...the story....another chapter...

Today was going to be my catch-up day.

I had it all planned out.

I had a post all set and ready (in my head) to be typed out, edited and published.

And, more importantly, I had time set aside to write.

But then...

I poured my coffee and sat down to "take five" before waking Mister Man up.

Checked my email.

Scrolled through my news reader.

Clicked in and out of facebook and instagram and feedly.

Opened up timehop for a throwback or two.

And saw this:

6 years ago.  Kindergarten.  One month in.

I remember.

I remember the first week of Kindergarten.  I remember walking into the building, hand in hand, to meet the teacher before the first day.  I remember how hard his hot little hand clutched mine as we cautiously made our way through a maze of sterile hallways all the way down to the back of the school.  I remember being hyper-aware of every sound and smell and sensation...wondering what would set him off first.  I remember kneeling down as soon as we entered his classroom to nudge his chin up so that he would look me in the eye.  I remember shushing him as he started to stim.  I remember pointing out  his new teacher and wincing when his fingernails dug into my palm. I remember how the chaos of all those children and parents and toys and books and wall decor shut him down and set him off all at the same time.  I remember pushing him forward, my legs inching his forward one at a time until we were past the doorway.  I remember him pressing his whole body into the wall, smudging the welcome greeting on the chalkboard behind him.  I remember desperately pointing out all the things I thought he might want to play with.  I remember when, finally, he became so immersed in a plastic set of gears in the corner of the room that he finally relinquished my hand.  I remember the look in his new teacher's eyes: a mix of compassion and confusion. 

I remember the moment when she came over to introduce herself.  I remember how she jerked back, startled, when his whole body began to shake right after she said "Hello".  I remember the look in her eyes.  Her kind eyes.  Her shocked and fearful and kind eyes.

I remember shoving my arm in between them and grasping his hand, tightly.  Pulling him toward me where I could enfold his whole body in my arms and squeeze his core in and down.  An X-back hug.  Proprioceptive input.  Mama-bear mode.  Shut out the world and refocus him. I remember that moment when I realized everyone else had noticed...the room gone silent and still and staring.

I remember tripping over my words as I mumbled about his need for sensory input to help desensitize him to the overstimulation.  And there again, that look of confusion in those kind eyes.

I remember looking straight into those eyes and saying "You do know that he is on the autism spectrum, don't you?  I mean, they told you that, right?"  I remember realizing, even before she answered, that no one had told his teacher.  

I remember turning in all of his diagnostic reports, psych. evals and therapy logs to the main office when I first went to register him.  I remember the inch thick stacks, neatly collated and labeled...three of them.  Copies in triplicate.  

I remember standing there with my arms and legs wrapped around my convulsing child, barely balancing against the table behind me, and realizing that NO ONE had informed HIS TEACHER that she had a student with AUTISM.  

BIG BOLD WORDS in my head.

I don't remember the blur of the rest of that intro-session.  I don't remember how long I stood there wrapped around my son like a kevlar vest.  I don't remember what the teacher said in her introductory monologue.  I don't remember seeing the other students and their parents leave the classroom.  

I do remember when everything was finally silent again and I slowly unwound my limbs and pushed my son out of us and back into him.  I do remember his teacher standing in the doorway, back to us, waving at some other departing family.  I remember when she turned around and walked back over to the far corner we were in.  I remember her slowly, ever so slowly, crouching down to Mister Man's eye level and quietly...ever so quietly...saying "Hi.  I'm so glad to meet you.  I hope we'll become friends." 

I remember him abruptly dropping his head and shoving back into me so that I stumbled.  

I remember sitting down at that little round table in that short chair, Mister Man on my lap and one hand busy holding the plastic gears for him while the other jotted things down with a crayon on a piece of faded green construction paper.  I lectured.  Mami-mode turned off.  Advocate-mode on.

THIS is Autism.

THIS is Sensory-Processing Disorder.

THIS is Communication Disorder.

THIS is ADHD.

THIS is my son.

He likes Transformers and Legos.  He likes deep pressure and squeezes.  He can already read!  But he doesn't talk much yet.  And eye contact hurts him.    

Here's my email.  My phone number.  Ask me anything.  Really.  Call me anytime.  Really.  I can come right over.  Really.   I'll drop everything.  I can walk over in 15 minutes.  Really.  I'll do it.  Whatever you need.

I can't believe no one told you.  

I remember 6 years ago.  I remember the first day of Kindergarten when his bus sailed right past our driveway without stopping, while we stood there.  I remember, finally some 20 minutes later, pushing him onto the steps of a substitute bus...forcing my eyes to smile as I said goodbye.  I remember standing in the roadway, waving both arms and jumping up and down in case he could still see me until his bus was long past gone and the cars behind me were  honking.  I remember how my arms itched and my whole body buzzed with nervous energy that whole day...and that whole week...and that whole month.  

I remember doing everything one handed that day, so that I could clench my phone.

I remember how often it rang.       

I remember how I would answer "Hello" as a question.  And the apologetic voice on the other end...his new teacher wondering how to stop him from shrieking...or shaking...or rocking back and forth because it was disrupting the classroom.  Why was he rigid in the corner?  Why did he get so close to her face when he had a question?  Could he hear her, because he wasn't responding?  Could I come in because he wouldn't stop squeaking...couldn't sit at the table with the other students...wasn't responding to her directions...

The phone would ring.  "What should I do now?", the ever-present inquiry.

