Author: Barbara Kelso

A sense of freedom.

diversity, equal rights, equality, neurodiversity, politics, Uncategorized

Every now and again there’s an article, a book, that stays with you. Like a meal that stands out in your mind and though the flavor is gone the emotions it elicited remain. Like a scent, a song, the recalling of the idea brings back the response it conjured in you. Such was the pricking of my mind when I read Masha Green’s New Yorker article, “The Unimaginable Reality of American Concentration Camps”, from June 21, 2019.

I wouldn’t be doing it justice to regurgitate the content and extole my opinion when the article stands so well on its own. We’re existing in our own cognitive dissonance these days. A buffoon is at the helm, propped up by corporations and those that profit from having him dance from their strings. We’re caging children because many of us simply fear those that we deem as “other” and dread the loss of privileges that we rarely have earned. We cast him as a joke and it helps soften the reality of his monstrous actions.

My daughter asked me about ERA the other day after reading in one of her history books about the Women’s Movement. It was sweet, painful, and a moment of many layers like most that consist of teaching hard lessons to our children. We researched the Equal Rights Amendment together and I had to prove to her that I wasn’t mistaken, it hasn’t passed. It still has not been ratified. She asked, “If it’s not “ratified” does that mean that rats won’t pass it?” Yes, my sweet child, yes.

Whether you are female, differently abled, neurodivergent, LGBTQ, minority, or an immigrant; we still do not have equal rights to those that hold the majority of positions in power. Our voices undermined as shrill or petulant yet if we allow others to silence us we lose what precious foothold we possess of freedom. For so many of my forty odd years I’ve doubted myself, second guessed my importance, and remained silent while others told me who I was and what I could be. As hard as I try, I still have moments where that is true and I fight against the signs of this that I see in my children. Their otherness doesn’t lessen who they are yet there are those that would tell them that they are not deserving of the same rights as themselves. That their neurodivergence, being autistic, makes them less in their eyes.

I see the pain it causes them. This unspoken judgement of them. It’s when others stare as they melt down in a public place. It’s when people speak about them as if they’re not right in front of them. It’s when someone thoughtlessly comments on how “normal” they seem. It’s when their access to an education is cut off because they are expected to conform to an arbitrary norm. It’s the many slights that dig away at you and add up to a weight on your heart that you carry with you. I have my own that I carry. The judgement of being a child of poverty, a child of a felon, a child of repeated abuse and defilement. It is the cage that those place you in to feel powerful. The chipping away at your freedoms to contain you and lord over you their ability to decide your fate. Where does this leave us? Us, the adults, that must find a sense of peace in the midst of a past and a present that haunts us.

As trite as it sounds, simply to continue to fight and hope for something better. To not accept the fate that others wish for us and choose the one that we want. I look back at the article by Masha Green now and again, I follow her work and others who risk voicing their opinions, and I refuse to remain silent when others wish me to be so. I remind my children that we do not have equal rights but we were meant to in a just world and that we all have to continue to work for the world to be one.

I look at this photo. A twenty-something version of myself. I had been given a new lease on life. Free of an abusive relationship, a new job, a new place to live, the support of friends that loved me more than some that should have in my past. Full of hope, lightness, and a sense that things would be better for me. My friend, Emily, took the photo and gifted me something I rarely have felt in my life until then. That someone believed in me.

Now that I’m firmly in my forties and another birthday has passed, I ask myself if I will ever see a day where my children have the rights they deserve and live in a just world and I want for something more than that hope and ache for a guarantee instead.

I hate Thanksgiving.

family, Holidays

“I hate Thanksgiving…”

I thought I had muttered but as so often is the case, especially around my daughter, I had not. My eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and I met two large eyes staring back at me that were not my own. She looked uneasy. I flashed a bright smile. Her expression didn’t change. Oh, !#@& here it comes…

“Why do you hate it?”

My mind tumbled down the rabbit hole for a moment. Do I share the truth? Do I regale her with memories of family dinners past and the constant fear of abuse and familial meltdowns that erupted? How the taste of turkey reminded me of those moments yet I still choked it down to please others when sitting at a Thanksgiving meal? Do I try and sound hopeful and share that the first turkey dinner I really enjoyed on a Thanksgiving was one with complete strangers in a restaurant in my early thirties?

No, because a kid doesn’t need to hear any of that. I stuck to the academics.

“Because it’s a holiday celebrating the destruction of our ancestors and an excuse for advertisers to push their products while guilting people into visiting relatives they don’t like or feeling bad that they can’t see them that day.”

She nodded sagely and looked out the window solemnly, “Oh! Riiiiight,…like “Columbus Day”.”

I LOVE this kid…

“Do you think our other family feels that way?”

“Which other family?”

I could barely hear her voice,

“The ones that don’t want to meet us.”

My mouth went dry. I struggled to keep my voice even. “Those people don’t deserve to meet you. They’re broken and sad. It’s not your fault that they act that way.”

I internally patted myself on the back. My eyes glanced up and she was trying to reach as far as she could in her booster to hand me a tissue.

Our troubles are so often like cooked pasta left forgotten to congeal. It isn’t going to be fixed by removing just one piece. You have to decide if you’re ok with putting the effort into salvaging the meal or throwing the lot of it out.

My troubles as of late seem more like a dangerously bad gravy; smooth on the surface but full of jarring lumps and burnt on the bottom.

