...tick tock, goes the clock...

3...

2...

1...

Happy New Year!

We stayed  home. 

All snuggled down in blankets and fuzzy socks, cocoa and sparkling cider and the remains of a holiday popcorn tin...just the dregs of white cheddar and butter, since someone ate all the caramel on the sly...

We flipped between cheesy holiday movies and episodes of House, never once tuning in to see the crowds or the performers or that glittery bauble poised to drop.

And when the night grew old and cold we turned in, snuffing out candles and gathering up dishes to discard in the sink...headed to bed with books.  

Yawns and stretches and "I'm not tired's", and lights out.  And a warm, purring fluff ball curled up across my legs.  I closed my eyes in the not-quite-dark of a moonlit room and let the slideshow play...the highlight reel of 2017 flickering by.  I let it wash over me, those moments of good and bad and everything in-between.  I let it burn its way down deep into memory, and settle in to the nooks and crannies.  I let it all become a part of me.  

The cat stirred, made anxious by my rigid concentration.  She sat up, stretching, turning round and padding my legs back into a suitable cushion. And I reached down, reassuring her with a chin scratch until her purrs filled up the darkness to the brim.   

I lay there, willing myself not to move, listening to the soft and steady purr.  I remembered the feelings of loss and loneliness, of joy and rage, of success and pride...and how each in its moment had felt so vivid and all-encompassing and crucial.  I thought of the wins, and the losses.  Of frigid cold mornings waiting for the schoolbus, and sticky summer afternoons laying about on the swing reading aloud in the thick air.  I thought of plans made and promises broken.  Of trips we'd taken, and harsh lessons I'd learned.  

And finally I, too, closed my eyes and drifted away with all those memories, whispering goodnight and goodbye to all those days and moments and memories.  

 And so it was that in our little ragamuffin home, not a creature was stirring when the old year ran out...

~Leanna

...long term storage...

2016 ended and 2017 began in the red.

Losses stacked one upon another.

Some expected (still mourned, but expected) after long illnesses. 

Another that came in gently, easing the burden when hope was gone.

One horrifyingly fast...here, then gone in the blink of an eye.

There are holes now...big gaping wounds amongst family and friends, that will never close.  Children half-orphaned, spouses widowed, friendships shattered. 

And all the baggage of words never spoken: goodbyes never shared, apologies never made or received, fractures never healed.

There are those who spout out the platitudes. 

"Never go to bed angry."

"Forgive and forget."

"Let it go-life is too short."

But what of the hurts that run deep?  The fractures so wide that they make strangers of family?  The friendships that decay?

What of the losses that happened before this one?

What of the distance that's become normal?

Because that's what it is. 

Normal.

Life goes on and distance becomes normal. 

And it's okay to hold on to those hurts and fractures and decay, because they've glued all the new pieces of you together.

Loss brings people together.  It also highlights the distance.  The reminder it shrieks of the brevity of life scares many into temporary change.  Wounds are sloppily patched in it's presence.  Empty words and promises flung about as though in defiance of death itself.  And guilt amassed, on others' behalf.

"Never go to bed angry."

"Forgive and forget."

"Let it go-life is too short."

There may have been a trigger.  There may have been a  disappointment, or an argument.  There may have been hurt feelings. 

But now there isn't...there aren't.

The disappointment has faded.  The argument has lost its steam.  The feelings don't exist.

There are just strangers, living lives apart with no real knowledge of one another though once upon a time they may have walked side by side.

And there are memories, certainly, packed away in long term storage, of those "days gone by" when those relationships looked so innocent and carefree. 

Memories, like photographs, commemorating this moment or that...a diary of who and how and where you were at one particular moment.  A history, gathered up of people and places and experiences.  All part of the rough and tumble refining of who you are now. 

But only a part.  And a small one at that.

