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... 

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?

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

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.

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

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.