Everything about the holiday pissed me off. Mostly the inaccurate misrepresentation of history and the glorification of the genocide inflicted on Native Americans but, honestly, the obligation to pretend that you’re in a happy family with complete strangers ranked pretty close behind that.

Allow me to list my favorites to dislike: (In tribute to Letterman’s “Top Ten”.)

10. A parade that’s a huge advertisement for big box stores televised with the worst announcers that were needy for the spotlight between the morning news and their B-string slot on the sports casts that have no idea most people are watching them, if at all, on mute until the giant inflatable floats go by or the lip syncing musicians come on.

9. The parade announcers.

8. Putting your arm inside the turkey.

7. The pressure to cook that specific meal that you don’t like every time you’re at the grocery store. (No, I won’t cook a turkey! It’s called “chicken”, it’s easier to cook and it tastes better. The next time someone expects a cooked turkey from me I’m going to serve up a carved ham in the form of a cooked turkey wrapped in bacon.)

6. The constant reminders everywhere you go that it’s a time for “family” yet many of us would prefer, or need, to be with the one of our choosing or have no choice but to be apart from ours on that day.

5. The guilt trips. I don’t NEED to convince you I’m “thankful”! That should occur every day and doesn’t need to be forced onto people, especially children, in the form of a rainbow hand shaped paper turkey.

4. My kids have food allergies. Have you tried making vegan gluten free rolls? Enough said. It’s like a dusty, soggy rock of a lie in your mouth.

3. Televised sports. Suck it.

2. The expectation to host people that hate you the other 364 days a year that can’t bother to care about you for even one of the rest of them.

And, number one…

(drumroll please)…

The perpetuation of the myth that the “holiday” is a benign expression of thankfulness. If that were true, then please take the pilgrim hat out of the holiday and instead send notes of thanks and gratitude to each other.

Which is what I send to everyone and anyone reading this. Let’s be thankful for those we love and those that are able to be near us that love us as well. If not on the holiday, then on every other day because what a world it could be if we did. Gobble, gobble.

Harmony at Halloween: All color of buckets are welcome at our door!

adhd, ASD, atypical, autism, equal rights, equality, inclusion, neurodiversity, parenting, politics, special needs, special needs parenting

Harmony at Halloween: All color of buckets are welcome at our door!

Ever have one of those social media moments where you cringe and want to crawl into an ethernet hole? No? Then you’re not me.

I, with all good intentions and little forethought, shared an article on a social media site and asked for people’s opinions about kids using a blue bucket for trick-or-treating to signify that they are on the spectrum. Why did I do this? I was looking for other’s opinions and genuinely wanted an open discussion about the topic. What I didn’t anticipate, and should have, was a social media clash of politics and high emotions. Some of it was directed at me for even sharing the article but I honestly enjoyed the conversations and it opened my eyes to some perceptions that I hadn’t considered.

For those undoctrinated, there are different colored Halloween jack-o-lantern buckets to indicate if a kid has food allergies, teal buckets for instance, and a growing number of families use blue buckets for kids on the spectrum.

A few angry parents remarked that we might as well use different colored buckets for everything. They probably meant that flippantly but I don’t think that’s a bad idea. If we’re hoping for an inclusive, accepting world then a rainbow of colors in our candy buckets sounds like a fun idea to me. I’m all for people over sharing rather than being silenced for fear of ridicule or shamed into masking their true identity. The only masks we should wear are fun ones. (It’s Halloween after all, not a Republican rally.)

There were a few parents concerned about their kids being stigmatized by using a blue bucket as an invasion of their privacy. I can see that point of view as well; however, the more open I am about my family being neurodivergent the easier time we have in interactions and the more accepted my kids feel. I tell them every day how much love I them and how proud I am of them. To me, they really are super heros. Costumes or not.

Being open about neurodivergence gives others a chance to feel comfortable asking questions and it prepares them for some of my kids’ behavior and it shows that we’re willing to discuss autism with them. We’ve had many moments where we’ve been approached and asked questions and it allows for the conversation that a lot of us hope for as parents. It’s not comfortable all the time but I’d rather the discomfort than make my kids feel like I’m hiding their identity from the world. Autism isn’t soley their identity but it’s a big part of who they are because it affects them physiologically. 

The logical question, on the flip side of this, is do my kids mind me being open about their neurodiversity. It’s a valid question. When it comes to my writing, the rule is that I ask the kids before I post. I review what I’m going to share with them and allow them veto power on what gets posted or published. That includes anything I quote and any photos I share. It’s a hard rule to follow, I won’t lie. There are pics that I gush over and feel a pang of disappointment when they ask me not to share, but I also understand. It’s their image, their identity, and I have to respect their wishes when it comes to sharing.

Much like the developmental stages we’re nearing, my writing has evolved based on the comfort level of what my kids allow me to share. I know the day is coming that they want me to keep everything private and I’ll honor that. Besides, I want to hear what they want to share.

My vote on the color of your bucket, wear and share what you want and celebrate however you feel comfortable. I just know I’ll have four buckets for you when you come to the door: teal for allergies, silver for chocolate, blue for toys, and orange for what I won’t share with you at all and binge eat once the kids are asleep. Happy holiday!

When your kid is more woke than you.

adhd, ASD, atypical, autism, equal rights, equality, inclusion, neurodiversity, parenting, special needs parenting

“Mama?”

“Hmm?”

“Why is it ok for boys not to wear pants?”

I put my phone down and gave her my full attention, “What?”

“Why is it ok for boys not to wear pants?”

