Trans Nerdy Podcast

I'm not a podcast listener.  Not really.  I have a friend.  This is her thing.  I say "her" but she identifies as gender fluid and while she was born a cisgendered male, she has now gone above and beyond in a transformation I am inspired by.  Everything she has internalized as her desire to be has become an external expression of who she is. From losing weight, to reassigning her physical gender, to days when she balances where she fits and how she straddles genders.  It's hard enough to be a woman with people telling you how you should look or present yourself, and what beauty means.  Any magazine would show you we're all doing it wrong.  She's both, and she takes the good with the bad, learning with excitement and aplomb.  She sees limits but they aren't her limitations.  I admire her and her podcast is my only subscription on iTunes or anywhere. This friend has done more than I would.  I see her and call her my sister because when I see her, she is more like me than a man.  I identify with her probably more than she identifies with me. She has moments where she is very male, as do I.  I mean, when we're walking down the street and I stop her to say, "look at him! He's beautiful." I'm being the more sexually aggressive one, which is traditionally a male characteristic.  This is especially the case when I vocalize my more intimate fantasies. Then I try not to enjoy her discomfort and feel a bit of shame because I've made her uncomfortable. When she takes her time texting back, she's definitely being more male.  It doesn't bother me. It's who she is.  And that's the point of a text or email, right? You get to it when you feel like it. I think she sees the distinction as more physical but I don't see her that way.  I see her as a beautiful person full of light and raw with emotions most of the time.  Her jawline is solid and I can imagine what she would look like if I could only see her as a man.  He is beautiful and if I could only see his face the only barrier for me would be the age gap.

The podcast itself is well researched with enough personal influence to express so much more than I'd ever get from a news article on the same topics she explores. She talks about issues in the LGBTQ community and it's stretched my perception in so many ways.

Just this morning I listened to Episode #8, Transgender and Acting.  She brought up so much about issues I never considered, but the more I listen to her, I can see how the LGBTQ community shares so much with the Special Needs Community.  There was a moment when she explained how an actor could portray Superman but never fully appreciate what life as an alien is really like. My explanation of the ways my boys are othered by their autism usually involves Superman.  He's different.  He's othered.  He has extrasensory perception, similar to my autistic sons (hearing and seeing more than I ever could) and yet I would never call him disabled.  Both LGBTQ and Autism are characterized in ways the rest of the world can understand although each person is unique and grouped under an umbrella.  The umbrella is for others to understand what the people under the umbrella get to live.  I'm so excited that I get to keep learning and stretching because of her.  Give her a listen and she'll give you a lesson.  I promise, it'll be good.

You Deserve Your Interpretation of Your Own Life

Thank you Diego Perez

What is this concept about?

This nugget is golden and I want to carefully unpack it. We're conditioned to feel we deserve something.  It starts as soon as we're old enough to choose our behavior.  We're told we need to earn play time, or a desired toy or activity.  We're told in love we deserve better treatment.  We deserve the love we've been offering for ourselves.  We deserve to be treated the way we've treated someone else, even if that means we're acting like deplorable human beings and it's what we deserve because of it. I'm arguing that we're not victims to the life we get to live.

What does it mean to deserve something?

Dictionary.com will tell you that the word deserve originates in Middle English.  Actually, I just told you, but feel free to fact check me.  I'm not talking Tolkien's middle, but more Chaucer.  It's English that doesn't sound like English because that's how old it is.  It's English that still blends other languages into it. It's a really old concept that says what you get in life is determined by what you have done to earn it.  You have to find a way to qualify or have a claim because of something you have done.  This means that you are given what you earned, and it takes the accountability of your choice away from you.  Deserving something is still part of who I am but I'm working on that.  Right now I love Meghan Trainor's new album and one of my favorite songs is all about announcing, "I deserve better."

People will always try to tell you who they think you are.  You don't have to believe what they say.  I recommend rejecting what doesn't come from your own intuition, including this suggestion.

Deserving love

When I tell you that I want to love unconditionally, and I spell it out here and detail it in my posts about mothering, it's because love is a gift and shouldn't cost the person we give it to.  I don't barter my love for affection or attention.  When I give my love it's free.  I give it no matter what I'm getting in return because I see value and have a desire to build and call out what I see until it is greater than it was.

Deserving mistreatment

Internal dialogues can be insidious.  Sometimes guilt can weigh on us and make a bad day look like something we've earned.  That perception takes away our choice and when choice is stripped, we lose control of our reactions.  It becomes cyclical and repeats.  We teach our reactions and adaptability to our children and they thrive or falter because of what we show them.

Deserving our lot in life.

When my kids were first diagnosed with autism I started to really question what we deserved.  Did I deserve what they have to deal with (I'm not always proud of my thoughts, and this was one of those moments)? Did they deserve what they had to go through? People with platitudes would suggest that God only gives special kids to special parents.  I call bull on that one.  All special needs parents are just like other parents.  Sometimes we do really well with adapting.  Other times we don't.  It's a choice and my choice is one I can stand by on most days.  The choice is to be better to my kids than I want to be.  It's not about deserving something.  It's about deciding it doesn't matter why this is in our family. It's about deciding how I can help my kids navigate our world.  I didn't get lost in what I expected and my perspective shifted.  It was a good shift.

Reactions and Interpretation

We're all in charge of our reactions and interpretation, but so often people are ruled by stress over what they wanted to happen and disappointment controls our ability to move forward.  Stress isn't even quantifiable.  It's real, but it's manufactured by us to torture us into stagnation.  People are always feeling major and minor effects of the stress they feel, but stress is entirely a choice you don't have to choose if you shift your interpretation and redirect your reaction.

When we live in the past, time drags on and we can't see what is right now or ahead of us. When we live in the future, there isn't enough time. There is too much to get done and again, we lose the gift that is the present.

When my husband of 15 years quit on me, I didn't react well.  It was bad.  It was ugly.  I was a living and breathing open wound, bleeding everywhere.  It was hard to live through and hard for others to watch.  A year and some months later I haven't jumped into a relationship but I have enjoyed a couple of crushes that reminded me how awesome infatuation could be.  They showed me what a really great guy might look like. They reminded me of the fun of seeing only the good in a person, ignoring the bad and glossing over the rest. My latest crush deciding to take himself out of our equation could have been devastating.  It wasn't.  It was fun.  It was exciting.  I needed to see what he showed me and hopefully he needed to experience what I offered.  There's still friendship.  I'm getting in touch with my geeky side that is entirely awkward and clumsy when it comes to him lately, but I'm enjoying that for what I've chosen to make it.

I didn't deserve to get dumped.  And I was, by everyone's standards.  Twice.

I get to be an autism mom. I got to be a stay at home mom.  Now I get to work at a job I love doing.

I got to be married for 15 contented years where I loved and was loved for the majority of it.  Now I get to fall in love again, and as many times as I'm comfortable with.  I got to sleep next to someone and care about his needs, and now I get to put my needs first, and look at all of the pretty men I see, without worrying about my actions hurting someone else.  (I have a special appreciation for watching men run.  It's beauty.  It's inspiration.  It's a public service and I'm so happy when I see a man in full stride.  It's my bliss at times and I have no shame about it. It's right up there with Crossfit and entirely yummy.) I got to love deeply.

I get to restructure my priorities.  I get to really connect to what brings my life meaning and it's a beautiful life I get to lead.  I get to do epic shit on a daily basis.

I get to be reminded that I really am beautiful by the many men that have tried to entertain me, and I get to pass on them because I get to choose who I want to spend my free time with.  And lately it's me, and people that don't want sex from me.

Nice, right?

There's a cost to the life we get to lead and it's not the price set by someone else's standards.

Kid Behavior

I'm a firm believer that no child wants to be a bad kid. If they are acting out, there's a good chance that the grown ups in charge have missed something and the kid is trying to tell you something.

The best way to gauge the needs of a child is to try your best to see things the way they do and see how you would feel if your needs were neglected.

Control

We all have a desire for control.  It's horrible when life spins out of control.  That's when people check out and escape. Putting on my big girl pants means I'm releasing control over situations I can't control and accepting the only thing I can control is my reaction and my mindset.  This comes from having full control of my life and knowing it's still not complete control.  There's freedom in this, but it's not freedom if you have absolutely no control.  Our children don't always get to choose what to eat, or wear or when to go to bed.  They don't always get to choose where they are going or who they will be with.  I get a little road ragey when I want the car ahead of me to drive like they had to get a license to do so.  I try to give my kids control where I can. My mom feels I give them too many choices, but I feel it's important to teach them that their opinions are valued and that I want to know what they think and feel.

Exhaustion

Children need much more sleep than adults do.  When we are asleep is when we grow and heal. It's when we recharge and reset from what was learned.  If you eat a large meal, your brain slows down and you get sleepy because your body needs the rest to process the work it's doing.  This is why multitasking means you get lots of less than stellar results.  Kids need rest. Dragging them from store to store and not making sure they are rested is begging for a melt down.

Hunger

We all have experienced hangry moments.  It's when hunger and anger merge and food makes us feel bad for our behavior later.  As adults, it's easy to be so driven by duty that we neglect our bellies, but we still know when we need to eat.  We have learned to listen to our bodies. Infants had a steady stream from their umbilical cord and don't experience hunger until birth.  It looks like rooting and mouthing their little fists, but it sounds like crying and anger.  They have little bellies.  Small frequent meals will help keep them calm.

