude, and gives sloppy kisses. He is crazy and wild and splashes water in her face. She steals his cars, just to hear him scream. He screams, she stomps her feet, and they have an argument... without words.

And so he grows up in a neurotypical sandwich, worth more than all the therapy in the world.

The naive one has far passed him developmentally, but she doesn't know it yet. She think she's his mother, but then again, she thinks she is all of ours' mother. She has high expectations for him. He is her big brother, after all.

So yesterday, the naive one yells "I love you Mom!" twice. I say, "You just said that, silly girl." And she says, "I know, the second one was from Waylon. He's shy."

I've said it once, and I'll say it again. This is stuff you can't dream. And all year long, but especially this week, I am ever so grateful to the One who concocted this life of mine. God is so good.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of your families, from ours.