I remember the first school party.  I remember arguing with my closet, trying to find the 'just-right' outfit to blend in with these well-to-do, married, stay-at-homers.  I remember being afraid I would embarrass my son in front of his peers.  I remember walking over and signing in.  Smiling and introducing myself.  Adding my plate of cookies to the table.  Pointing out my son...in the corner...rocking back and forth...when asked "Which one is yours?".

I remember.

High-definition memory.

The quick recoil.  The turned down lip.  The words.

"Oh he's the one...um...isn't he...well...something's wrong with him, right?  I mean, he has problems.  Right?   I thought they sent them  to a different school.  My daughter said he freaks her out.  That's what she came home and told me.  She said there's a boy in her class that's kind of a freak.  What is he, disabled or something?"

I remember freezing.  Mute.  Standing there in a half circle of other mothers...no one contradicting or chastening or even making eye contact.  Shocked.  Silent.  

I remember catching my breath...my lip trembling...my whole body starting to shake.  I remember turning away...walking away...rigid...walking toward him and sitting down, right there on the floor next to him, giving him my hand to hold and my senses focusing in on just the two of.  Blocking everything else out and not moving until the party ended.  I remember giving him a hug and walking back down that hallway...signing out in the front office...walking home...

I remember shutting the door and sliding down it and the tears that exploded out of me as I crumpled to the floor.  Hot, angry tears mixed with heartbreak.   

I remember this:

I remember the phone call and the voice.  The principal calling to ask me to 'please speak with him about that shrieking sound he makes sometimes' because it's disturbing other children in his class and their parents have signed a petition to have him removed.  

I remember it all.  

I remember calmly explaining that my son's vocal stim was part of his disability.

I remember her "Well, just tell him to stop it" response. 

I remember that phone call as the beginning of the 6 year war.

I remember it as though it was yesterday.  Because it was.  It was 6 years ago.  And it was yesterday.  And it was every day in between, and many more to come.  

It was raising a special-needs child in a typical-needs world.

And knowing that there would always...will always...be someone that thinks he is...freaky.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So I will always be his soft place to land.

And the story will continue...

~Leanna

Uncategorized

...taking stock...

When's the last time you took stock?

When's the last time you stepped outside of your comfort zone and looked at your life~your current situation~with a dose of healthy detachment and judgement-free appraisal?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If this past year was the 'winter of my discontent', then this summer kicked off my pursuit of contentment.  It was a summer of big changes...and little ones.  It was a summer in which I forced myself to make uncomfortable choices and difficult decisions.  It was a summer in which I forcibly cancelled out everyone and everything else, replanted myself, and began to grow anew.

By the tail end of last school-year, I was completely wrung out.  My innate (inane and insane?) compulsion to be all things for all people had left one big, gaping hole.  In filling the needs of everyone else, I had completely (and perhaps subconsciously on purpose) neglected myself.  By using up all of my resources on others, I had successfully put-off addressing my own problems.  Very much a case of taking the speck out of others' eyes while ignoring the much larger blockage in my own. What can I say?  It's a talent!  And one I've been honing for years.  Much to my own detriment.

When the meltdown finally broke through all the busy-ness~in all it's epic, melodramatic glory~I broke into a million pieces.  And most of them were whiny.  Whiny childhood fears and insecurities that had just been lurking underneath all my steely resolve and multi-tasking. Whiny childish doubts that I had never silenced or grown through.  I was, on the inside, just an abandoned kid playing at being an adult and hoping no one would notice.

My inner voice was about 12 years old and full to the brim of self-loathing.  The manifestation of growing up in an environment of criticism and emotional abandonment. 

My inner voice was living my life for me...in fear, in doubt, in anxiety, in embarrassment...in pain.

My inner voice was living my life as an open, untreated wound.

Something had to change.

I had to change.

I had to figure out how to listen to that inner voice...listen, and then let go.

Address her fears from an older/wiser place...and dismiss them.

Send her back into the past, where she belonged, and lock the door.

What I had to do

~really~

was scrape off all the scar tissue on all the wounds and slowly, painfully re-grow myself.

I had to feel it all over again...and force myself to grow in a different direction than I had the last time.

I had to let go of the comfort of my discomfort.

And to do all that, I first had to take stock: of my faults, of my failures, of my mistakes, of my weaknesses, of my past, of my present, 

of who I want to be and how I want to be.

To do all that, I had to tear everything down and throw everyone out and learn how to be myself.

...to be continued...

~Leanna

...tight squeeze...

Pop by our home unexpectedly and you're sure to find a mess...

Or three, purposely ignored in favour of fun.  Doubtless, there will be dishes in the sink and paperwork threatening to fall off the table.  If it's early on a weekend, I'll be unshowered and disheveled...tackling the "dirty work" in yesterday's castoffs.  There will be chaos.  You'll marvel to find me just barely balancing on one foot, while every other limb is doing it's own thing.  I like to think of it as a finely choreographed ballet in which one hand can sign off on med. forms and mail, while the other stirs the pot and the foot nudges things into their place.  In all likelihood though, it's probably more like a tornado. 

Pop by unexpectedly, and you'll find me multitasking.

You'll have to look harder though, to find Mister Man. 

Check the corners, the dark ones.  Or the furniture, underneath.

Boy...with a blanket...and a book...in a basket.
Of course!

 Because in our home, Autism is part of the design.  