Loneliness

No one likes to be lonely.  As adults, we crave company and connection.  I'm not dating right now because the people that want to connect usually want to connect in ways that I'm not interested in.  I want a mental and emotional connection, and often that means I can skip the rest unless I find someone whose juice is worth my squeeze.  For now that's just me.  My juice is worth my squeeze but I drew what loneliness is to me.  There's a vulnerability in standing alone and enjoying it.  My stick figures include a naked curly haired kid and a couple with clothes on.  She's wearing a bikini top (no nipples).  We all crave connection.  Our kids want us to see what they are doing and they want our involvement.  Humans need physical touch.

Boredom

My drawing is supposed to be a computer and a football, but you can see where my football took a turn.  Maybe my computer was offering porn.  I haven't decided, but you can.  I've never called myself an artist.  I craft words. My kids love being entertained.  It looks like Homestuck, or Minecraft or YouTube.  They are growing up in a world of globalization and computers in the classroom so learning is entertainment.  I was lucky enough to have a friend in high school point out that it's lucky when we can be our favorite company.  It's a blessing to be content when alone.  I can stand and watch a setting sun shimmering on ocean waves.  I can be present and feel the warmth of the sun and the breeze on the air and I can feel how wonderful living in the moment is.  It's a learned skill and not every child has learned it.  It doesn't help that I and other parents have used the television to keep them entertained so we can do laundry and dishes and be parents.

Love

We need to feel love and affection.  We need to feel valued.  We need to know that we are not cared for out of obligation but because we are deeply loved.  Kids need to know it from their family because the value we instill will help them see that they are enough on their own and they won't need to buy friendships or barter sex for affection.  Teach your children they are loved early and they will learn to love themselves, rather than seek someone else's love to fill the voids from a detached parent.

I love openly and freely.  I have no problem complimenting someone else.  If I see greatness in someone, I will call it out because I love what I see and want to honor that beauty.  Love is a gift that I enjoy giving.

What happens when we fail

When we can't give our children what they need, they will often react by acting out.  This can look like tears, or tantrums.  This can look like bad behavior and lying.  Why would someone lie?  They know that the truth isn't good enough for the person they're lying to.  They know that what they think or believe or feel should be shaded in someone else's approval before it's accepted.  How sad is that? I started this post by stating that no child wants to be bad, and I stand by it.  Getting your attention, whether through praise or a reprimand means that you are looking at what had been ignored.  When my boys act out, the first thing I look at is where I failed them, and I can usually spot it, but sometimes I have to ask and coax it out of them.

Meltdown vs. Tantrum

Being an autism mom means I have first hand experience of a meltdown and have had to learn the difference.  Most people see acting out as a tantrum, but a meltdown is a different beast.

A tantrum is usually about getting what is wanted.  The kid in question has probably had a tantrum that was rewarded in the past.  They will often act out as long as they are getting a reaction from you.  I don't react to my kid's tantrums.  Not anymore.  I will step over a crying child and keep walking.  They are aware of their personal safety and their audience.

A meltdown means there is so much going on that the kid has lost control.  Meltdowns mean they might end up hurting themselves.  Meltdowns mean they can't adjust to the situation and for my boys, I need to be their anchor, and hold them quietly until the moment passes.

Unringing the Bell

Sometimes it would be amazing to unhear or unsee something.  A chance at a do-over is the stuff of great novels and daydreams.  We all want to take something back and start over.  Sometimes it's impossible.  Sometimes you can use the point where it all fell apart as a launch pad for something new and deeper. The devastation I felt when my husband left me was traumatic but there is value in it.  I have learned so much about myself and I have found true joy in who I am.  There was a cost but I didn't expect the payout to touch so many various areas of my life in such a ginormous and beautiful way.

In 2012 I was hospitalized with my last surrogate pregnancy for about a month.  At 25 weeks gestation, a regular check up with the neonatologist showed that my cervix started funneling and the twins were trying to come out. Well, more like my body wanted to force an eviction. I've always been blessed with fairly easy pregnancies and contractions I couldn't feel until I was about ready to push. Why else would I be willing to be pregnant 6 times? I was planning a pedicure and Target trip that day but I was told to head straight to the emergency room. I couldn't stop at home for my laptop or Kindle or even extra panties.  I was in a hospital bed from week 25 until week 29 when they were born.  They eventually left the hospital and then the country.  During that time I was on complete and total bedrest, and allowed to take one 5-minute timed shower while sitting.  The rest of the time I was stuck having nurses give me bed baths, and I spent a week in the trendelenburg position.  This means my bed was tilted so I was laying upside down at a 45 degree angle to keep gravity from doing what is natural.  I will always feel like I could have done things a little differently to keep them in longer and give them a stronger start in life.  I can see most would imagine I did enough, but believing there is always more to do and that I could do a better job is just who I am. I deal with it.  You should too.

This time of being forced away from my family reset things for me.  It gave me a do over. I realized that motherhood was a gift I was squandering in superficial ideals of what I should do and what I should be while my kids suffered my short temper because I couldn't possibly do it all and be happy about it at the same time.  I came home and things changed.  I decided I would be the mother my children deserved, rather than the mother I wanted to be. I started putting their needs ahead of mine and the desire to whine about it settled into a version of peace for me.  I stopped feeling defeated because I felt what it was like to not be able to sleep with my kids near me and steal random hugs whenever I felt son sick and needed a refill.  I never imagined it as preparation for shared custody.  I saw it as patience when I needed it and compassion when they did.

In 2005, my oldest was 4 years old and nonverbal.  His pediatrician with too many letters behind her name told me he would talk when he was ready.  At the time I was a teacher's aide at an elementary school and had a friendship with a speech therapist.  She suggested I ask the school district for an assessment.  His assessment was the same day as his first IEP.  I took him for the appointment and the team asked me to come back in a few hours and bring the whole family.

A few hours later I was there with the ex and our two boys.  They psychologist played with our kids on the floor while the rest of the team explained what autism is and that it was in our home.  They explained the characteristics to us and I right away made the connection that they were describing everything Kid2 does as well.  From the floor, the psychologist told us that in her professional opinion, Kid2 was also on the spectrum and his characteristics were more severe than Kid1.  Kid2 was still 2 years old and an official diagnosis wouldn't come until later. Autism spectrum disorders can often look like normal toddler behavior and while it may seem like everyone has autism through some sort of connection, they really don't like to hand out labels unless they have to.

My emotions were swiftly all over the place.  Before I left that meeting, I had cycled through the stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression) and I was at acceptance. Every thought and action for the next few years became, "But how do I help my boys?" I had to field the questions from family, making them feel better about what it was like for me to raise special needs kids because somehow the stigma affected them even though I was the one dealing with meltdowns and being a bad mother in the eyes of everyone around me.  It was a long time before I allowed myself to mourn the loss of expectations that were born with my kids and died in that meeting.  I would deny myself the freedom to revisit those stages and emotions because it wasn't productive.  I would instead go through a moment of sensory integration messes like poopy painting on the walls and floor and beg others to envy me in snark and frustration, not realizing that there really are women that would give anything for the work I faced in place of the grief they felt.

There are fewer expectations and more pleasant surprises. I was told my middle son would never even say, "Mom." I smile when he has long conversations about Nintendo or tells me how loved he feels.

My boys are still autistic.  That doesn't go away or fade into the background.  It's in our face with meltdowns from time to time. We do our part to make others autism aware, it just doesn't look like stickers and ribbons.  I'm usually good at knowing where their limits are but I constantly remind them that they need to communicate their needs.  I don't mind cutting a day short, but I mind knowing they pushed through a day of torture because they felt my needs were more important than theirs. I will always run the risk of a total melt down with violence if I try to change routines too drastically without plenty of warning and coaching along the way. The difference is they have learned ways to regulate how they feel and they have learned how they are expected to behave in society.  It's not a perfect formula but it's one we have all learned to work with.  At the same time, I am at peace with the idea that they prefer to be home at all times because it's a routine they can predict.  It's structure they crave and when they are calm, we all have peace.  That is until Kid3 has a meltdown. He doesn't understand he's not capable of competing with what his brothers have already done before he was born and the part of me he is poking with a stick has long since been broken and looks at him with pity and amusement.

Would I ever unring this bell?  Probably not.  Of course I'm Mom and would love to protect my children from every moment of suffering.  The reality is they are often blessedly oblivious to most social slights. I'm the one that sees more than I should and I may or may not have wanted to cut a kid because of it.

There are things about being a special needs mom I would never give up.  I'm an advocate.  I know how to fight for my kids.  I have.  I've won.  Fighting Like a Girl and Pulling Punches is all about what my kids have taught me. It has made me grow in patience and empathy.  I'm the person that won't judge the mom with the crying child in a grocery store because I know that child is probably hungry, tired, uncomfortable and bored. I know that parent has been doing all they can think of to do for their children while doing what they need to do in order to take care of themselves and be the parents they want to be.  We all try to do what we think is best for our kids.   Being an autism mom has made me an optimist.  I will always look out for the best in a bad situation and find the silver lining because that is a necessity in the life we get to live.  We have to stay positive because it's not just our joy on the line, but that of the children we are blessed with.  Their peace and sense of self comes from me.  I'm responsible for the inner voice that I've helped shape from their infancy. I'm responsible for their ability to navigate the world outside of our home and the thickness of skin that protects them from discrimination and aggression.