My mama-bear-full-red-alert alarm fired off in my brain, “Who was around you without pants on?”

She gave me a funny look and said, “Owen.”

My brain fired off an “all clear” and I relaxed, “Ah, well, yeah…Owen is not fond of wearing pants,” I saw him sit up a little taller but not look my way as a smile crept up on his face, “but we’ve talked about this and HE KNOWS that he’s supposed to wear clothes around you. Right, Owen?”

He giggled, grunted, and made loud car noises as he launched his teddy bear off his cardboard tower.

I smiled and turned back to Leonora, “Is someone else not wearing pants around you?”

She thought about with an expression like someone considering a deep, philosophical question and replied very solemnly, “No, not this week.”

I pulled a face at her and bit my tongue as she continued since she clearly had prepared a narrative on the subject and was putting great effort into getting her point across.

“Girls wear pants or stuff on their bottom,” I wondered what the other “stuff” might be referring to, “but boys can run around without pants on and everyone thinks it’s funny…it’s not fair.”

She was right. Huh, why the hell IS it funny to people but if a girl of her age were to do so people would be uncomfortable or outraged yet it’s still considered funny for boys or men to walk around without pants when they’re at home… Holy $#*!, my daughter is way more woke than me!

“That’s an excellent point. It’s not fair, is it?”

“No.”

I gave her a side hug and asked, “Are you wanting to run around without pants on?”

She pulled away and her eyes widened in shock, “NO.”

“Ok, ok, just curious but you’re right. If someone is being inappropriate and making you uncomfortable it’s ok to say something or get away from them. ESPECIALLY if they don’t have pants on – “

“MA-MaAAAA!”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry. Just worry about you.”

She hugged me (the best way to shut someone up ever) and ran away.

I watched her as she ran out of the room and wondered to myself, why IS it ok for men to not wear pants around the house?

Just then Owen walked by chanting “butt” and I shook my head and groaned. He looked up at me and smiled with his eyes squeezed shut, his version of eye contact, and I kissed the top of his head. He laughed and ran back to his cardboard fortress.

She was right. Even though the discussions around gender, identity, self governance, and equality had changed and become more open as of late it doesn’t change the reality of there being tangible differences in the smallest nuances in our daily lives. Those subtleties of social norms that our kids pick up on and call out more readily than we do ourselves because they see them for what they are, nonsense. The double standards are so far reaching that they seep into the smallest of interactions to the largest of matters in our lives. In my children’s case, their health.

We struggled to get an accurate diagnosis for our daughter for six years. She’s eight. The crazier part? We only received that because doctors started to listen to me AFTER our five year old son was diagnosed when he was two. Leonora was five at the time. I had already been asking for help to support her for three years at that point. A particular low point was when a pediatrician met with us, seemingly listened, and silently handed me a note on the way out the door with a name of a counselor. When I reviewed my daughter’s paperwork, they had noted that I was an “anxious mother” and that she clearly didn’t show signs of autism.

Autistic women are discriminated against the moment they’re born. Not just because they’re female (check) or because of their race (check) but because all assessments and diagnostic tools are created for men and not women. (I’ll give you a moment to ponder or Google that.)

The bias in the medical and mental health fields overlook girls so often that the assessment and diagnostic tools have still yet to be updated or modified to truly be inclusive of women or girls. Which leaves parents, like myself, hanging with the proverbial question of, “So?…” Yet there’s no reply and only more questions.

We’re fortunate that we found an expert Psychologist and that our daughter now receives the support she needs yet autism is still studied and treated as a mental health issue which it is not. It’s not a disease or disorder to be cured but, in my opinion, a physiological difference that requires a different approach and sensitivity in most aspects of their lives. Just like anybody, my kids want to be accepted and treated equally. Yet, unlike parents of neurotypical kids, I feel as if I’m left with questions that the experts can’t reliably answer.

Will they ever find love and maintain a relationship?

Will my kids ever be able to live independently?

Will they be able to attend college and succeed in getting a degree?

Then again, all parents worry about these things in varying ways because deep down we’re all the same and want the same things. To have friends, to be loved, to be accepted.

Autism’s sex ratio, explained

Righting the gender imbalance in autism studies

https://sparkforautism.org/discover_article/are-girls-with-autism-hiding-in-plain-sight/

https://www.autism.org.uk/about/what-is/gender.aspx

https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s10803-016-2872-8

A badge or a burden: the trauma we carry

adhd, ASD, atypical, autism, Complex PTSD, Homeschooling, mental health, motherhood, neurodiversity, parenting, PTSD, special education, special needs, special needs parenting, trauma

My friend phoned me to tell me what I expected. Her mother had been placed in hospice only days before but I knew. We only called each other when it was too hard to write what we needed to say or we needed to hear each other’s voices. Her mom was gone.

I sat in silence and thought about her family and my own. Trying to imagine what my friend was feeling at that moment. Thinking of how many struggles she had endured in so little time. How the length of our friendship was colored by so many of those for us both. I began summarizing in my head all of those traumas in my own life and began with the one that my family thought was amusing and I found painful still. Our move to Oregon (but that’s a story for another time) and touched upon the one that truly shaped me from that day forward.

I’ve had PTSD since I was six. It began the moment I watched our family home burn to the ground. Frozen in place, listening to the sounds of my mother screaming and keening. I would like to say things improved from there but they didn’t. So I learned to expect another crisis around every corner and that good luck was for other people. It took years to unlearn this thinking, a diagnosis of Complex PTSD
, and the acceptance that we all have our sorrows and come 1through life wearing our setbacks as a badge or a burden.