Since he was but a wee little one, Mister Man has been wedging himself into small spaces.  Cardboard boxes, laundry baskets, dog cages...no enclosure hasn't at least been attempted.  A former friend in Ohio was moving and brought over a small bench she thought I might like for my entryway. We left it on it's side, heading to the kitchen for a moment for refreshments. Mister Man, never one to miss an opportunity, flipped it onto it's back and wedged himself into the bottom, there to chortle happily to himself when we returned.  The following day found him snug as a bug in that bench bottom, complete with a pillow, blanket, and sippy cup. I learned early on to stockpile boxes and bins. Friends with babies knew to drop off their bulk diaper boxes.  The stockboy at Kroger would save me cardboard milk crates.  And every trip to Aldi's netted at least a few empty cartons.  I made sure to keep duct tape in stock for repairs, and art supplies at hand for imagination transformations.  My living room was littered with airplanes and trucks and boats, all made from boxes and all suitable for just one passenger.  I learned to go with the flow.  And to guard my laundry baskets behind a locked basement door!  

Even when he's not in it...he's "on it".
Laundry basket lover!

If, on a morning in May, my son wasn't in bed when I groggily padded to his bedroom, I knew to check the hamper in the closet.  By June, I'd installed a nightlight in said closet.  I gated off the kitchen at one point, after someone emptied out all the contents of the refrigerator and then restocked it...with himself!  

We had a laundry chute that ran from the top floor down to the concrete basement.  I was ever-fearful that he'd become curious and try to wedge himself into the hole.  Thankfully, that never happened. Locks on the kitchen cabinets and oven were a must.  I bought the magnetic kind and then hid the magnet...so well, in fact, that we had to eat takeout for several days until I remembered it's secret locale! A burgeoning friendship with a gal I worked with came to a dead stop when my son locked himself in her dog's cage during a holiday dinner.  I was thoroughly non-plussed, but apparently it was all too much for her to handle.  

Just. Add. Postage!

With his eventual diagnosis came the marvelous new term "Proprioceptive Input"...the keyword in understanding Mister Man's ongoing obsession with small spaces.  He was, as I had suspected, finding some degree of comfort in an uncomfortable world.  The close-fit spaces he was so fond of provided him with calming sensory input.  And, moreover, gave him a safety zone in which to be himself.

Pop by unexpectedly and you'll find him, so long as you know where to look.  Check the laundry basket beside his empty chair.  Or the space right behind it.  Look on the bed, at that small huddled mass.  Or behind the cardboard sheet angled against the wall.  

Can't find a small space?
Will create one!

While you're visiting, note the spares...flat boxes I buy from home depot at $5 a pop and stockpile behind my dresser.  Lift the top off the ottomans and see where I filled them chock-full of Legos so there's no room for him to hide away inside.  

Home Depot boxes:the best gift ever!

Perhaps you'll see his spinning office chair, or see the portable spinner that can go atop any chair hiding under the kitchen island.  Proprioceptive input again.  Spinning and rocking and leaning...

Leaning to close for comfort.  The boy practically climbing onto-into me in restaurants and stores.

The boy all snuggled up in a full length winter-weight robe...at the breakfast table outside on a hot summer day.  I'll be the one perspiring in a tank and shorts.  The boy piling blankets on our laps at the open-air theatre, despite the heat and humidity...and the melting Mami.  

High 80's and humid as a swamp...
but just look at that smile!

Pop by unexpectedly and you'll see the chaos and the calm...the mess and the order...

Pop by and you'll see that this home of ours is an Autism home.  There's thought gone into every inch...from floor to ceiling, and every nook and cranny in between.  

...tick tock tick...

I'm running out of time.

I feel it.

This obligation to rush.  This overwhelming, breath-holding, heart-pounding compulsion to squeeze every last thing into every last moment before that timer buzzes.

I vaguely remember the early days when time was at a standstill and weeks dragged on, one to the next.  When every day was full to the brim, but never seemed to end.  When change was slow and steady, and growth was measured in ounces and months.  And when, more importantly, the only real obligation was to ourselves and what we wanted this life of ours to look like.

Fast forward through all those ounces and all those months...fast forward through pounds and years.

Fast forward to today.

Today, in May.

Fifth grade but a month from ending. The first "graduation" on the horizon.  Puberty rearing its melodramatic, emotionally-unstable head.  The infant-toddler-little boy-big boy swallowed up by this man-child.  This ever-changing creature that I don't yet know...made up of all those recognizable pieces but somehow, suddenly, reassembled into a stranger. 

The old familiar is disappearing.  I say goodbye to a little more of it with every passing day.  I feel as though I'm trapped inside of a living pulse of heartbreak.  

For what I now realize was too brief a time, our whole lives were each other.  His needs filled mine, as my lessons filled his.  We were a team of two.  One solid unit.  Family.

That clock has been ticking all along.  Time marching steadily, stealthily by.

I have been his whole world.  He has been mine.  He is my whole heart.  

But 12 years have come and gone.  I am being left behind.  Pushed aside to make room for new people, new experiences.  He is my whole world, and my whole heart...but I am no longer his.  

It hurts.

  

The clock keeps ticking.  Now I hear it...the inexorable pulse drumming away underneath our day to day.  At 2am it pounds in my ears.  At 4pm it spurs me on, as I struggle to cram as much quality time into each available minute as I can.  Homework gets in the way.  The schoolday is my enemy.  I'm running out of time, and the obligations keep mounting. Projects and essays and work and phone calls.  Appointments and bedtimes and arguments and illness.  I want to yell STOP!  Loudly, angrily, silencing the chatter.  I want to push the pause button and hold off the inevitable for another 12 years.  I want to rewind, and live it all over again in slow motion.  I want to savour the childhood and the child.  I haven't had enough time yet.  I haven't had my fill.  I want so much more.