As for Kid1, he has the ability to see the world with a fresh perspective that takes each part separately and examines it carefully before putting it all back together.  He has a gift for art that is detailed because one of his superpower characteristics is to fixate on one thing to the point of mastery.  He amazes me with how he sees things and the specific diction with which he describes things.  One of his loves is my mashed potatoes.  He's always called them "smashed potatoes" because that is what I'm doing when I make them.  (Not much in my kitchen came out of a box until recent months.)

Kid2 is completely guileless.  While he would love to lie, he's often incapable of it. He has an open appreciation for affection.  He understands the value of a great big hug and snuggles that hold you up and together. He loves video games and will research and obsess over them. He's passionate.  He will have moments of joy and laughter and moments of rage.  The only times he is apathetic is when he is experiencing a sensory overload and needs to reset with hugs, and a calming routine. Or when he's being affectionate.

I've heard some lines about special needs parents being chosen.  I call BS on that.  The learning curve has been sharp for all of us, and we haven't quit or died trying, so we're doing okay.  But we're far from the saintly.  We know how to live on call every moment and know that an emergency is seconds away at any given time.  We've been judged for our parenting and had our instincts go against professional opinions and we've been right. Given true respite where someone we trust has our kids, we can let loose and party harder than the average parent.  We know how to accept a break when it's offered and we trust the person that has our kids.  At the same time, not everyone is trusted with our kids.  We're not magical or unicorns, but we learn to choose our battles and let the small stuff slide.  The big stuff will be a bigger battle than you could imagine trying to bargain for.

Right now this first draft is being written with 9 year old Kid3 having a tantrum because I won't allow him to eat Funyuns in my bed.  It's been about an hour of crying, throwing things and slamming doors.  It's part of his fallout when transitions between houses gets to him.  I'm at peace and ignoring him, except when he calms himself enough to talk clearly.  I respond calmly and talk to him at his level while speaking slightly lower than he does until he has begun to calm his voice.  I wouldn't unring this bell.

Mother of My Othered

When individuals or groups make connections based on setting aside a group as intrinsically different, we've othered them and the cost is being paid in shootings and suicides that we are forced to compensate with loss and cultural anomie. We have done this based on race, sexual orientation, gender, disability and any other thing that could make one person believe they deserve more than the person next to them.  I do my best to keep an open mind and love each person because they are a person and that is enough.  I can't think of a group I'd discriminate against except maybe rapists . . . the irony sounds like, "they were asking for it." (And yet I will objectify random men with errant fantasies because I can.  Don't ask me to justify it.  I can't.  I won't.)

About six weeks ago my middle (autistic) son had a meltdown.  Meltdowns happen, but this one was bad and there wasn't much peace I could offer him.  I'll drop it on you, but you might need a minute afterward.  I did.

He was having a hard time with math and decided he would never be able to get a job to support himself.  It occurred to him that one day his parents would die and there would be no one to take care of him.

At 13, my child has absorbed the idea that he is disabled and can't take care of himself.  It is right in front of him and all around him.  He is sensitive and sweet but he's also aware of what others say and has no way to protect himself from the fears of what could be because tomorrow is uncertain and he is aware that he is different.  He knows that he's been othered by strangers and loved ones alike.  He has violent moments and I really don't have to wonder why.

Wow.  Right?! This is the main reason why my goal is to be a financial powerhouse and set up a trust account where they can eventually live comfortably off of the interest.  Or I just need to set up an amazing life insurance policy.

A couple of months ago my oldest (autistic son) admitted he's not as exciting as another kid.  His Dad's current relationship has built in play dates and these kids are full of what makes a cool kid envied.  Kid1's shoulders slumped a bit, and his deepening teenage voice lowered in shame as he admitted he isn't into sports or breakdancing.  (Kid3 is and they get along fine.) My response was typical of me.

"Has it occurred to you that he might be the boring one that wouldn't have a clue where to geek out if he was thrown in with your friends, and that your friends would probably welcome him before his friends welcomed you?  That makes you the exciting one to me."

Growing up, I was a loner by nature, but that didn't stop me from joining drill team . . . running for office in the student body (and winning that popularity contest) . . .  dancing on stage as well as the steps of City Hall . . .  singing a Les Mis solo in high school and later having a nipple slip while in costume for a Moliere play On the same stage . . .  learning to take down a really tall blonde god in karate . . . squatting for a bump in volleyball  . . .  learning to ollie off of a curb on a fat skateboard . . . swimming on a team each summer . . . or half of the other non-structured ways I played that my kids don't. I did these things, but valued my alone time to be stuck in my head.  I was an emo kid before there was a name for it.

I don't get all of the things my boys love.  It's not for me to learn. What they love has nothing to do with how I love them. Their superpowers are in technology and it looks like anime and gaming.  Kid1's talent is in his artwork that I will frame and hang around the house.  Child’s Play and Raising Gamers is a whole post on this.  Go on, read it.  This will be here when you hit your back button.

My kid brother studied marketing and has a clothing line.  I'm not part of his demographic and even if he offered it, I'm not made to wear his clothes.  I'm a Mom.  By some accounts on various dating sites, I'm beautiful with a great body and an amazing smile.  You don't get the vapid selfie moments that are all over my Facebook and Instagram, so I have to give you their word for it. My point is that my brother is looking for girls that wear their Daddy issues in the skin they expose.  These girls go out in mini skirts that give the illusion that they are in fact weather proof.  I used to be that girl.  Now I get cold and I'm not her.  He's looking for the up and coming young men that need to prove their virility and success most nights in clubs and bars all over the southland and Vegas.  I am not made to wear my brother's clothing line but I'm so proud of him. He can doctor up my resume any day.  (Then I'll edit out the lies.)

When I watched Man of Steel with my boys, there was a scene where young Clark Kent hid in a closet.  He was having a sensory meltdown. He could see and feel and hear too much and it was hard to just be.  He was going through everything an autistic person feels from time to time.  I pointed out to my kids that Superman can see and feel things that we just don't.  We would never call him disabled, and since autism offers those same super powers to a lesser degree, they are not disabled.  They are my super heroes. They gave me smirks of disbelief but I stand by this.

I plan to watch Finding Dory because I hear great things about Ellen Degeneres's portrayal of an othered child in the way she is constantly apologizing for who she is and feeling that she is not enough. Really, it was just this post on the Mighty.  I plan to watch it alone because I tend to ruin movies for people that want to be entertained because I can't shut that part of my brain off.  (I saw Superman vs. Batman with my Dad last and I don't think he's looked at me the same since I shared my thoughts on it.)

There is a flow of ideals that filter from well meaning people to my sons who can't ignore what they hear.  There is a struggle to show them that it's okay to be who they are and being themselves is perfection. I try to fill them with how amazing they are every chance I get.  It looks like more concern for them than broken things that I've had longer than they've been alive and it smells like stinky hugs from boys who don't enjoy wearing deodorant (might be a teenage boy thing).

Showing them it's okay to be in their skin means when Kid2 starts chewing his shirt because he needs the oral stimulation, I don't make him feel bad about a destroyed shirt.  It's a shirt that will be replaced, but his self worth is only what we build it to be.  They don't make eye contact often because according to Kid2, he gets easily distracted.  I once heard an interview given by an autistic girl. She said that faces have too many areas to focus on and it's hard to pick one thing, so she looked away instead.  My kids are okay with eye contact sometimes but other times it's too much to ask.  They will often be destructive.  Paper gets chewed into giant spitball wads. Couch cushions get stabbed with pens and scissors.   Even beloved toys get destroyed.  I have an ammonite that is broken in half.  My kid destroyed a fossil when nature couldn't. I don't get angry anymore.  It just means a need for a fidget was huge and the broken item filled a need.  One day my house may look like a museum but it won't feel like home.

Kid1 gets angry with my more destructive Kid2.  There's an ongoing boundary issue. I've had to learn the difference between a melt down and a tantrum.  A tantrum is intentional.  A melt down can not be controlled and it happens when I've failed as a mom to see when they were reaching their tipping point.  Kid2 punching grandma was a tantrum.  I know this because he would have never punched me.  When anger looks like aggression it usually means they have reached a limit of their needs and wants being put aside or ignored.  It means there is too much noise or they are over stimulated.  Or the teasing needed to be stopped sooner. (They can go from playful to murderous intent fairly quickly and I don't encourage horseplay.) Something needed to be adjusted for them and they can no longer soothe themselves and it looks like a tantrum or they are being loud or they need to lay in bed in sweltering heat under a blanket because they need to reset themselves and stimming movements are not helping anymore. A blanket fort is also a good place to hide the anime porn.

At the end of the day, accepting who they are means I have to meet them where they stand.  It started with my not forcing them to hug people.  If I tell them they can't control their bodies and must give an adult a hug, I have just invalidated their gut instincts that may be saying to stay away.

Forcing them to give affection (in a really extreme set of glasses) can look like grooming them to be victims of abuse.  Hug this person that makes you uncomfortable because making me look like you are affectionate and well adjusted means more than what you feel.  While you're at it, keep quiet and respectful because this is an adult, and their thoughts and feelings mean more than yours.

I don't force haircuts anymore.  It's their hair and I won't touch it as long as they brush through the tangles daily. If they want to be home, we stay home.  If it's not a school night and they want to stay up, I let them.  Even if random laughter wakes me at 4 in the morning. (Yes, I'm editing at 4 and this will suck later when I'm on my way home from the beach tonight.) On a school night, we try to stick to routines and rely on melatonin. If it's the middle of the day and they are tired, I let them sleep.  It's about letting them decide what is right for them and showing them that their needs are important to me and to them.  There is value in their needs and desires.  There is nothing more important than what they think or feel.  I ask them questions and their answers are never wrong as long as they answer with the same respect I offer.