The layers of trauma changed in variety over the years. The moments compressed into me like the striation marks in the earth. Ever changing, ever present, and unbidden. Once a source of shame and now simply marks on my body like the remnants of pregnancy or aging. Something I can acknowledge and feel a sense of achievement from or something I can hide and only deepen the pain brought on by seeing them in an unkind light.

Listening to those dark, ugly voices of criticism in my low moments can dtill happen but I’ve learned to question those voices and quiet them with kindness for myself. Those same voices that lurked throughout my childhood are now gone but the memory of them haunt me like tinny piped music. I can choose to escape them or confront them but I acknowledge that the hurt from those people marked me but hasn’t marred me.

Now, as a mother, I feel as if I have a new terrain of PTSD. The terrain of trauma sustained by my children. The bullying, the attacks, the judgement.

Accepting my children’s neurodivergence wasn’t difficult. Accepting the treatment they receive from others is something I have to fight on a daily basis at times and it can feel insurmountable. From strangers to doctors, to teachers to extended family, we’ve had a litany of interactions where we’ve had to navigate the misunderstandings around autism and tolerate or battle the misconceptions people have of autistic people.

Whether you’re neurotypical or neurodivergent, misunderstandings happen constantly but the difference is that I can process this and respond whereas my kids, by in large, cannot. The lag time in processing in combination with their trauma compounds into a snarl of frustration that results in simply being overwhelmed to the point that they shut down or melt down. Many of us can relate to this feeling but not to the extreme that they experience. Their experience is our version of being tongue-tied amplified by the thousands. Take that feeling and color it with trauma and they end up blaming themselves for not being able to keep up or join in a mundane conversation.

It was during one of these interactions recently that I had an epiphany. Because autistic or otherwise, trauma colors our filter of the world for better or worse and that filter never leaves us but can unexpectedly be a strength. For instance, and I’ll freely admit I’m biased, my kids are the most thoughtful and forgiving souls I’ve ever met. They will go out of their way to be kind to others and generous to a fault. Their struggles to find and keep friends haven’t hurt them but made them more empathetic towards others. Maybe a little too intensely at times, but all and all, to their betterment.

After three long years of trying to make public general education work for both of our kids we made the hard decision last year to place our son in a self-contained classroom and opt out of school completely for our daughter and it’s been the best decision we could have made for either of them. I had many doubts seeing that I knew little about special education three years ago and never intended to homeschool and was always an advocate for public schools. Especially the strong belief of staying in your neighborhood school yet when that school doesn’t want your child to attend, and makes it clear that they are not willing to accommodate them, you’re not left with many choices.

I feared that she would be socially isolated, bored, or – worse – regress if we homeschooled. To my relief, none of that was true. Except for she admittedly became lonely until we found independent studies and activities for her to join with like-minded kids. (It’s no easy feat to find other eight year olds who want to read history books and knit. We found the first and the second request was met by her making friends with the “Chicks with Sticks” club at her grandmother’s assisted living facility.)

We allowed her to unschool for a year and then gradually added academic structure back into her life. It’s made a world of difference not only for her but our entire family. It reinstilled her confidence and renewed my hope in her being able to attain an education and a sense of fulfillment. Her trauma can be a source of learning and not an impediment to her growth.

For me, the nightmares don’t go away. I’ll never feel comfortable sitting with my back to a room full of strangers. I’ll never stop worrying that the horrors that befell me might befall my own children. Yet I know that they can not only survive but thrive, not in spite of, but possibly because of those challenges and have a deeper sense of kindness to show from their scars.

https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/treat/essentials/complex_ptsd.asp

Shadows and the sweet

autism, chronic pain, death, Ehlers Danlos, motherhood, parenting, special needs, special needs parenting, Uncategorized

I was numb. The fear of what was possible and unknown was twisting inside of me and clamping down on me.

It was humid, raining, and I felt like jumping out of my skin and flying over all of the cars ahead of me and fast enough to leave everything I had heard behind me. Traffic crawled along but I simply just stared at the tail lights ahead of me with resignation and accelerated with the mass of vehicles and decelerated without much notice. I had just gotten off the phone with my husband and the doctor appointment was behind me but so much lay ahead of me.

For the last few years I suspected that I had Ehlers Danlos (I’ll wait while you Google that) but getting a diagnosis is a struggle not all that unlike the process we went through for our children being diagnosed with autism. I didn’t worry as much as wonder since I had so many other concerns that absorbed my attention (see “children”). Yet as the stress of life built up over these past two years and then sped up to a frenzy in the last few months something shifted. I was in pain. Not just with certain activities or phases. It was there when I tried to sleep. It was waiting for me when I woke.

Nothing was comfortable anymore. Sitting, laying down, nothing gave me relief from aching. I didn’t want to take pills to stave it off and be living in a fog. A dangerous proposition if you’re meant to be running after children but I found I couldn’t keep up. Not just from exhaustion but physically my body wasn’t responding when I needed it to.

I stared at the Hyundai in front of me. The man was gesturing like an enraged mime at the chaos around him. As if silent reasoning was possible with this quagmire of metal boxes. The car across from him held up their middle finger. It was an elderly lady with a multitude of bumper stickers. It shook me out of my haze for a moment and I laughed. It was that last defense that fell away across the surface of my bubble and it burst. My laughter turned to tears and I wept in the privacy of my car as I helplessly sat in traffic.