The present and future stretch on limitless, while the past is defined and contained.  Those disappointments-arguments-feelings shrink in on themselves over time as the rest of your life grows out of and beyond them.  Those people who you once walked beside spin out in ever-widening circles as you do, separate pathways divergent from the one walked together.    Life fills up with new people and new paths.  And you become someone other...someone more...than you were when they knew you.  And the version you knew of them is stored away in memory. 

Perhaps the box holding that memory is made up of hurt or fracture or decay.  Perhaps you locked it up tight in a moment of anger or sorrow.  Perhaps you went out of your way to bury it as far back and deep in as possible. 

But what's nice to know is that someday when you decide to, you may just go through all those boxes and find one you'd forgotten about.  Dusty perhaps.  Dry rotted, more likely.  Inside a little glimpse at a past that can't hurt you anymore.  Moments sweet and sour, brief in their age now, that set you off on a different path. 

There's no need to hold on so tightly to hurt and pain and regret.  It will keep.  It will stay.  You can place it high up on the shelf or far back behind the rest.  You can put it all in long term storage.  Because you don't need it.  It's not functional, or useful.  It's just the chrysalis stage between an experience and a memory.

~Leanna

...wet socks...

Right now I should be proofing the speech I'm giving tonight. 

Right now I should be sitting across from Mister Man, seeing to it that he stays 'on task' with his homework.

Right now I should be tackling the dishes, putting away the leftovers and cleaning the counter. 

Right now. 

Right here.

Checking in from the bed, instead.  Propped up on pillows, laptop cross my knees, I'm over here on a self-imposed  timeout that not even the cat dares disturb.  Because less than 5 minutes ago I was well on my way to an epically stupid rant of a temper tantrum.  Yup, full-scale arm-flailing nonsense-yelling dish-tossing temper tantrum. 

Over

Socks

Ok, in my defense the socks were wet.  Well, not at first.  At first the socks were dry.  The dry socks that I just put on as I was finishing getting dressed for (that speech I'm supposed to be rehearsing) my presentation tonight.  The dry socks that moments later should have could have would have been going (still dry) into the boots right past the kitchen. 

The suddenly sopping wet kitchen.

See where I'm going with this yet? 

No?  Eh, neither do I.

Instead of putting dry socks in boots, I walked right into it...literally...and thus, wet socks.  The spilled juice that was only half-wiped up when my unfortunate socks decided to finished the job sponge-style.  You know that shock you get when a drop of rain slips right past your hat/hair/collar and gets you right in the back of the neck?  Suddenly wet socks in the middle of your rush to change feel just like that. 

And they will make you yell.

Or yelp?

Nah, yell. 

Cause yelping usually doesn't include profanity.

And I totally did.

Thus, self imposed timeout.  Wet socks still sponging away in the middle of the kitchen floor where I left them.  Left them after literally screaming my head off whilst yanking them off my feet.  Left them after letting loose with the mom-rage...that pent-up tight-lid crapola that has absolutely nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being utterly exhausted with no hope of reprieve. 

Ugh.

Mom Fail.

Wet Socks.

Right here.

Right now.

Mom Fail.

Just. Stop. Screaming! 

I think the flu drained my reserves...of patience, and sanity.
Yeah, that, that's what I'm going with. 

~Leanna

...365...

I wrote in my son's lunchtime note that we're already 10 days into the New Year today, and followed it up with "only 355 more to go!" and a smiley face.  What can I say?  The coffee had yet to kick in, and the early wakeup was killing my vibe.  The whole getting up in the pitch black thing will do that to you, especially when it means the heat hasn't turned on yet either.  Ugh!

Note to self: stop whining and change the thermostat settings.

How is it 2017 already?  I swear, I got sidetracked somewhere between Halloween and Thanksgiving.  After that, it was all a blur.  December was literally a 'check off all the things' month, with holiday gatherings, travel, concerts and funerals.  Somewhere in there we opened gifts and ate food but honestly, all I really remember is being exhausted. 