I think all of our relationships teach us what we need to learn to help the next person grow.  I learned to mother my sons from daughtering my Dad (yes, I make up words and you'll get used to it).  I love him deeply.  He will never be what I hoped for as a teenager, but the day I decided to love and accept him as he is and meet him where he is instead of demanding he take my designated route to where I wanted him to be was the day I found healing.  I know that he loves me and will always do what he thinks is best and that is how he expresses his love.  I know my kids will surprise and amaze me but not if I'm too busy looking for ways to measure them up to someone else's ideals and expectations.  I find there is a great reward in flexibility and learning to meet someone where they are.  Sometimes they'll surprise me and return the favor. Sometimes they'll want to stretch because they can feel the warmth of my sunshine.

Child's Play and Raising Gamers

When my kids were about 3 or 4, they loved lining up Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends or Hot Wheels. They were perfectly arranged and evenly spaced.  They had to be taught to imagine people driving or what a family might do on an outing. Nonfunctional routines were more likely to happen during floor time than functional play. Play times weren't always ordered.  These were the same older two that would dump out all of their wooden puzzles at once to piece them together because that was a superpower at one point.  These days I'm the only one that really enjoys jigsaw puzzles.  With each thing that held their attention they would obsess (much like I do with interesting men).  They would repeat the word "why?" in an echolalic refrain, but perseverative speech would cover every single possibility about a situation. They needed answers from all angles.  It was also an inability to comprehend receptive language. At first it required insane amounts of patience, but I've grown to appreciate and love the curiosity that drives a person to seek deeper meanings and answers. Lately my kids are all about gaming.  It feeds a need for repetitive behaviors and restricted interests.  Taking away their release for punishment has lead to meltdowns and tantrums and I eventually had to start defending their gaming habits to teachers.  It's not just my ASD kids, but my neurotypical 9 year old as well.

One year a teacher kept sending me articles about the negative impact of gaming on kids.  I answered her with the positives, but it was more defiance than anything.  My kids were developing relationships online with kids that were becoming friends.  They talked. They enjoyed each other.  I wasn't about to let anything stop their new friendships.  My kids have friends of all ages from all over the world, and surprising political views that I've never shared.

The latent benefits of gaming that I've witnessed include mastering fine motor skills and problem solving.  You have to be able to plan things and when working with others you are working on teamwork.  These are school and workplace superpowers.  My boys have been curious about history because it's woven into the histories of the games they play and I've caught them singing songs that I grew up with.  I secretly hope gamers will revolutionize modern music.  There's the mental exercise to gaming that can keep those neurons firing into older age.  I know how I feel when I'm mentally stretched and gaming does that for gamers. They have to be able to think on their toes and make quick decisions.  That gut instinct is something I hope to cultivate for myself.  For my middle son, I've seen a huge jump in his research skills.  Ask him about the next console Nintendo is rolling out next year and he has excited answers and will geek out in the most adorable way you could imagine.  He hops and I love it.

Like my reading time, when my kids are gaming, they tend to not overeat because sometimes they actually forget to eat.  My boys first told me about French Macarons.  I had never had them, but their friends made it sound like they taste like love feels and we tried them. Now I make them sometimes because I can and they ask nicely.  Sometimes isn't more often because they're sugar, almond meal and egg whites, but mainly sugar.  The direction that modern medicine is heading in would put my kids on the right trajectory for world star surgeon status. I can live with that.  I can also live with them doing exactly what they are doing now for the rest of their lives.  My expectations are low but they also tend to surprise me in a huge way.  They want to get paid to be gamers with snarky commentary. I once saw a studio where these things are recorded.  I can support that.  Other Minecraft mothers will recognize the voice of that creepy Brit.  That man has been an idol.  I checked out my YouTube and it's filled with recommendations for all sorts of cute girls playing Minecraft, Minecraft School and Five Nights at Freddy's. They're also big on anime.  Anime Expo is coming up and they'll be there with their Dad because cosplay is not my brand of geekology.  In the meantime I'm tasked with checking internet browser histories for anime porn because that is a fun thing for my 13 year old.

Gaming was always something I left to their Dad and I've only gotten involved in recent months because we have separate houses and they need their things at each place.  I bought a PS4 with Call of Duty for them for Valentine's Day.  Kid1 loved it but never touched it.  Kid2 had a meltdown.  He is all about Mr. Mario. His Dad told him two houses mean two of everything and I broke that rule by not getting a Wii U.  Kid3 liked it but also never touched it.  Last night I jumped into the role that is now mine and bought a used Wii U console and Naruto Game for the PS4.  I'm paying attention to the Minecraft games, forums and videos they watch.  I may even start reading Homestuck, but I'm not sure I'm there yet.  Kid1 acts like I'd love Splatoon, but I'm also okay making sure they're well fed and watered while I read and write around them.

You would think I was at one point a gamer, but I've never really been into it.  My big sister bought my Nintendo console when I was a kid.  It was the original console with Super Mario Brothers and Duck Hunt.  I had fun, but eventually got bored.  I'm one of those rare people that never beat the game.  In frustration I would shoot at the dog that laughed at me.  My other sister beat the game.  She is 7 years older than me.  She was the beautiful one that all of my friends liked.  It was especially hard to lose to her and I quit playing.  She had the cute boys that liked her and the body of a runner.  All of my friends liked her and I couldn't compete with her.  It took years to fall into mutual love and respect because it took that long to learn that she was never competing with me and wanted to see me happy as well.  I quit playing video games around the same time I was more interested in skating with the neighborhood boys and before I gave that up for getting lost in romance novels, warping my ideas of love and romance.

The Lonely Hours

There is something about the middle of the night that pulls you out of a deep sleep to remind you that you are in fact alone.  I experienced it early in my separation.  There were nights when I would wake up and the feeling of loss would grip me and wake me.  It was a physical emptiness that squeezes uncomfortably until you can't sleep through it.  It gnaws at your insides because even in sleep, your body knows that something is wrong.  Something at the core of who you are is broken and alone.  Your arms and legs reach out for comfort and you wake because it won't be found in your bed, or your home or any of the other places that once brought peace. I sleep really well now.  The sleep I had during the early separation was much like the sleep I had for most of our marriage.  I was used to staying up with a crying infant or toddler.  I was used to waking up because my autistic kids have insomnia from brains that don't usually slow down.  I was used to waking up and feeling alone in the quiet.  Now sleepiness takes hold around 10 and every single morning, my eyes open naturally around 6.  I wake up and stare at the soft light filtering through the curtains.  I listen to the water flowing from a tiered waterfall into the pond outside of my window.  I hear birdsong in the trees, and the soft deep breathing of the child who is next to me half of the time.  I wake and there isn't a list of tasks to do and expectations to meet.  There is joy and presence for the moment I am in and there is a blessing of wonder and muted excitement.

I was always a light sleeper.  I would hear the soft cries of an infant and wake to tend to his needs. I can still hear the suction from a refrigerator door opening while half asleep when my kids have been sent to bed. I have started to switch my phone to "do not disturb" when I go to sleep because emails and text messages will wake me.  I would like to think I can be counted on to be a friend at any time in an emergency, but not when you are up and bored. For the right person, I would be happy to be boredom relief.  For the right person there would be giddy surprise at a late night call or text. But I don't currently have a right person.

I wake up and most of my dating site messages come in between 2 and 4 in the morning.  I get some likes and emails right around 10 at night.  Early in the morning, I see plenty of people online and looking.   When my kids are with me, those are the times when they need me most.  We're shuffling feet out the door for school, or settling in for the night.  We are sleeping and enjoying quiet moments of hugs and laughter.  And I get pings and bells and alerts because there is someone in need of the busy sounds of life that are filling my home.

When my kids leave, I will often find myself at the beach.  I have always been a water baby, but when I had kids the ocean became a terrifying place where I remembered every time a wave crashed fear into me.  I remembered being in the ocean and the man that worked his way closer to me with each wave until his hands were groping through sea salt and my own innocence.  I remembered the many times my autistic children wandered away and the fear that I might lose a child took that joy and washed it out to sea in a riptide of fear.

When I wake alone, I enjoy the solitude and work on tasks to do and consider what I would like to do.  It's an endless option of finally doing what I want to do and not being accountable to anyone. I can go where I want and stay until I decide I've had enough, and I don't need to make sure someone else is okay with that. I can eat as much or as little as I want and there is freedom in that as well.

When I'm talking to strangers that find me attractive, I hear their list of demands and remain silent.  I hear their constant need for approval and attention.  They want to know that I care about their pictures or how they spent their day and I feel the needy hands reaching and take a step back. They are so self involved that they rarely notice I don't reach out to them or ask more than polite questions.

They like to ask what I like to wear because they have a preference for skirts and dresses that has nothing to do with my sense of style or comfort.  This tells me they are more visual than empathetic. This tells me they will care what I look like to others.  I'm not looking to be recognized for my looks when I have thoughts that jump out and demand attention. I haven't found a worthy audience except this blog.