Because this was my life now. Helpless to the current of traffic as much as I was to the outcome of further testing. It had been written in my DNA and nothing I’d done or could do would change the facts. I simply had to face the pragmatic logistics of booking the appointments for further testing and wait. Waiting was more of a feeling than an action in my opinion and I found it most infuriating when it was to be done in unpleasant conditions (see “adolescence”).

I didn’t want to share my news with the kids until I knew everything with certainty yet they both had a knack for eavesdropping and were keenly sneaky when there was something behind withheld from them. As careful as I thought I was being, making phone calls when they weren’t around me. They noticed that I was in pain, they were confused as to why our walks together had become more rare, and they wanted to know why they couldn’t bounce on my lap.

It was a few days later, early in the evening but I struggled to keep my eyes open so I waited until I had the kids to bed and then went to bed myself. Not long after I heard the soft step of Leonora coming down the hall. She looked fearful and concerned. I pulled the covers back for her and held her. Her face was upturned to the ceiling as she laid her head on my chest but I could tell she was crying.

“I can’t stop thinking about death.”

She sighed and exhaled so deeply I could tell that it was a huge relief for her to speak the words. I squeezed her tight and stroked her hair. These are the moments that parents dread. It’s like seeing your child falling in slow motion yet this is our emotional well-being that is in free fall and you must catch them or risk permanent injury.

“There’s nothing to fear. Death is part of life and we can’t change that… It’s a surprise awaiting all of us, the last great adventure, and to fear it is natural but it’s pointless to worry. Every time we cut a flower we’re watching birth, life, and death all in one vase. Life is beautiful but everything ends, the good and the bad.”

She breathed slowly and calmed. I could feel her becoming heavier as she relaxed and thought about my words. I wondered how she was interpreting them. It occurred to me that she loves my stories and that maybe I could explain it with one.

“Did I ever tell you about Brandon?” She shook her head and I continued, “He was a classmate of mine. We were on school break and during the holiday he had an accident and died suddenly.”

I let my words sink in for a moment before resuming. I left out that it was from riding his bike into the street. Or that his mother and brother had to witness the event. All of those details were too painful to recount and would only heighten her anxiety.

All of us in his class and in the school were in shock when we heard the news and then had to go back to school the next day and behave normally. It was surreally horrific. The bus ride to school that day was silent. We filed into class and sat at our seats robotically, waiting for someone to tell us how to behave, waiting for an adult to make all of this feel ok again.

Mr. West, Richard West (“Dick” for short and he had no shame in informing people) was my fifth grade teacher and the first truly kind man I had ever met. He showed me that men could be trusted and were redeemable. I was his favorite student. Me?! The forgotten, bullied, silent girl who the teachers pushed aside or ridiculed right along with the bullies in my clothes that were 20 years out of date and my hairdo that belonged in the journals of emotional torture all the world over. Mr. West was one of the shining lights in my childhood.

“I had a teacher, Mr. West, he was the kindest man I’ve ever met. He got up in front of the class that next day, with tears in his eyes, and told us this: “Brandon will be missed. He was a good boy and all of us are in shock at what happened and grieving. Death is part of life. Brandon will always be with us as long as you remember him. That’s where we go when we pass on. We always live on in people’s memories of us. To be truly loved is to be remembered.”

And I agree with him, when we die we don’t disappear we simply continue on in the memories of those we’ve loved and those who have loved us. Like Mary Poppins said, “Nothing’s gone forever, Only out of place.” And I believe that too. I’ll always love you, I’ll always be with you, and I’ll always be in your memories.”

Then I told her the lie that all parents tell their children. It might be a different translation but the sentiment is the same, “But that’s nothing for you to worry about because I intend to be around for a long time.”

She hugged me and we laid there for awhile simply thinking our own thoughts. Hers unspoken and mine ruminating over the uncertainties of life and the retrospective judgment of our actions, particularly parents. Whether it’s us raking ourselves over the coals or the hurt expression we fear seeing on our child’s face and knowing we inspired its appearance.

Eventually I offered to help her back to her bed and laid down next to her, singing and stroking her hair, until she fell asleep. As I left the room, I looked over at Owen’s sleeping form and saw his feet ajar from the blanket and his head dramatically craned towards his stuffed owl. I smiled, tucked him back in, and choked on a laugh as he harrumphed in his sleep and folded his bottom into the air.

I can only hope that things turn out right and that if they don’t, my children find me where the lost things go.

What the &$#@ were they thinking?

autism, mental health, parenting

Out of all the mysteries in life there are four that never cease to fascinate me:  the human brain, what happens after death, the purpose of life, and all the people that I wonder, “What the &$#@ were they thinking?”

It’s a whole list of people that extend from childhood friends I regret losing touch with, exes that I still don’t understand, politicians and celebrities that detonated their lives, people that don’t know how to navigate a busy sidewalk, and the creeps that take up two parking spaces.

These last few years have been tumultuous. This is unequivocally an understatement. Many moments this little world of mine has shifted on the axis and I can’t help but imagine a large hand tipping our globe off its stand and letting us roll under the couch. I’ve had hard times in life where I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through yet I did. Not without help, or humbling myself to be vulnerable, but I managed.

That’s what we all are supposed to do, right? Manage, keep going, hope it gets better. What does better look like though? Is that a way to live? What example am I setting for my kids if I’m perpetually in a state of hoping the next day will be better and simultaneously acknowledging that the present is unpleasant?