He is my whole heart. 

I can feel the walls of the box closing in around me.  The one he's pushing me into, though he doesn't even realize it.  I have gone from occupying every nook and cranny, every inch and mile.  I have gone from being so much larger than life. I have gone from being the framework of his whole world. Slowly, I'm shrinking to fit as he unconsciously builds the walls that will be my future.  It aches, this shrinking down. It's tight and rigid, and hard to breathe.  I went from being everything to something.  The box keeps getting smaller.  Soon, I fear, I will be inside the box.  And the box will be placed high up on a shelf.  "Mother", it will read in black Sharpie ink.  It will sit there on the high shelf as part of the collection.  Just another of the many bits and pieces that make up his whole, full life.  

I'll live in that box, observing but removed.  No longer his go-to person. No longer the answer for every question, the comforter for every pain, the soft place to land.   I'll become the back-up.  The fall back on. The cherished memory.  The old faithful.  The obligation that gets in the way of freedom.

He'll be my whole heart.  But I'll just be a piece of his.

I'm running out of time, and I don't want to do as I must.  I don't want to take my rightful place in that box.  I don't want to become an observer in his life.  I want to remain an experiencer, right in the thick of it.

I'm running out of time.  Time to enjoy the last moments of his childhood.  Time to impart wisdom and humor and grace.  Time to relish in being his favourite person. Time to be his cherished Mami. 

The clock is ticking.  It seems to speed up each day.  Everything is getting in the way.

I want so much more for him than just myself.  But I want nothing more for myself than just him.  

The time will come, and I will do as I must.  I know I will.  Because I want his life to be whole and full and free.  I will do what every good mother before and after has done or will.  I will sever the ties and smile as I wave goodbye, hiding the agony inside where he can't see it.  I will watch my whole heart go off into the wide world and pray that he keeps it safe from harm.  

But just for now, I want to tighten those knots, double up those ties and bonds.  I want to hold on with both hands and stretch out every moment to its limits.  I want to be a part of it all.  I want to answer the questions and comfort the pains and be his soft place to land.  Because I know it's almost over.  Time is fleeting.  Soon I'll only have the memories. 

I'm running out of time.      

~Leanna

...motherhood sucks...

Seriously.

This gig can suck.  

Suck the life right out of you.  Suck the time and the energy and the patience and the... Yeah, that list could go on and on.  Let's. Just. Not.

Spring break started off on a high note.  Pacing back and forth at the bottom of the drive, waiting for Mister Man's bus to arrive and gift me back the simple joys of  "family life" for a blissful, solid week.

Ah, vacation.  Time to reconnect.    Time to rest...relax....enjoy childhood and parenting.  No pressure...no alerts or alarms or deadlines...

It started on a high note.  The bus pulled up...the boy hopped out.  I grabbed his bookbag and chromebook and lunch bag (as I do) and we hiked back up the drive hand in hand.  Into the house...already giggling through plans for the evening. (Boardgames and popcorn outside, to be sure!) empty the bag....open the folder...

Crash!  High notes and high hopes took a tumble.  For inside that "should have been empty" folder was a giant packet of papers, paperclipped because no staple could hold them all.  

Invention Convention

Over a dozen pages outlining  the upcoming science fair, chock full of deadlines and outlines and parental suckiness. 

Oh yeah, motherhood sucks. 

(I remember being a child.  A child with projects due.  That sucked too.)

So there went the break portion of Spring Break.  Right out the door.  Instead of boardgames and popcorn, we hashed out hypotheses and proposals on draft paper.  I won't bore you with the details, but a final decision was rendered the night before school resumed.  Cue Mami, typing away at the proposal long after Mister Man has conked out next to her!

The proposal was accepted.  A note from the teacher reminded my would-be inventor that this year a working model was required. 

Aw, hell!

Working?  Model?  Can I send in my old portfolio instead?!?

Motherhood sucks.  

I'm already laying the emotional groundwork for my son if/when this turns into his first failure.  Because it's May.  I rallied the troops (do the two of us count as troops?) and blasted through September, October, November.  I class-mom'ed it up in December and January and February. I pushed us through March and April with sheer determination and lots of allergy meds.  I have typed and cut and glued.  I built a German Village.  I painted set pieces.  I have yearbooked and costume paraded and lunch ladied my little heart out.  I have homeworked and cello practiced and created 25 individual German walled cities.  I have IEP'ed and argued and advocated.  I have put things together and torn things down and decorated the classroom and hallways and teachers' lounge.  I have served food and discipline and life lessons.  I'm all PTO'ed out.  

And now it's May.  And I just don't care anymore.  It's May and he's graduating in a month.  It's May and he's maintained straight A's since Kindergarten.   It's May and this freaking project is due on Thursday and it is isn't even begun.

Because it's May and I don't know how to build computer application enabled tech devices for special needs  kids.  I don't even know how to fake it.  And neither does he.

But damn it, there's that proposal already submitted and accepted.  There's that due date in red on the calendar.  And there's that "F"...that big giant stinking failing grade (the first one ever)  if I don't miraculously figure out how to help him build this fabulous, brilliantly theorized, impossible invention.

Tomorrow is Mothers' Day.

Guess what we'll be doing?

Motherhood sucks.

~Leanna 

...think fast...

Mister Man is bright, no doubt about it.  He always has been.  His mind is a whirring, ticking, clicking machine.  He's always thinking.

Always.

Always. Even at 3a.m. when he wakes me up to discuss the designs for his invention for the upcoming science fair. 