I hear them ask if I like to cook.  I respond that I like good food, even if I have to make it.  I hear them not say that they need someone to cook for them and care for them.   I don't mention that I make a mean hollandaise and will whip up eggs benedict if the mood strikes.  I don't tell them I cook most of my meals from scratch with fresh ingredients and have a love for French and Italian styles because I don't want to sign up for a relationship where someone else never feels like I might want them to cook for me.  My loneliness is a tender friend to me when compared to servitude and I can sleep at night knowing I'm content with a tuna sandwich for dinner.

Having Babies as an Act of Faith

When I was younger, I didn't see myself having kids.  They were messy and demanding.  I didn't even see myself getting married when I met the ex. I liked picking my date each night and it was like putting on a persona with each of them because I was good at being what I thought they wanted.  It was lots of dress up and pretend and nothing was too serious.  Okay, so keeping track of who I was dating and what I wore on each date and where we ate or what we did required more work and brain power than it was worth, but I was happy to do it for as long as I did. And once in my lifetime is enough to teach me I prefer dating one person at a time because I'm happiest when I'm obsessing over one person at a time. Even when I got my fertility tattoo, it wasn't about procreation, but about fertility in thought and creativity. There was something that felt right about the ex.  I didn't see an endless fantasy of right now and fun, but a lifetime of caring for each other.  We spent the 6 months we dated doing a lot of night fishing and making wishes on falling stars.  I felt I could live like that for the rest of my life. I saw something special in him that made me feel like it would be good to bring children into the world that would learn to be just like him.  The dream in my head didn't pave the course of our reality.  I had no idea that children would change everything, including how much I would want to avoid large bodies of water, or how much their wants would guide my actions.

There was something so amazing about getting called by the doctor's office the day after a routine physical to tell me I was pregnant.  There was excitement and I was inexplicably happy about something I wasn't sure I wanted just the day before.  The ex was right next to me when I got the call and from the bits and pieces he could hear, he understood and the news made him so happy he cried.  Every bout of morning sickness was silly and fun.  I laughed after I puked because it happened so rarely.  He went to most of my prenatal visits for that first pregnancy. We explored every single stretch mark that traced the growth of my belly and the life blooming within me.  I developed the pregnancy cradle, where my hand was constantly drawn to my belly, to touch the child that I knew was there because I was told he was. It's often how I can tell if someone else is pregnant.  We want to touch our babies, even when they are only our secret.

Once Kid1 was born, the reality of how unmotherly I was really set in.  I had sisters and in laws and my own Mom at the hospital, coaching me to support his head, and burp him gently.  My nurses had a firmer hand, and they had their own pitying looks to depart with.  I didn't feel like I might know what I was doing until he was a few weeks old and one of the wise sages telling me what to do couldn't calm him, but I did.  Her inability highlighted the fact that for his whole life, I had been doing what she told me I was doing wrong, and he told me I was doing it right.

After Kid1 and Kid2 were diagnosed with autism, we found out we were having Kid3. At the time, the odds were somewhere around 1 in 150 kids would be diagnosed with autism.  Six months ago, Autism Speaks was holding that statistic at 1 in 45 according to the newest government survey.  Either way, I was two for two and probably had some insane gambling luck I should have tested out. Our families gave us a hard time about a third child we couldn't afford. Some time when I was defending our choice to risk a third child with autism and not terminate a surprise pregnancy that I wanted, I realised what a true act of faith having children can be.

Bringing life into a world full of death and pain on the news and world wide is an act of faith.  You have to believe that there is enough good in the world to keep your child safe.  There is no way to be within arms reach of your children for 18 years, so you have to trust that there will be friends, family, teachers, clergy and strangers that will not harm your child, although they will have opportunities to. You have to believe that in your life, you will be the example of a person that will contribute to society, rather than take advantage of society and the weaker ones that make up our society.  You will want to give every benefit of your labor to your children while instilling generosity in their gratitude, and a servant's heart to give of themselves as well.

In being a surrogate mother after my three children were born, I was acting out faith that each of my three couples will continue finding ways to consistently choose to love each other.  In agreeing to carry their children and go through fetal testing, I had to believe that months of shooting hormones into my hips wouldn't end in a terminated pregnancy and the emotional burden of turning my back on all of my beliefs about abortion.  I was believing in my ability to safely bring children into the world and to send them off and potentially never know how they are doing and what kind of people they will become.  My faith was based on the love and care they offered me as their surrogate and I have no regrets. I quietly remember each birthday and reminisce through each scrapbook I put together for each pregnancy from time to time. I don't miss the children, but the feelings of love and hope that met every phone call, meeting and shared appointment.  I miss the friendships of parents that would never have met me in a perfect world. It was amazing to have a cheering section and experience all of the joys of pregnancy with none of the worries outside of a happy and healthy child or set of twins.

I believed in the covenantal bond of my marriage being a cradle of nurturing that would see our children into adulthood.  There's been a necessary shift, and now my belief is that as parents, we will do what we can to ensure the emotional wellbeing of our children, even if I can't see or talk to the ex without having to quiet my rage.  I forgive him but it's a choice and I'm still letting go of my anger because my emotions are not chosen. I have to feel them as they flow through me, and choose to redirect my passionate rage into open hearted joy. I believe that no matter what I face as a single parent, there will always be enough of what we need.  For 50% of their lives, I will have to be both parents and that means putting my selfishness and unease aside, even if that means allowing their boundaries in my home.  I have to give them space to be and allow the idea that growing up means allowing them to grow away from me, in the way they have since birth.  And it means I will have to accept that there will be times when they will need me to coddle and support them because the great big changes in their lives can at times be bigger than they can handle.  I have to put my pain aside for their needs, and believe that it is what is best for them, even if for a while, it goes against what my selfishness needs.

As much as I love being pregnant, I'm not sure another child will come from my body. Yes, I'm talking about a seventh pregnancy. Birth control pills did their worst and gave me pulmonary embolisms.  It's a side effect risk and I am quite good at odds, apparently. I will never be able to go on hormonal birth control again. I am fertile and a pregnancy would be high risk.  And yet I don't believe in abortion. That just means one day I will find myself in a complicated conversation and today I don't have to make any decisions.

What I do believe in is the good in children and I have 6 siblings through adoption.  I would adopt.  I believe in children, even if I have days where I can't believe in me. The best part of adoption is teaching a person that they were not a surprise, but a perfectly planned and chosen member of a family that was missing them. Birth parents in this way have honored us in their selfless sacrifice. I love being part of an adoption family. 

Ambulance Ride

My first ambulance ride was about 9 years ago.  There were no lights and sirens.  The seatbelts were tucked into the bench and I held my little boy's hand as the ambulance drove from County USC Hospital to Kaiser Sunset.  He was stable and he was being transported for observation. Kid3 was 8 months old.  I didn't process the fact that there was standing water in the bathtub or that it could be a hazard to the baby crawling on the floor. He wasn't walking and I didn't know he could pull himself into the bathtub until he pulled himself into the empty tub about a week later.   Kid1 was home alone with their Dad and had his hands in the tub with a Lego Boat he wasn't even allowed to play with when his brother was awake because Legos are an obvious choking hazard.  When I got home with Kid2 and Kid3, I was unloading groceries and the ex was running out of the door.  We had one car at the time and he was ready to escape the moment I walked in.

I was having a tickle fest with Kid1 when Kid2 started tugging on my shirt.  My nonverbal autistic 4 year old son saved his brother's life.  My baby was in the cold water on his back, arched and blue faced.  I pulled him out and tried to remember CPR.  I took the classes and knew the drills but in that moment I forgot it all. I pushed on his little belly and water flowed out of his mouth. I didn't realize I could have made things worse if he had aspirated that water.  I was frantically screaming for someone to call 911. I was screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to help me. I was home alone and so helpless.  I didn't have neighbors to call on because they saw too much. We didn't invite them in because they saw enough from outside.  I found a landline phone with my limp son in my arms and called for help.  The ambulance came and the paramedics took him away.  His chest was rattling in air and he was otherwise unresponsive. We only had one car at the time and I was stranded at home with two children.  I waited until my sister came, or maybe it was my mother in law.  I just know that I waited for them and the ambulance took my son.  One of the fire trucks stayed, then took me to my son.  It was agonizingly slow.  They obeyed all traffic laws and carefully kept an eye on me because I was a caged animal.

My house was a mess.  I had been at the store, and my major clean up day at the time was Sunday evening. (They go to their Dad on Wednesday, so that's my new day.) I was tickling my son and preparing to get to work.  I picked up here and there throughout the week, but caring for two children, aged 5 and 3 with sensory integration dysfunction and a crawling 8 month old that started walking at 9 months meant my house was a disaster.  Dealing with the messes on my terms meant I was angry a lot less and able to play with their trains and Playdoh. It meant not freaking out over yogurt on the ceiling and peanut butter on the walls.  It also meant the house was a hazard. I didn't have help and it was less stressful to not invite people over.

When I arrived at the hospital, I was held at a distance until they were sure I wasn't trying to kill my son.  It was standard practice for the situation.  They see that on a regular basis and had to imagine the possibility that I could do the unthinkable because other mothers had thought it. They interviewed my family and neighbors.  They asked if there was abuse in the home and my Mom later asked if there was because she suddenly wasn't sure what she had seen and what I had said because I was not living like the daughter she raised, spitting fire and raging at the world.  I was in someone's shadow and I was still defending my position there.

My neighbor across the street expressed her concerns about the times I was yelled at or other times she saw anything that wasn't love.  She saw power and aggression and she reported what she saw and for years I didn't want anything to do with her because she saw what I refused to acknowledge.  This is the same neighbor that filmed what my ex took out of the house when he left and offered to call the police for me.

