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!

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. 

The day I took 5,429 selfies

Things that happened on Friday, February 27th, 2015 (a day for the record books).

1. I took a shower alone with no one else in my house, for 20 minutes (and *gasp* I shaved my legs).

2. IT WAS A GOOD HAIR DAY.

3. I put on eyeliner and mascara for the first time in YEARS. (I shuddered when I thought about all of the bacteria that has been living on the eyeliner pen that I dug out of the drawer... But I put it on anyways. No pink eye yet.)

4. As a direct result of 1,2, and 3- I took approximately 5,429 selfies.

5. Oh, and I also co-hosted a standup comedy benefit in front of over 300 people.

Friday, February 27th, 2015 was incredible. 

Inspirational. 

Therapeutic. 

I am so so proud of the 11 very brave parents of children with autism who took the stage to tell their stories. I think what the dashing young co-host with the incredibly good hair and clean shaven legs actually said was, "These parents are setting aside society's notion of 'having it all together', in order to give us a glimpse of the highs and the lows, and the frankly hilarious moments of their lives."

And that they did.

And while I am very proud that we raised $7000 for Camp Encourage, I am also overwhelmingly proud of the awareness and acceptance and laughter that we created for the autism community.

Friday, February 27th, 2015 was a day that I celebrated a very special boy, who has autism, and has stolen my heart-- and sanity.

come hell or high water

We've needed a date night lately like we've needed air and water. We've been putting it off way. too. long. Finally last week TK said, "We're going on a date Saturday night COME HELL OR HIGH WATER". So I said, "Yes, please".

And wouldn't you know it- as we were walking out the door Saturday, we noticed our laundry room had flooded and soaked the 7,249 loads of unfolded laundry within and the basement below. (HELL OR HIGH WATER)

So we sat in Texas Roadhouse and ate marginal steak and ordered extra hot rolls and honey butter and laughed {and cussed some} about the small flood in our home.

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Every other Wednesday night since November, I've been sneaking to KC to meet with 10 other autism parents and a few other super funny people to plan the 2015 Evening with the 'Rents

(a fundraiser for Camp Encourage). We talk about the hilariously funny things our {adorable} kids with autism have done, the tears they have brought us, and the joy. And we laugh so. freaking. hard.

So while working to plan a comedy show with parents of children with autism, I realized something very important. And I want to share it with you, too.

These are trying times for many. The burdens are heavy. The struggle is real. But when crap is hitting the fan (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally), if you can laugh with someone, you can get through it. Find the joy in everything. (It's there, trust me!) Crap is so much easier to clean off the fan when you are laughing about it with someone.

If you are currently climbing uphill in your journey, you will get through these trying times, (COME HELL OR HIGH WATER). Trust me!

This Friday, February 27th, I am proud to be a co-host for the 2015 Evening with the 'Rents. Like last year's event, it promises to be a night of laughter and joy, and a celebration of those with autism that we know and love, who have stolen our hearts {and sanity}. 

Really- it's cheap therapy (and the only therapy program in the area with a full bar in the lobby).

Tickets are still available, and if it sells out you can bet that yours truly will be crapping herself (instead of cleaning up someone else's crap, for once).

Get your tickets here!

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Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

--Kurt Vonnegut

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I call BS on the "less cleaning up to do" part.

 --Lindy Katzer

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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?

...............................................

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.