Even in the shower...when lathering up and rinsing off gets in the way of 'his process'. 

Not a morning goes by when he doesn't come tearing out of the bathroom, towel barely covering the necessities, to impart some newly discovered wisdom to me.  That early in the day, it's usually about design specs for future Transformers.  Super important.  And always right in the middle of my breakfast prep so I drop something, splatter hot food, slice my finger, etc...  Goodness knows my concentration goes right out the window the moment my ears process his voice.  

(Motherhood...it's a danger zone!)

At any given moment (yes, probably even when he's fast asleep) his brain is racing away.  So often when I look over at him, he's completely still...frozen in place...his eyes fastened on some distant horizon.  Conversations with him are never linear...nor circular for that matter,  I suppose.  Rather, they hop about from one topic to another....unrelated in any logical way to all but him.  One leads into three more which dissolve into something else entirely.  Pay attention or you'll get lost.  I do.  All the time.  And then I'm stuck with my own frozen expression as I search endlessly for that dropped stitch in a tangle of topics. 

 He thinks fast.
I can't always keep up.
Our conversations jump all over the place.
It keeps things interesting.

(Maybe that's partly why I still read-aloud to him in the morning...I'm stalling before conversing until the coffee can kick in and give me a fighting chance!)
Lately, I've become much more aware of this...as though after years of unconscious acceptance my subconscious suddenly issued a broadcast one morning.

Alert! Alert! You're falling behind. You're missing the point.

Now, all the time, I find myself consciously struggling to keep up...to stay focused...to follow each thread as it weaves in and out of a conversation.  Emphasis on the struggling there.  I simply can't keep up. He switches from topic to topic so quickly...while it takes me several sentences in to even realize that the previous topic has been abandoned. By the time I catch up, he's already moving on to the next one.

I'm thinking of requiring an outline first! Or a pre-conversation warm up? Maybe flashcards? At the very least, an I.V. drip for my coffee? 

 ~Leanna

...life interrupted...

We're readers.  This family.  We read first thing in the morning and last thing at night.  We read on park benches and in cafeterias.  We pack books in our luggage when we travel, and we stow others in the car every time we leave the house.  We bring books to the beach and to restaurants and to amusement parks.  

We're readers.  

We're escape artists.  We wander in and out of distant landscapes and other lives.  We disappear  between two covers and drown out the world.  We make friends and enemies and memories with people and places and creatures of black and white, colored in by our imaginations.  

The greatest gift life afforded me was my son.  The greatest gift I gave him was the stories.  I read to him in the womb, and stayed up late rocking him gently and whispering fairytales.  I read to him at every meal and during every morning and every night.  I read to him and he began to read to me.  Little words...little syllables. Strung together stunted sentences.  See dog run.  

Time passed as time does.  The sentences grew longer...the syllables multiplied.  From board books to Golden Books...paperbacks to hardcovers.  And still I read to him, and he read to me.  I read to him as we waited for the bus to arrive on his first day of kindergarten.  The Hardy Boys.  I read to him this morning, and every morning between that first day and this one.  The Hardy Boys.  We're working our way through the collection. Every day, we read.  

He reads his own books now.  Treasures purchased from the thrift store with tightly-fisted allowance.  Indulgent tomes bought with gift cards.  Stacks that topple over from the library.  Science fiction and fantasy co-habitate with Garfield.  Transformers and Doctor Who live next to Warriors.  

His teacher sends home a reading log each week.  At the very top is the reading requirement...100 minutes per week.  I smirk every time I sign off on the bottom...he averages twice that daily.  I'm tired of filling them out...pointless wastes of paper.  

I've never punished him for staying up late to read...under the covers with a flashlight.  I never will.  I did the same thing when I was his age.  Sometimes I do it now.

We read, and I am reminded that despite everything else,  I am lucky.  I got just what I wanted.  I dreamt of a family all curled up in a living room reading, when I was pregnant with him.  I imagined soft, quiet nights with warm mugs and turning pages.  I wished for it.  I got just what I wanted.  

When homework is light and we've time to spare, we'll while away the afternoon with books.  He with his.  Me with mine.  We'll sit in the living room or out in the yard...next to each other and yet miles apart...traipsing about on adventures in other worlds.  Disappearing.

Until he interrupts.  Until he reads aloud at me while I'm still underwater...dragging me up to the surface with his voice.  Interrupting my exploration...my imagination...my story.  Inspired to share something he found funny or frightening or curious.  Insistent that I experience it as well.  Interrupting.  

~Leanna

  

...stand alone...

Our town library has recently adopted a Lego Club program.  Previously, we had to travel quite a bit farther to a different library in our county system to attend their once-monthly offering, and the travel time always cut into my dinner prep.  So it's quite nice to now be able to just pop down the road to our library instead. The fact that it's one of his most-favourite places is the icing on the cake.  I know every time we walk in the doors, he'll be fine.  No high-alert autism-parenting needed!

 Several years ago he and I sat down one afternoon after yet another in-store meltdown, to compose a list of his favourite and least favourite places...and why they were so determined.  At the top of his least favourite places?  WalMart.  Bad smell, crowded, buzzy sounds, and ouchy lighting that hurt his head were his reasons.  What a lightbulb moment that was.  I always get a headache and nausea when I go into WalMart.  Every single time.  I literally have to rush in, grab the few things I can only every get there, and rush back out in under 5 minutes if I want to avoid symptoms.  Now I know why!