Two days ago my chest pain was extreme.  I couldn't stand up straight and the band of pressure was squeezing me painfully like I was placed between two icy plates of stone.  For a person that has willingly given birth 7 times, I can say I never want to relive the sensations I felt Wednesday. It was hard to stand, and I was slick with sweat.  I called 911 and stayed in bed, barely pulling on yoga pants and a tank top. I asked Kid3 to help me and get dressed and I've never had his obedience react so swiftly in the months since I've become a single mom.  When they arrived and asked me to sit up for them, I vomited in a waste basket as several paramedics watched and checked my vitals.  They moved sticky contacts from my chest to my legs to get the best possible reading. I was given pills to chew and a spray under my tongue because I was presenting as a heart attack, and they checked the important things.  I was given baby aspirin.  I had to take it during IVF because studies show baby aspirin helps keep you pregnant through the first trimester of an IVF pregnancy and it's not a taste you forget. It was becoming clear to them it was probably stress, but still felt I needed the lights and sirens on the way to the hospital.

It's different when you're the patient.  Normally I'm hyper aware of everything, but there was a haze of activity.  I don't know how many paramedics arrived.  I don't know what I was given. I remember being put in a chair and being bumped up a flight of stairs and out of my front gate in a bed that was a chair but was a bed because that felt better to me. I didn't even notice being swabbed before  I was stuck so they could check my blood sugars. I just know that my neighbor across the street held my son's hand and called my family.  She met me at the hospital and took Kid3 to his Dad for me.

My nurse asked about my stress levels. I told her it probably was just stress.  I explained the way my life looks right now and that I was sending my kids to be with their Dad.  It's the same stress I've had for months but some days are harder than others. At some point I was given Ativan and the giggles started before the pain subsided and I drifted off to sleep. They should bottle that stuff and call it happiness because it was like being drunk only I wasn't and it was like being high . . . which is probably why it's not handed out like candy or sold over counters.

Right when I was being discharged, my Dad picked me up.  My neighbor still checked on me throughout the night and into the next day.  I have good neighbors and I owe her homemade brownies or something equally less stressful than macarons or homemade toffee. My Mom and Stepdad came by.  My sisters have been calling me.  I feel loved and cared for.  I am loved and cared for.

I've been resting for the last couple of days. I've been sleeping when I feel I need it and I've replaced coffee with cocoa.  The only marathons I'm contemplating are on Hulu and Netflix.  I may start a Xena Warrior Princess Marathon because I loved that show when I was younger.  And Star Trek because . . . Well, no explanation is necessary, but I'll be sipping Jasmine tea because I don't like Earl Grey.  So now my geek is showing but it is who I am.  I'm still happy.  My joy wasn't stolen. I just need to give my body the rest it needs when the stress builds.  I could've built a castle with my shoulder load on Wednesday and if I'm lucky, there will be no more ambulances in my future.  The next time I see a paramedic or firefighter, I will thank them for their service the way I first started to almost 9 years ago.  I still thank every one I see because of the handful of people that saved my son's life and kept me calm when I was afraid for his life.

My Weaknesses Displayed

Ask about my weaknesses and I'll tell you I spend more time plotting the next thing I plan to say and not listening to the ideas you've just plopped before me.  If I'm doing well, I'll stop talking at that point.  I tend to talk too much and it will cross my mind that it's a problem because you take too long to spit out what you are thinking and odds are you are not cute enough to entertain me and I will guess repeatedly what you should have said by now because my curiosity isn't satisfied by your slow self expression. Your point should have arrived and you are now stepping on my time and my interest has flown. In short, I can be really impatient. At the same time, I can get completely tongue tied.  When my words come out a jumbled heap and the words don't sound like words, that means I'm excited and nervous and feeling intimidated by the person I'm talking to.  This is the time when silly confessions and saying more than I should becomes a problem.  I will shine with the creepy observations that the average person doesn't see because that careful observation of everything around me and the imagination that fuels them are normally the perfect breeding medium for what I write, but I've turned off that censor and words tumble out and make messes of embarrassment that cover me in bright excitement and the heat rises and my cheeks feel it the most.  It's not as simple as shame or embarrassment. It is a jeweled crown of mortification.

I also have more passive than aggressive in my anger.  I may write what I think, but I won't live it out. I should verbalize my anger. I'm much more careful with the gilded frame in which I situate my words when I have fear my words will hurt another person.  I'm always a little too worried about hurting others. It's usually a strength, but not when it's only at my expense, and not when my caution is fear based. Being assertive is on my radar but I'm very much into hedonistic exploits right now, and assertive training isn't part of that. At the same time, I believe joy and happiness are choices, and I haven't found the balance between happiness and aggression.  Let me know if you think of a safe place to express my pissy moods.

Insecurities are a thing, and they're my thing.  I wrap them around me and push through them until they become my strengths for the most part.  At times I can't even see my insecurities until they've been twisted into weapons by someone else. That's the point of this post.  If I announce it, I can own it and deal with it.

I have been teased about using $5 words and shamed for trying to sound smart.  I like reading and being a bookish broad wasn't always a strength.  Again, it might just be the men I was dating. I find men that can get lost in a book and are able to converse about the ideas bounding from their shifting perspective is a new kind of sexy that I didn't know how to address before. It still intimidates me. I have spent too long trying to simplify my language so I don't look like I'm trying to make someone feel bad. I don't mind explaining myself, I just hate second guessing myself.

I do a lot of reading and much less talking, so I'm sometimes unsure about the words I want to use because I know what they look like and what they mean, but I don't always know what they sound like.  I don't want to relive reading "melancholy" out loud in junior high. That was bad.

I love too hard, and for much too long.  There are patterns we get from our family of origin, so thanks Mom. This inability to quit for the sake of love is what had me holding on to my marriage for so long.  Letting go and accepting that some questions are not meant to have answers is difficult for me.  Closure sounds so silly in the face of all that was done, but at the end of the day, it matters more that too much happened, and not why it had to.  Some things don't need a reason that I can understand.  Earthquakes are natural but not normal and we don't always know how to predict them with accuracy enough to evacuate cities.  Sometimes the shaking is the only point I need to process and grow from.

Some puzzles keep bothering me.  People and their motives are fairly easy to grasp for the most part.  Every once in awhile I'll see a puzzling expression or someone will very clearly bite their tongue on a rogue thought that very nearly escaped. A moment kept crossing my mind to the point where I had a dream about it and woke up to keep turning it over like a cat tiring out a field mouse.  A month later and it was still crossing my mind.  I've had random moments where I'll catch a similar expression on someone else, and that moment is renewed and fresh in my mind for further torment.  It's insidious. I have a hard time letting go of things I want to know that I have no possible way of finding out. It's the same for riddles and plot lines that are not neatly tied by the author.

Math is a weakness. It started with multiplication tables in the 3rd grade.  I couldn't memorize them and math tends to build on itself.  I was solving quadratic equations and slowly counting out the multiplication I should have memorized on tapping fingertips and whispered counting on murmuring lips. I did really well in geometry, but algebra was a challenge. In high school I got through my second year of algebra and believed my counselor when she said I wouldn't need anymore math.  She lied.  You need a certain level of math to graduate college, and that class likely has several prerequisites.  If you don't practice it, you will forget it.  I wanted to be a geologist until the math required scared me away.  I got through college level algebra, but then I was looking at Trigonometry, Calculus, Chemistry and Physics, which are all special names for different math tortures and I decided English sounded a lot easier.  It was the practical decision when I looked at mothering and running a home. It was the boring choice to get lost in literature when  I could spend a night in a tent and get up with the sun to play in the earth with other scientists. Banging out a paper while half asleep was easier than solving equations and mapping complex equations along the x, y, and z axis. It's a weakness I've made peace with but every so often I entertain the idea of going back to do better in those classes.

I'm messy.  I have always been messy.  I grew up with too much junk in the house and it was comfortable. As an adult, walking into the home of a hoarder is both familiar and it gives me extreme anxiety.  As mom, I tried to keep up but found myself snapping at sensory integration dysfunction meltdowns.  When kid1 and kid2 were little, I would piece their wooden puzzles together and neatly stack them.  I'd leave the room for laundry, and hear the crash of a box of wooden puzzles being turned upside down and scattered with the Hot Wheels and Thomas the Tank Engine.  My kids might not have survived being toddlers if I hadn't decided the messes weren't that important. I had to let it go, or risk becoming an abusive parent.  Now I will save major cleaning for when they are with their Dad and I even enjoy cleaning up, but to clean while they are actively making messes can make me angry and a bit terrifying. I used to get so angry when I was trying to clean up around the ex that was watching television or laying in bed. The wife I was had to do everything at home on my own and I knew that if I left a mess, it would wait for me to get to it whenever I got around to it. Ideally, they would clean up after themselves, but that first struggle of having to wait for people to talk translates here as well.  It's easier on me mentally if I just do it myself, and one day I would love to hire someone to do it for me. Sometimes they help and from what I understand, they do a lot more at their Dad's house, but when I'm not exhausted, I find peace in picking up after my natural disasters while they sleep.  I put on music and dance through it.  There's balance.  If you saw how organized my sewing kit is, you'd see how much I crave the control.