Here’s what I’m hoping better looks like. A school that my kids can safely attend. One that is accepting of them and cares about them that doesn’t cost $40,000 per child a year. Finding other families with kids on the spectrum that get it and get us. A house that isn’t falling apart. (I love you house but, c’mon, what the &$#@?)

Mostly, I wish I didn’t go to bed at night worrying about what might happen to my kids if something happens to me. I have no extended family that can support them. Friends that might but I hesitate to impose upon them such a promise. Any guardian would have to take on full time advocacy and coordination of care. I guess what I hope for, what I wish “better” looked like, was a world where I felt my children would be safe without me. It makes me wonder as I look at myself, “What the &$#@ was I thinking?”

Having kids is a cry of hope that the world will continually try to be better and do better. Let’s all hope that this is true despite our current circumstances in my little world and all of ours.

Then a moment came recently that reminded me again of how poignant an event can be with clashing emotions juxtaposed with bursts of clarity that leave you feeling like a small blade of grass weathering a storm, a rainbow, and the sun all at once. One of my dearest, most intimate friends, lost her spouse to suicide. I’ve never seen strength like hers. She weathered so much in such a small amount of time but it took my breath away to watch her take each of her children up to say goodbye to her deceased husband.

We manage and we keep going because there’s always more to discover, more mysteries to ponder, and more beauty to be found. She embodies this despite her doubts. She doesn’t see how strong she is but I see it every time she rallies against her grief yet still notices that her child needs their shoe tied, a nose wiped, a cuddle. Even as the darkest moments befell her and those sweet children they continued on, they found reasons to laugh, they cried, and they keep going. Storms pass, not everything can be understood, and you will always have people in your life that make you wonder, “What the &$#@ were they thinking?”

I don’t know where strength like that comes from. I don’t know why such awful things happen to such wondrous people or why mental health is still not considered part of our overall health. There are mysteries that bring us to tears and those that leave us in awe and there is beauty in both.

Learning the kaleidoscope.

adhd, ASD, atypical, autism, neurodiversity, parenting, special needs, special needs parenting

Remember when you were little and you first looked through the kaleidoscope? You might have wondered if you were doing it right. Maybe you didn’t see the appeal right off the bat and played with it for a moment only to discard it and realize later that you had the source of endless magical awe and delight within that rinky-dink cardboard tube of plastic colored chips and a mirror.

I still have moments of realizing I’m looking at things the wrong way round. That I’ve been missing out on joyous whimsy just by looking through the proverbial kaleidoscope in my grasp. The view of the world my children happen to possess. So often it can be maddening and seem impossible to slow down enough to see things from their perspective yet when I force myself to do so I rarely regret the decision.

It was one of those moments that I realized that staring at traffic isn’t half bad.

It was one of the last times we ever attempted to do a family outing together as a group. We’ve since realized that splitting up into separate groups is not only easier but seems to accommodate everyone so that the outing is enjoyable as opposed to surviving an undertaking. In truth, there’s only so many simultaneous meltdowns I can handle at once and I’m outnumbered. We all have to take turns being crazy around here and it’s never my turn.

It was at such a family outing that Owen had melted down and I offered to leave the museum exhibit so that my respective nerds could continue to play with the robots. We sat in silence next to each other on the bench. I offered what I could to help calm Owen down but he kept shifting down the bench away from me and I was afraid he would bolt into the busy crowd just down the stairs. Always a fear with someone on the spectrum who has a tendency to wander off. (And by wander I mean sprint headlong with no plan as to where he’s going and refuses to respond to his name or warnings of his imminent danger, see “elopement”.)

He scooted once more as a woman stepped sideways as she read the display plaques for an exhibit mounted across the walkway from us. The board was mostly translucent with images sporadically mounted but the view behind the display only partially interrupted. Owen had no interest in the logging history of Oregon or the earthquakes that have come and gone but the traffic of I-5 and the bridges we could see from our bench were as compelling as that exhibit was to the woman. Every step she took obscured his view. He was silently jockeying for position to view his traffic like a Mr. Bean episode.

I leaned down, pulled his headphones away, and quietly explained to him he could sit on my lap to see better or we could walk over to the window. He thrashed in confusion and frustration for a moment. I took his hand and walked him over and let him rest his head against the cool glass wall. He sighed. His shoulders relaxed. I played bodyguard and prevented people from pushing through or against him. He held my hand and started shouting out the trucks and sights that caught his eye. It’s his way of including me and I joined in to show I appreciated it but something wondrous happened. I started pointing ones out to him.

He spotted the colors and types of vehicles and I would point out the funny dog sticking its head out of the back of the car. The RV with the mismatched doors. The funny sign on the beer truck. The flow of the traffic was soothing. It became not all that unlike staring at waves.

He leaned against my leg and I stroked his hair. I knelt down next to him and he hugged me. In a small, weary voice, “I want to go home.”

We waited a few more minutes for his father and sister, loaded up, and headed out. It was the last time I took him to OMSI. I was looking through the wrong end of the kaleidoscope. He doesn’t want the loud, new, crowded exhibits or the cool play structures if it means dealing with crowds. He wants space, quiet, and room to explore on his own.