Anyhow, among his favourite places....in fact, topping the list...was the library in town.  He told me the lighting is just right, the sound is just right and he likes the way the books smell.  Plus, the window seat is both comfy and hidden, so he can curl up with Henry and a pile of adventures, while disappearing into the woodwork. Add in the playground in back? So great his 6 year old self named it The Super Playground...which we still call it now!  Given all that, you can probably guess that we spend as much time in this happy place as possible.  I check the website at the start of each month to see what program offerings there are and sign him up as soon as registration opens.  The librarians there all know him by name and favourite book searches.  In fact, there's one librarian who beats him to the punch every time...calling up the list of books he usually inquires about before he even gets to her desk.  They've each taken me aside at various points to comment on his growth and improvement.  One of my intangible treasures is a whispered conversation in the stacks several years ago, when his favourite librarian gleefully told me he made eye contact with her for the first time. She was positively giddy!  So sweet!

Yesterday evening, we swung by for the second session of the new Lego Club.  Thankfully, it was a light homework night!  The turn-out is good for a new program, though the autism-parent in me is nervous for the day it really takes off.  Crowds and the volume they tend to create are both major triggers for him.  I usually wait back a bit these days at the beginning, checking out the new fiction arrivals before sneaking into the program room to observe.  There was a time, not so very long ago, when he simply would not participate without me and deflected all the decision making in any project onto me.  In the past year or so I've become much better at removing myself from the equation, and he has gradually put his feelers out...

So in I snuck, right behind his back, and made my way to the very corner where the window seat was partially blocked by an easel.  From there, I could sit quietly and watch as he constructed.  All the other tables were full...four or five children and/or parents all dipping into the community bin for Lego bricks.  Their projects spreading out across the table, running into one another and onto the floor.  Little arguments here and there, as children vied for some suddenly uncovered piece in the bin. The quiet compromises of their parents in hushed tones and gently firm hands.  

But over at the back table, there was but one pair of hands dipping in and out of the bin.  One pair of hands feverishly constructing, destructing and rebuilding.  My son sat alone in the middle of the broad expanse.  Seemingly oblivious to the presence of others, or the sound of their chatter.  Henry sat in the chair next to him...purposely seated in such a way as to get the best view of the project underway.  I looked at the other tables and listened to the buzz of conversations, then back to his table where he worked steadily in silence.  

My son is an independent sort of fellow.  Given his druthers, he'd choose isolation as his workspace every time. Even when that's not an option, he finds a way to create it for himself...tuning out the world completely.   Social gatherings overwhelm him.  Group projects unhinge him.  Sometimes even my involvement in a task sets off a chain reaction of frustration. Cooperation and compromise are not in his toolbox.  

I sat in that corner, unobserved myself, watching the projects slowly come together.  I watched my son complete his task without ever acknowledging the world around him...without ever joining in on the group's activity.  I smiled now and then as I watched him adjust his creation...shoulders tensing in frustration and lowering when he solved his problem.  I can read him like a book.  His frame full of clues.  Never once did I feel the need to get up and go to his side.   He didn't need me.  He had it well in hand.  He could stand alone.

So he did.  He sat alone at the table and disappeared into his own world while he created.  He sat alone at  the table and disappeared into that world populated with Transformers and Creepers and Henry and Katja and Mami.  He sat alone, but he wasn't.    

~Leanna

...walk this way...

Last year there was a utility crew working on our street for a few weeks, cleaning up debris and repairing the damage done by Sandy.  We'd see them early in the morning as we walked down the drive and waited for Mister Man's schoolbus to arrive, then again later in the day when he came home.  The roar of their vehicles and electrical equipment was deafening, and it made my ritual of reading aloud "The Hardy Boys" impossible.  All their ruckus disturbed the very air, filling it with dustclouds and sawdust and displaced insects.    So rather than read or sit and converse, we took to walking.  Pacing up and down the street, arm in arm, for 10 minutes or so until the bus pulled up.  

(I've always made it a habit to incorporate some down-time into our morning routine by heading down the drive early, so that he has ample time to de-stress and de-compress before heading onto "the battlefield".  Since we rise before the sun in order to fit in therapy time, it's a necessary indulgence.)

The utility workers looked on with curiosity the first few times they saw us walking by...back and forth, forth and back.  But by the third day, they were just as used to us as we were to them and we each ignored one another as best we could. One of them, though, must have been paying attention when I covered Mister Man's ears with my hands as we walked past their workspace and he kept an eye out for us.  As we approached he'd look up, nod, and switch his tool off.  The grinding sound paused just enough for us to get  past, and then kicked back into gear once we were clear.  By week's end, Mister Man had gotten in on the action...nodding back as we approached, then using his hand behind him to wave the tool back on.  This funny little backhanded motion as though he was in charge.  

Work progressed somewhat slowly, and we became quite used to the scene at the bottom of the drive.  But at the end of two week's time, the construction vehicle herd had thinned considerably.  The following Tuesday, after Mister Man's bus departed and left my frantically waving self in it's dust, one of the few remaining workmen crossed over the roadway and called out to me.  I stopped, unsure.  He approached, taking off his ballcap and rustling his hand through his hair quickly.  I waited.  

"I just...well, I just wanted to say goodbye Ma'am.  And to tell you that's one special boy you've got there.  But he's the lucky one.  You're the only parent we've seen actually wait with their kids.  That's special. You two walking down and back, instead of just sitting in a car. So much better.  My mom did the same thing.", he burst out at me.  Startled, I didn't really register what he had said.  "Um, ok", I got out, right before he cut me off.  "He's special-needs or something, right?  I mean, oh man, I hope that's not wrong."  I stopped him this time and replied "Yes, he is. He's on the autism spectrum, but he's doing really well." "Oh, good, I mean, yeah..." he said.  "I thought so.  I saw the way he'd shrink and tense up when the machines got louder and how you held his hand and then his ears.  Hope we didn't make things to hard on you.  Anyway, just wanted to tell you that you are a special mom.  You remind me of my mom.  I had problems too, but she never let me let them get in the way.  You keep it up.  He's going to thank you someday."