I don't cry often.  It's a weakness because humans are not meant to hold it all in. At times I'll have a slow leak of too much emotion.  The tears fall silently and I may sniffle a bit, then blame it on allergies.  Most people around me might not notice it unless they are super sensitive or over informed about my latest drama. There's always drama. I have a seething angry cry.  That usually comes out when I withhold a beating of angry words for someone else's sake.  I don't ugly cry though and those cries are the most healing.  I don't even cry chopping onions anymore.  I could use a good cry and I'm not even sure how to turn that stuff on.  I could have been one of those women that manipulates a relationship with waterworks, but I never figured out how.

Advocating through IEP's

I believe everything happens for a reason.  I'm one of those people.  The optimism in me is tempered with a strong leaning toward disbelief, but I push past that and see the glass not half of anything because I took a sip and it's refillable.  I think the trick is in finding what that reason is that forced something to happen, and acknowledging the season you are in has a purpose.  Not having anything to rush to after my son's triennial IEP meant I spent time reading the reports. Reading the reports showed me something was done to get done and not to make sure my kid would be taken care of. I should explain a few things for those that have never had an IEP.  An "Individualized Educational Plan" is the phrase used to describe the legal document created between the school and parents to first determine educational needs for a student, then to set goals, placing supports where needed to attain these goals.  I can take an IEP to any school and the school would have to do what it says, although they have the right to hold a new IEP within 30 days to see if they can make changes.  Since my sons are at a nonpublic school, the team is usually the parents, kids are invited if they're over 14, a special ed. teacher, a general ed. teacher, a psychologist, the district representative, the school representative, and any support people that would have to present the findings of their report.  It can include an occupational therapist, speech therapist, an adaptive P.E. teacher, or any other support person that would have to give their opinion about what services and therapies would help your child function in class.  Let the diction sink in.  If your child's behaviors are a problem at home, but not at school, it isn't something they are concerned with and the job of an advocating parent is to track down therapies on our own.  If your child is a client of Regional Center, they will often but not always cover what the district doesn't, assuming you remember to bring it up in your annual IPP.  (I'll save that for another post).

Since the first IEP in 2004, we've had them scheduled regularly, without having to do much of anything, but there are times when you have to write a letter to make a request. Anytime your child doesn't seem to be thriving is a good time to ask for an assessment.  Public schools will do this at no cost because that is the point of a public education.  There are lots of assessments to request.  There are plenty of ways to see if your child is performing at their best.  There are also plenty of ways to test them emotionally, psychologically, physically with gross and fine motor skills, cognitive ability to process information, hearing, vision . . . the list goes on and they have handbooks for that sort of thing.

Once you've asked for the assessment in writing, you sign a form saying you give permission to test your child.  The school will send you a notification for an IEP date (they have a certain amount of days from the time you make the request to the IEP and I believe it's 60 days). You sign, giving instructions on how to proceed if you can't make it to the IEP and then you go to the IEP.

During most of their elementary school years, their Assistant Principal would bake cookies from scratch.  He was great with the kids, being a Dad himself, and had a white soul patch and an old soul.  I could picture him as a beatnik, in as far as my understanding was from the first Hairspray movie. I'm really not that old, but my knees try to convince me otherwise.

Depending on the team you work with, sometimes they'll want to contact you to go over things ahead of time.  I love these situations because it's easier to follow along.  In LAUSD, there is the Welligent program for the meetings, and more often than not, it will freeze, or not save or not print.  It is a finicky software program/website and a pain for most people that access it, but it's what they use. It's problems can be a little distracting.  Reading reports quickly to get through them and getting to the point means if you aren't as prepared as they are, you can find yourself a little lost.  At the end of the day, the parent needs to sign, but signing comes with a choice. Do you agree or don't you? If you don't agree, you still sign, but make it known that you are not going along with what they say.

Most IEP meetings will start with an introduction, and the same sentences are read and re-read each time.  By the 5th grade, you can probably wallpaper a room in parent handbooks, and you leave with a survey that I've never filled out or mailed in.  During the meeting, one at a time, a person who did an assessment will read through it, or skim through it, handing parents a copy to read along.  After that, we go over goals and figure out what they decide is best.  For the most part, I can agree with what they come to. I can see the logic in their reasoning.

There are some situations where you have to be aware of what is being said and decided and think ahead to the possibility of change.  Reducing Occupational Therapy hours to nothing isn't a big deal when OT is incorporated in the classroom because it's a special needs classroom.  This needs to be spelled out incase they ever decide to stick him in a general ed. classroom. Transitioning out of special ed will always be their goal even if it isn't yours. In that case, the natural support of a special needs classroom would set him up for failure in general ed.

The triennial is a larger IEP meeting held once every 3 years. This is the time for new assessments to be done and to look at all aspects of the needs as they may have changed. More often than not, the district will try to go off of the last assessment, even if it's 3 years old. It is my job to say I don't agree to their shortcut.  I read the report that was clearly copied and pasted from another child, with copied and pasted sections from old reports.  What she tried to present couldn't possibly represent my child.

In the days following the suspended IEP meeting, I was called by the psychologist with profuse apologies that I wasn't interested in hearing. I had a stress headache like a ball of pressure above my left eye in the shape of the finances I was just going over.  She wanted to go over what she had written down, and that part of me that was in pain had to remember being a student with dinner started in a crockpot, a term paper before me and a child on my back who wanted to brush my hair while I hammered out nuance in Diderot's prose. I went through her assessment, word for word, even pointing out misspelled words and filling out information that should have been in her files. She thanked me profusely and asked if I could meet her on campus later.  It's another one of those things a job would have prevented me from hopping over to do.  Of course I could meet her. So much of her job relies on not what is written or said over the phone, but a careful examination of body language, facial expressions and micro expressions, affect, and many other things I didn't bother to study because I couldn't get into philosophers.  It took a while to realize philosophers would make an appearance in all of the liberal arts classes I loved and the ones I hated too.

I met her and she talked about how glad she was to be able to meet with my son because he exceeded all of her expectations.  Of course he did.  My kids are amazing.  Also, she was going off of a report completed when he was suicidal and he wasn't that kid anymore.  He's in a more emotionally stable place and his autism has become a part of him that he understands.  He still has to make an effort to navigate life in ways I could never imagine, and at times that stress becomes clear in a melt down or assault on his brothers, but he's exceptional.

I realized that as an overworked school psychologist, going off of old reports is standard practice, and as a parent, when I insist a new assessment be completed, it gives her time to do what she wanted when she felt her calling was to study the mind and behavior.  She was forced to do what she loves.  We talked about her kids and her husband's GI bill.  I encouraged her to look into Chapter 35 benefits for her kids and the California Department of Veteran's Affairs fee waiver because they are independent of each other but go off of the same DD-214.  An advocate never stops seeing where they can lend a hand and how they can help a situation.

She should have finished her report by now but we'll reconvene that IEP after spring break.  In the meantime, I submit resumes, make phone calls, research various programs that would benefit my family and stay connected to groups on Facebook that are on the same journey because we all help each other out.  It's what we do.

How I Spread Autism and Cancer Awareness

 

The sun is barely peeking over the hilltop before me and my inbox ping tells me someone was thinking of me - loves me - thinks of me when they rise.  In my excitement for words and encouragement, I see it's a meme.  It's a meme for cancer awareness.  It's a cute meme for cancer awareness that looks nothing like the cancers I've seen.

The awareness is what gets to me.  I have an autism awareness magnet on my car.  It was important to my kids, but it wasn't my thing.  Yes, I have kids with autism, and it's important for others to learn about, but I've been spending years making people autism aware at restaurants with tantrums and meltdowns over textures and sitting in boredom.

We've had grocery trips where the casual shopper suggests a spanking might help, and I informed her you can't spank away a disability and frankly I was bothered by her violent streak. Her compassionate suggestion to help get my kids in line turned into blatant curiosity which turned into verbal diarrhea because people rarely know where their thoughts become weapons, and the science she saw on television just insulted the gene pools of two families without the excuse of a nameless face because she was looking at mine. I remembered a good friend telling me, "we can't be angry at someone's ignorance.  We have to give them our pity." I was so enraged I wanted to deliver that pity with a right hook. Instead I plastered on what I hoped was a smile and tried my best to inform her that it doesn't matter how autism ended up in my home, it's my job to see my kids through life in a way that will release whole adults, unbroken by the world.  I've made family aware of autism when the meltdowns and self inflicted head punching meant we had to leave early for holidays to find respite at home where the holidays are in submission to first Thomas the Tank Engine and now Minecraft.  I loved watching traffic from my last job because the little cars reminded me of Hot Wheels lined up but not played with.

I'm still becoming autism aware when in my hope to be "the world's best mom" as proclaimed by a stranger in Target, I walked in with a Playstation 4 and was greeted with a meltdown instead.  I should have known that Playstation 4 doesn't support Mario and Dad has a Wii U, why can't we?  Dad promised him two houses mean two of everything and my literal kid took that literally.  Kid1 and Kid3 love it as it collects dust because they don't actually want to play it or sell it, and being job free means telling kid2 the new 3DS he wants will have to wait even longer.