It’s difficult to find things for our family to do as a group so I’ve stopped trying, for now. I’m human though, it’s disappointing and frustrating. There’s moments where I think of something I’ve been wanting and waiting to do with them, show them, experience with them only to remember yet again that it’ll be too painful or overwhelming for them with their sensory issues. I guess it’s no different than a neurotypical parent disagreeing with their NT child over an interest. You like what you like.

I’ve learned to do outings with my kids one-on-one. If I let them come up with the ideas we all have a better time and the view can be surprisingly magical. So for my daughter it’s train rides, theatres, museums, parks when they’re not crowded, and quiet grown up restaurants. For Owen? It’s anything fast and sparsely populated whether he’s riding it or watching it from afar. I’m grateful they both like riding the train, amusement rides, but mostly that they share with me what they see.

Snowgasm

adhd, ASD, atypical, autism, neurodiversity, parenting, special needs, special needs parenting

Oh Portland, you silly worrywart of a city. Two inches of snow of unexpected snow, at best, and the whole world shuts down. I don’t mind. I love the snow and become as giddy as the kids as I await them to fling back the curtains and cry, “SNOW!”

We drag our one sled down to the neighborhood park for the “big hill”. This is a big deal for many reasons. Namely, it means taking on the complicated social skills of other children in the frenetic manic of snow. Not an easy fete for kids on the spectrum at any moment much less in the face of the delirium brought on by rare and wondrous precipitation. In my head, I call it snowgasming.

The first of many is the “sticking together” and “not running off” rule. This equated to them chasing each other down the hill as they took turns pushing each other on the sled.

I loved watching Owen run down the hill at the end of one of the rough descents to rescue “‘sista!”, ala-Parenthood (the movie), from the neighborhood bullies.

She didn’t need it though. She simply stood up and stared at them innocently. They looked up at me and I gave them “the look”. Ckenched snowballs were dropped and they walked away in a huff.

Owen held up a snowball and I hollered, “Rule #3!”

He yelled back, “I being kind!!!”

He scowled, dropped it, and growled at them. When they laughed in response he looked at me with wounded pride.

I tried to reassure him but it wasn’t enough. The boys’ parents were busy talking to each other and refused to make eye contact. I wasn’t going to let this ruin our day.

The bullies approached us again moments later, the parents didn’t intervene, and I calmly walked towards them to block their approach towards my kids and said in a low voice, “Get away from us.”

They muttered to each other and dropped the snowballs.

I looked over at Owen and he was staring at the ground smiling.

Leonora asked on the way home, “Why are some kids mean to me?”

I was honest, “It’s not you. Some people choose to be unkind because they don’t know any better, because they want to, or because they’re unhappy and want others to feel as badly.”

She smiled and asked, “Can you tell me a funny story?”

Her shorthand for changing the subject and asking me to make her laugh. It’s her way of coping when something upsets her. We bond over funny stories. Humor saves us all. That and remembering how magical snow can be for us all.

Shadows and votes that go bump in the dark.

adhd, ASD, autism, equal rights, equality, human rights, politics, special needs, special needs parenting, voting rights

“I can’t, mama…I just can’t.”

It was the fourth night in a row that she was having nightmares. She couldn’t bring herself to discuss what they were about but my patience was wearing thin between waking with her brother at 1 a.m. and then her at 3 a.m. then him at 3:15 a.m…. You get the idea.

“Please, sweetheart. You can tell me. You can tell me anything. I’m not going to laugh or get mad. I just want to help.”

She curled her body tightly like a shell and burrowed her head into me. I marveled at how flexible she is and remembered that I once was that pliable. Nothing about me feels the same anymore. The child I was is such a distant memory yet so vivid. It was as if I was merely visiting the body of that child and she was my host. I wasn’t allowed to be a child for very long. With both children, I try to make sure that they don’t feel rushed to be older or attain milestones until they’re ready. Much to my own downfall at times now that we’re returning to co sleeping yet again.

“Maybe in the daytime. When the light is out…” I desisted in pushing for an explanation and realized that it was pointless. We both were exhausted and, whether she knew the cause of her nightmare or not, we were not going to find a solution while struggling to stay awake.

“Ok,” I kissed her head and combed her hair with my fingers trying to detangle the worst of her sleep steamed curls as best I could, “In the daylight. You’re right.”

She probably was having the same nightmares again. Reliving the past. Reliving the monstrous episodes I couldn’t save her from. The hidden dangers that every parent doesn’t want to face. From the small indignities my kids face when people stare at them in the midst of a meltdown to the offensive remarks from educators about them and to them. Then I think of the larger fears and my chest tightens. The abuse she lived through at the hands of others under the guise of “typical” kid behavior. I think about the kids living through such atrocities yet magnified with the brutality of our government inflicting it on them daily as they cage them.

I thought once again of the many families ripped from their children at the border. Of those seeking asylum only to face greater dangers than those they escaped. It makes me sick that we’re expected to continue living our lives in acquiescence to a dictator that risks our safety and liberty with every passing day. What world are we leaving for our children? Who am I to think that my voice or vote matters? Yet I keep trying.

I woke to a knee in the middle of my shoulder blades and resisted the urge to shove whoever was doing so from my body. The sheets were pinned in around me as I pulled loose and rolled out of my bed as silently as possible. It felt like a special martial arts move but I’m sure it looked more like an SNL skit.

My phone flashed red then purple so I knew I had texts and emails from known contacts waiting for me. It wasn’t reassuring. I knew what they most likely were regarding and that no matter how well I explained my point of view I wasn’t going to change their opinion. Normally I would walk away from a futile debate such as this but when it’s regarding your kids you don’t have a choice. More importantly, it’s a fight you can’t turn from. A reminder pinged for me to vote. I nodded to myself and hit “snooze” so it would remind me after breakfast.