   

Truth be told, we haven't even gotten round to our making our resolutions list for 2017.  Granted, we spent the first 8 days alternating between bed and recliner in the full grips of flu-pocalypse '17...but, this slow and steady climb back to something resembling healthy energy is taking longer than I would have thought possible and I'm finding it far too easy to just put off until tomorrow what would require too much effort today!  Those resolutions?  Eh, give me another week or so...

In the meantime, I still can't get the taste of 2016 out of my mouth! 

~Leanna

...crosspost: because sometimes it needs to be written and shared...

Some stats first:

🔸I'm 5'8" minus my beloved heels, and 120 lbs. on the nose according to the bathroom scale.

🔹Weighing in at 137, and a whopping 6'2" is my little man, J-Bug.

🔸I can lift those 137 lbs. for about a minute, and do so every morning when doing his joint compressions.

🔹His shoulders are now so broad that I can no longer reach across him to do ❌ hugs, which for years were the best way to give him instant proprioceptive relief.

🔸My 120 lbs. can still pull his 137lbs.

🔹But, don't provide enough resistance to push those same 137 lbs.

Ok, got all that?

Last night was an eye-opener, panic-inducer, heart-breaker.

We'd gone to Target (gotta check the toy aisle for new Transformers on the regular!), followed by the grocery store. At some point along the way, this Mami totally missed the early warning signs (because it's been so long!) of an autism-meltdown. (go ahead and google that...we're not talking toddler tantrums. Think danger to self and others)

Now, in years past, this gal would have been on top of that, right? First sign and we're out...nope, erase that...I could spot those potential triggers a mile away and would grab and dash. Usual Target scene: Leanna carrying J-Bug in a dead lift, legs over one arm, head hanging off the other...kicking the cart with her feet. Good times, folks, good times.

Fast forward several years...Wonder-Bug has adapted his sensory therapies to real world situations, and learned to block out many of his triggers. And I, apparently, started blocking them as well.

So here I was, blissfully ignorant and getting frustrated with his non-responsiveness in the grocers. But-still-not tuning in to my autism radar apparently.

Instead, we headed next to the burger place in town. The crowded, loud burger place in town where I placed our orders while he sat at a table, head down on his arms.

Satisfied that my g-free, grass fed, mushroom-avocado dinner was being prepared medium rare, I filled our soda cup and headed to the table...

Where...

Finally...

I noticed that something was...

Well, something was shaking, quaking, quivering...something, my someone...was so tensed up that his shakes resembled a seizure. Completely uncontrollable.

Ding Ding, we have a winner! Finally something for me to notice, right?

Quick dash to the register..."we're heading outside", then a struggle lift from the chair and drag to the door. Outside into the dark patio. (Where the rockstar staff delivered our food!).

Ears covered ✔️

Head squeezed ✔️

❌ hug FAIL

Lift and rock FAIL

Full body squeeze FAIL

Heart breaking as I realize I am not physically capable of stopping his meltdown. Heart breaking as I realize he has grown out of my ability.

We came directly home, half-eaten dinners tossed, and I was able to calm him with soft favourites and steamrollers (literally now he lays across the bed while I roll across him).

An hour later, he snapped back into b-mode (better mode).

A morning later, I'm still a nervous wreck.

--------------

Yes, he's brilliant. Handsome and charming. Witty to boot. Yes, he's an awesome scholar and artist and cellist.

Yes, I post a lot about the 'wins'.

But, make no mistake...autism is not easy or pretty, or a carefully selected series of smiling photos. That's part of it, sure, yes... But it's also this...

A mother rendered useless by nature's joke on size.

Onlookers staring, whispering and catcalling when a young(ish looking) woman has a (man sized) boy draped across her body on a patio bench in the dark.

A thrown away shirt, since in his panic and struggle he tore the side seam of my t-shirt wide open.

And this morning's whimpery wake up when his whole body hurts because of last night's shaking.

...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