And with that, he slipped his cap back on and walked back across the street.  I stood there, rooted to the spot for a moment, wondering what had just happened.  Then my phone buzzed in my pocket, and I waved at their backs as the crew packed up and drove away and I walked back up to the house.

We leave the house early and walk down the driveway.  I snap pictures, encouraging him to look right at me and focus on my voice.  Sometimes we sit at the bottom where old paving stones jut out from the dirt right at the edge of the woods, and read together.  Often he works away diligently at his Transformers drawings, while I read aloud.  But some mornings we walk arm in arm..back and forth, forth and back.  He'll clench my hand tightly if the trucks whizzing by are to loud or the sun is to bright or something startles him.  And I'll use my other hand to cover his ear, shade his eyes or squeeze his shoulder.  

I keep it up. 

~Leanna

...i love you more than...

"I love you more than lobster.", I told my son this evening.  He'd had a trying day at school.  His Chromebook was appropriated by school officials after another student changed the title of his copied document to something both impolite and inappropriate.He came home in an emotional whirlwind of anxiety, humiliation and outrage.  Needless to say, I jumped right  onto his bandwagon once I got the full story out of him.  Mama Lion...party of one?!?

(Long phone convo...waiting on the outcome of the investigation tomorrow.  Less than effective administration.  Grrr!)

Discussion ended and my interest sated, we moved on to homework and home-fun...but the mood remained dreary.  He has an impossible way with problems...worrying on them as if a dog with a bone.  Concerned about the investigation.  Worried about the outcome.  Fearful of being punished for something he had not done.  Scared of his mother's wrath if she didn't believe him.

(I believe him.  Not because I'm his mother.  Not because I love him.  But because I know him.  I know his capabilities and his limits.  And this...this goes well past his limits...)

He curled up on the bed with Henry and Katja, blanket over his head...the very picture of defeat.

I stood there for a moment, feeling helpless.  

Then I sat down suddenly, threw my arms around the lump that was him and whispered "I love you more than lobster."  "I love you more than lobster, and pretty things, and candy.  I love you more than hot coffee in the morning.  I love you more than good books at night.  I love you more than I know how to."

His head slowly, ever so slowly, peeked out of the top of the blanket.  He squirmed his way further out of the blanket, further out of the bed, and further into my arms.  All 12 years of him...all 5'6" and 110 lbs of him... In my arms and on my lap.  And he said to me " I love you more than Transformers, and Legos and Henry and Katja and Dr. Who, and mac'n'cheese all combined up.  I love you more than you love me."

I smiled.  And I let him win.  

(Because, of course, I know that's impossible.  I'm his mami...I'll always love him more.)

~Leanna

...spring fever...

 I saw my first daffodil today.

We were driving homeward after running errands.  Driving along on this delightfully twisty road that winds through the woods and up the mountain.  It crosses over a creek bed at several points and I always peer out in search of the mini-waterfalls. In the setting sun, the woods are a monotone brown...brown stumps, brown trunks, brown leaves.  Spring hasn't yet painted our area yet...so the only relief is the rare patch of early grass pushing through the debris.  

There's litter as well...refuse from passerbys pushed into the woods as snowplows traveled through.  In one particular spot I counted a dozen coke cans, all in a row.  Ugh!  

But as we coasted down one hill and turned a corner, a glimpse of yellow caught my eye.  There it was.  Surrounded by all that brown, and garbage perhaps. There it was.  The first daffodil.

Proud as a peacock, with it's face turned up to catch the last rays of this deliciously warm day.  Flaunting its bright petals and graceful stem.  Promising of sunny days to come, and languid evenings spent soaking in the outdoors until nightfall.  The first daffodil.

And I breathed a sigh of relief.  The long winter is over.  Spring is here at last.

~Leanna

...clues...

The way I hold his hand every time we walk.

The constant scanning of my eyes all around.

The hyper-alert stiffness of my neck and shoulders.

The constant warnings to watch feet...watch backs...watch out!

The pocketbook permanently stocked with ear plugs, sensory brush, Rescue Remedy.

The circles under my eyes from sleepless nights.

The scars on my legs from where he used to scratch and bite.

The muscular arms that can still, super-humanly, lift and carry his 110 lbs. when necessary.

The puzzle piece pendant around my neck.

All noticed.

All commented on.

All autism...

WOW: Revision - Saturday

A quick refresher: 

Revision:

re-vi-sion

-the action of revising

-a revised edition or form of something

plural noun:revisions

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This past week has been "spring break" for my son. While his classmates have been crisping in sunny locales such as Maui, Bermuda and Disney, he's been living the dream right here with his Mami.  

(We live in a new-money wealthy school district.  I'm fairly certain we're considered "the poor family".)

Single-mom guilt aside (and my mid-night panic attacks about ruining his childhood by not being able to drop thousands on vacays every few months!!!), we've been milking this time for all it's worth.  Sleeping in...lazy brunches...daytrips...the works.  Yesterday we started our day over oatmeal at Panera's...at $3 and change per bowl I'm quite convinced it's right on par with taking him to Disney (I mean...right?!?)