There’s some salient truths to me that have become more evident because of my circumstances as a parent but also with the political quagmire we’re living through.

Everyone needs to vote. Each vote needs to count. Everyone deserves equal rights. There is no compromise over these three beliefs.

I mused to myself what might be if the ballots in Oregon didn’t go our way. For the millionth time I worried over our kids losing their services. Their rights being limited yet again. Our insurance premium going sky high, yet again, with no explanation and the discrimination obvious with every denial of service or therapy.

The old floorboards creaked as I tried to sneak to the bathroom and back. The morning temp had suddenly taken on the chill of winter. I welcomed it and yet my body felt so much older this year. I rolled my neck and listened to the internal sound of a cheap tourist rain stick I once was gifted as a kid. It sounded like my vertebrae were tumbling down inside me.

From the dark I heard a giggle and the motion sensor light went off above and behind my head in the hallway as the distinctive pounding footsteps of Owen rang out. He sped past me and threw himself headlong into the bed alongside his sister. I now had a ten inch span of space to try and lay down in if I wanted to attempt to sleep once again. It was almost four in the morning. I sighed, climbed in with my back to them, and pushed back slowly until their little bodies accommodated me. They giggled like it was a game.

Owen popped up like a prairie dog, “OOO! I be right back!”

Our bodies were jarred in every direction as he exploded from the bed and ran into the front room. He returned just as quickly with his thundering little feet. Suddenly the room was lit with the light of his iPad and filled with the sounds of “Big Block Singsong”.

Leonora rolled over and groaned in a whimper. I shifted my body to lay on the opposite side of her so she could sleep. Owen snuggled closer to me and happily held the tablet to share with me.

“Owen, turn it down… please.”

“Ok, ok,… th’orry.”

“It’s ok, baby…. Kindness with each other. Sister hasn’t slept well. Let’s be really quiet.”

“Ooooo…okay…okay….LOOK!! I found favorite!”

He excitedly, and with good intentions, thoughtfully shoved the iPad into my face with one of my few favorite episodes from the show playing. He meant it to be kind but managed to bloody my lip instead.

So many interactions are like this at times. How do I explain? Should I explain? Lately I don’t try to explain anymore unless I have to. A bit of the fight has gone out of me. There’s too many battles in any given day that are physically near me and emotionally around me. Battling schools, battling bullies, battling attitudes. It’s too much sometimes.

I dabbed my lip with some coconut oil as I made their breakfast. The scab would last for a bit. It meant another week of dodging people. It’s too hard to explain my injuries at times. They’re not as frequent as they used to be. How do you explain that your kid hurts you? If you try, the unsolicited advice is overwhelming, hurtful for the most part, and the worst reaction is the incredulity. The disbelief that this toddler is physically abusing you. It’s one of those topics about autism most parents are reluctant to admit or discuss. It’s as if you’re admitting that you’re a failure as a parent.

Owen climbed on my lap later and touched my lip, “OOO, you got an owie!”

“I know. Do you remember how this happened?”

He didn’t respond. I waited for him to look at me. He didn’t, “No.”

“You hit me with the iPad. It was an accident though, I know. Do you remember?”

He leaned against me and grunted with frustration, “YES!”
He pushed away from me in a huff and ran into the other room.
I gave him a minute and followed after him. As I approached his sister’s closet, I could see his bare feet sticking out from underneath her dresses. I smiled and pushed the dresses apart gently, “Hi, buddy.”

His little face smiled up at me and then quickly scrunched up as he covered his face, “No.”

“I’m here when you went to talk, ok? I’ll sit right over here and wait.”

I touched his cheek and sat on the end of the bed.
He scooted towards me without opening his eyes and crawled up on the bed next to me. I began to rub his back and he relaxed against me.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

He rolled over and hugged me around my head in his octopus style. I began to cry and he laughed, “No do, mama!”

We both laughed and I wiped my tears away, “I’m just so happy when you hug me.”

He laughed and agreed that I was fortunate in his magnanimous way, “Yeah.”

Leonora looked concerned as I came back into the room, “It’s ok, honey.”

She hugged me tightly, in a whisper, “You ok, mama?”

“Yeah. Mama is fine. Owen is ok too.”

She kept hugging me as we swayed slightly, “Did he mess with my clothes?”

I laughed and with a hint of mischief theatrically mocked, “NO, no way, just the ones he wiped his face on.”

Her eyes were wide as I smiled into them. She growled like a cat and went running in to check her dresses. Laughing, knowing that I was kidding, but checking nonetheless.

I checked my phone and saw that our Governor had won the race and we once again had Kate Brown. I sighed in relief and read over the ballot results once again. I made a silent wish that the rest of the country fair as well and hoped against hope that our country will begin to behave with decency towards each other once again. An article popped up about the children being held in detention centers. History repeating itself.

It wasn’t intended to be aloud but I found myself announcing, “How could anyone deny kids their freedom? How could anyone treat people this way?”

My husband looked at me with sadness, “They don’t think kids deserve any rights.”

I scoffed and shook my head, “No, they don’t think ANY of us deserve equal rights.”

I made the mistake of opening social media only to discover old friends and extended family battling each other over semantics. I’m just happy that they voted and said a wish for all of us that we see a better world for ourselves and our kids.