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... 

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?

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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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.