Throw in that chai tea latte, and the subsequent Starbucks and call me the best mom EVAH! 

Anyhow, where was I?

Munching, crunching, brunching...with the best companion ever.  He brought Henry and transformers terrorcons to the party.  I brought the iPad, and on it, my blog posts.  

I'm a read-aloud editor when I write.  I'll type something out, but in order to get a feel for whether or not I like the end result. I have to read it out loud and take in the words by sound.  If it doesn't sound right, delete delete delete.  

I recently discovered I've passed that charming trait on to my son.  Spy at our window and you'll likely hear quite a lot of mumbling!

With his being around all day (and all night...autism never sleeps!) every day this week, he's been listening in on my blog posts as I write and revise them.  

Moments to be glad that I don't write about crime and/or punishment!  "Sweetie, which sounds better...flayed alive or skinned?"  Speaking of...break time...I've a turkey to de-carcass!

~~~

Back on track...

He's been listening in as I read aloud, and responding from time to time.  So as I was writing and reading at Panera's I stopped and asked him if he knew what Revision meant.

12 year old response "Yeah, Mami...that's what I do all day at school.  It means to go over your work and make it better."

Go over your work and make it better. 

Make your work better.

Sounds about right, doesn't it? 

Go over what you've done so far...the choices you've made, the paths you've taken...  Review it.  And then, make it better.  Maybe it's the big decision you've always avoided making.  Maybe it's one teeny tiny change.  Whatever it is, go over it and make it better. 

Revise what isn't working...and then keep it up.  Keep revising as you go along.  Because there's always another opportunity to pick a better path.  Be open to change as life unfolds for you.  Be willing to bend a bit from your initial plans.  

You may well discover that the true path was only reachable when you exhausted plans A through Y.  

WOW: Revision - Friday

A quick refresher: 

Revision:

re-vi-sion

-the action of revising

-a revised edition or form of something

plural noun:revisions

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There's a wonderful sense of empowerment that comes with embracing the knowledge that revision is always a possibility.   It's as if you've finally been granted the secret of life.   Suddenly everything that you thought was limited, becomes limitless.  Closed doors and dead ends vanish into the ether.   Before you, quite all of a sudden, is the future's blank slate...unmarred by anything that has gone before.  It's yours to control - to command - to create.  Just because you set off on one path at one point, doesn't limit which direction your feet can take you in now.

So go ahead.

Go forward.

Make something beautiful and joyful and satisfying.

Revise the way you view your past and let it become your inpiration, instead of letting it be your frustration.

Take all your broken pieces and create something new...something uniquely you. 

...out of sync...

It's been a hectic couple of weeks in Casa Caffeinated, so of course the blog hit the back-burner for a bit.  Bear with me, please, while I play catch up with last week's word of the week posts.

WOW: Revision - Thursday

A quick refresher: 

Revision:

re·vi·sion

rəˈviZHən/

noun

-the action of revising

-a revised edition or form of something.

plural noun: revisions

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My life hasn't gone according to plan.

No big revelation there...at least not to anyone who's been reading along.

Life didn't turn out the way I dreamt it would when I was a teenager.

I didn't turn out the way I  was once so very sure I would.  

You remember being a teenager, don't you?  That sudden leap from childhood to something else.  That all-encompassing pressure from parents, teachers, guidance counselors. All those choices and responsibilities suddenly in your hands.  Big decisions to be made.  Big, life-altering decisions.  There you are, barely holding your own against puberty and hormones and mean-girls, and all of a sudden everyone expects you to snap your fingers and make a choice.  Pick a life.  Just pick one.  Pick a path...a destination.  Where do you want to go to college?  What will you major in?  Pick a life and apply to it.  Cross your fingers and hope you get it...get in... 

And there you are in the middle of this chaos, trying to think straight and make the best choice.  There are  discussions, and lists, and late night phone calls with your besties.  There are panic-attacks and doubts and fingers crossed.  And mail.  There is mail.  Thick envelopes and skinny ones.  Notifications of receipt.  Requests for more paperwork.  Your postal carrier is your new therapist. 

Everyone else is doing it.

So, you do it.

You lift your bow and arrow and take aim, sending it whizzing off to that giant target of life, and hope against all odds it will land on a good one. 

Choice.  Made.  

Life. Picked.

And off you go.  New horizons. New relationships. New lessons.  And new choices.

New choices all the time.

Sometimes you make the right ones.  Sometimes not.  Sometimes you're like me...making all the right choices for all the wrong reasons, and all the wrong choices for all the right reasons.  

And along the way you lose.  You lose bits and pieces of who you were and what you dreamt.  You lose some of your bravado, and some of your confidence.  You lose innocence, and you lose time.  

There will come a day, or perhaps it's already been and gone, where all you lost and all you never became  suddenly looms right before your eyes.  Failure, and regret, and doubt.  

There will come a day when you realize that life hasn't gone according to plan.

Don't worry...plans made at 16 and 17 are never firm.
Plans made in youthful expectation are just the first draft.

And that's ok.
The story isn't ever over until the life is.  Which means there's ample opportunity to revise as you go along.  That hopeful shot in the dark you made at some point along the way had a  50/50 chance.  And now that you know the outcome, you can make a change. Any moment...any day...any time...you can change your plans.  You can change your mind.  You can change your life. 

It may not be easy, but revision never really is.  It's not simply a matter of cancelling out what went before and starting fresh. It's more about honouring the past and reshaping the future.  Leaving the indentations behind in the paper, while erasing the marks. Revision is allowing the chapter to go a different way, without changing the whole book.