Cancer ripped through my grandfather and he didn't win.  His pride and protection would belie the pain in his body when I would call and he'd in turn call out for his Mrs. to talk to me.  Later I would lose my husband's grandfather.  There was a powerful moment where we sat side by side toward the end of his life.  He was on oxygen and struggled to speak.  He told me how amazed he was that his generation would do what they did, and his granddaughter with dark skin would sit next to his fair skin and blue eyes and we'd openly share love and respect.  This granddaughter healed a life born to regulated bigotry and gave him great grandsons whose bloodlines held his Heinz 57 and my blood line that is both Thai and Black and if you ask my dad, Choctaw, Sephardic, French, and Mexican too. I have a heritage which includes the many slave owners and illicit affairs that would mix my features until I look Samoan or Indian. I type this and still mourn the loss of the only grandfather I was able to visit when I wanted because we weren't separated by states and his love for me resonates like his loss was just last week.

The face of cancer has also been worn by my sister and grandmother, but they fought and won.  I've had friends lose hair and fight sickness and they not only survived, but they are thriving.  They are healthy now, but they've faced death and emerged with an appreciation for life that is a wonder to witness.  My oldest has a friend with a Dad who is sick right now. When he asked about cancer, these are the faces I tell him about.  This is the awareness I share.

We live out awareness in the ways we share who we are and in the reflections of our lives and how we let our struggles color our smiles. We face each day in bravery and see grace where we look for it and the peace that we allow in our hearts gives us patience.

A Day in the Life: Single Mom Duties

I rushed to my son's school to pick him up on a shortened day. His parent conference was an arbitrary day where his teacher could fit me in.  I asked if she had an earlier appointment and she fit me in immediately.  She tries so hard for order, but teachers rarely get parents that show up on time, or show up at all when work and other kids come before a report we see on a card.  But I wanted to meet with her so she could tell me he's missed too much school and been tardy far too often because the numbers in black and white with a legend in the corner couldn't be clear enough.  I remind her of the day in dress and heels I carried him over my shoulder from the car onto campus and left him with the principal, later calling in tears on my way to work to see how much he hated me. My knees hated me for days after that. He's doing well in spite of his absences and still has time to improve.  We're starting separate homework packets because separate homes weren't enough.  The line between responsibility tears him in two, but he accepts it with a smile because this insanity is his insanity and it's somehow acceptable. We head home and the fight for his homework begins.  He wants my phone. "Can't find a pencil." Now in need of a sharpener.  "This is too hard.  We haven't done the work that she told you we did." But it says review and I know he's capable when I tell him I'm struggling and I need him to show me. "What are you doing?" As I'm writing thank you's to lovers in my past. "I'm writing a zombie story," because he knows it's entirely a possibility and more exciting than therapy writing. He needs my full focus to get me to give him answers he works really hard to not figure out. I continue writing and he slowly figures it out.

But his brothers will be home in 10 minutes and the three of them will start fighting over the two computers. Miraculously, he gets it done and has minutes to spare before the brothers get home.  Once home, they fight, as predicted because they each want time on the computer immediately.  It's the preferred routine and there's a system to their chaos when they can predict what will happen. Kid1 tries to pry kid2 from the chair, then sees the food and starts with bribery.  The computer battle is won and their after school hungers are sated.  Mom's cherry macarons decided the battle. Kid2 takes his clothes off because there are tags that scratch, and really, he's had clothes on all day and it should be enough.  He sits and strokes his boy parts through his clothes and I remind him we can see him and his restless hands stop but he takes the tablet into the bedroom where I won't hear his videos as easily.

"Hey kids, it's a soup day.  Chicken vegetable okay?" Yeses and sures and "I would like that, Mom." I start boiling a chicken with loose skin and too much blood. My stomach is roiling from the stresses I ignore.  I run a bath and heat eases pain in my old lady knees.  I yell to kid3, "want a bath tonight? Now's the time if you do."  Followed by, "no mom, I'm busy mom .  . . I'll shower later."

Chicken is cooked and cooled and I'm burning fingertips, tearing the bird apart.  "Are you sure you want soup? I still have time to make something different." Kid1 wants soup.  Kid2 thinks he can get past celery and cooked carrots. He'll eat it raw, but cooked carrots and celery have a texture my sensory sensitive autistic children can't always handle.  Kid3 loves mommy's soup. He can't wait for mommy's soup.

Soup is served and only Mom and Kid1 will eat it.  Kid2 wants bread and only bread.  Kid3 isn't hungry.

It's time for showers and bed, and I start with kid2 who wants to avoid his shower just a little longer because he's watching a video.  I check the video and it's on pornhub and I have to explain that it's inappropriate and gives a wrong idea of real sex. Good sex.  Sex that isn't violence based and I have to pry my eyes away from the sex scenes that held my sex starved mind because it's a video where it looks like orgasms are being given which is different entirely from solo play. I'm so tired of solo play.

Kid2 in the shower, then kid3.  He wants that bath - once offered and rejected and he will cry until I give in but I don't give in to his bath. Instead I soap him up in the shower.  And it's a battle I've lost that his Dad always wins.  I tell myself he just needed the cry that he cries every time he comes home. He doesn't need to control me too, that's just a side effect - a latent benefit and then I can't see the manifest benefit.  I can't see the antecedent to the behavior that I just rewarded and I'm the one with the consequence.  He's out of the shower and dripping wet and insists on climbing into bed, dripping wet because that's what Dad does. It's okay with Dad.  He's okay with Dad. And he's hungry now and refuses the soup that burned my fingers and I'm headed out to the deep freezer in the laundry room to get him a Hot Pocket that he eats halfway through before falling asleep.

Kid1 in the shower with a smirk and a grunt.  I ask too much of him but I ask and he does what I want, if slower than I want and the night has wound down and we're done.  The pressure builds in my head and I go over it again because I can't see where we went from smiles and hugs and mutual claims to have missed each other to the mess this night dissolved into.  I can't see where it shifted and my mind races through it again and again.

I don't drink.  I won't cry.  I will see the crap for what it was and hug them in their sleep because they are so well behaved then.  I will say prayers for their peace and obedience as I tuck them in. And I will have Butter Pecan gelato because I don't drink even if I really want to right now.

Owning Up to Falling Apart

My moment of truth showed up just before 5 tonight. Foraging for sustenance landed me in strawberry shortcake ice cream. The dawning realization that it was all that had passed my lips other than my toothbrush this morning was clear evidence that I'm not doing well and patterns of brokenness are emerging.  Searching for protein, I also poached an egg.  In breaking the yolk and scooping bland warmth into me without bothering to pick a lemon from the yard to whip up Hollandaise, it was the comfort I was seeking and I saw that in my food choices.  I looked around at the wreckage of a neglected home and found myself surrounded in the hollow ache of last year when my husband left.  I'm not that person anymore because now I can see my phenomenal coming out of every smile.  It's time to give her a hug, acknowledge her pain, and help her up. I am determined to break these patterns but first I needed to acknowledge that as beautiful as my time at my job was . . . as giving as it was and as much as I learned, there is the sudden loss of income and identity.

This morning I had the first IEP recessed because I wasn't pleased with the inadequate job the psychologist did in her report.  Calls will be made.  Responsibilities will be taken and where heads should roll, they'll find there's grace because my life is full enough without a bone to pick. The other IEP was successfully closed and signed and I have a copy to send to Regional Center. There was a moment when the school district rep and one of the teachers were alone in the room with me.  They marvelled at how I do it all. I'm an autism mom.  We slay dragons.  We sometimes have to dig deep, but we can do the amazing and impossible. We talked about my kid's early development and speech delays. We talked about sensory issues, and my kid running head first into the door, only to slam the back of his head against the floor.  We talked about poopy painting and tasting.  I don't miss those days.

These meetings were always my job but with the separation, the husband is now involved in every meeting and decision in any way he can do it without being around me.  During the meeting he joined by phone conference.  It was the first time in a long while we heard each other's voices and we did our best to not acknowledge that.  I felt mild annoyance, from time to time, but a lot of what I felt was gone. He was in some ways just another random voice and not the man I wanted to love or maim. That's where I first saw my healing today.

I stopped at the Gamble House in Pasadena because it is beautiful and the grounds make me smile.  One day I may take that tour inside, but on most days, I prefer to check out the pond and watch the fish.  It was a time of quiet reflection.

Throughout the day I saw other people as I ran errands and it occurred to me I wasn't attention whoring or flirting with anyone that looked at me.  Part of me has always been afraid that I would start looking for validation in other people, but today I realized I'm going to be okay in that way.  I've always been not so private.  I was the girl in school that would get on stage in front of peers and sing. And dance. And act.  I even had a wardrobe malfunction with an errant nipple in a really tight Elizabethan dress that presented my breasts as a shelf that I could rest things on. Being a senior in high school that inadvertently shows her nipple off to way too many people at once was not easy to live down.  Although, I didn't get any complaints either.  Go figure.

I still haven't cleaned up my house.  Dirty laundry is piled and there are dishes around.   I'm not seeing it as being lazy but a form of depression that is creeping up on me. Honestly I don't feel like doing it, but I'm making the choice to deal with it before bedtime, and I'm also making a choice to make myself a steak dinner because food is good and I can't start unintentionally starving myself. I like my curves and the clothes that fit me now.  I'm still waiting to hear about an interview from my agency, and perhaps tonight will see an updated Monster resume in the making, but I'm coping by looking at my situation. I'm coping by not ignoring it, even if that is my first instinct and laying in bed in all my bloggy glory feels better.

Today's lessons: The feelings for the husband are easing into a comfortable place.  I'm not attention whoring all over my neighborhood, just my blogs.  Feeling sad is okay and I am still healing.  I should pay y'all in therapy fees but instead I give you words and angst.  Lots of angst all around.

Fighting Like a Girl and Pulling Punches

Fists are raised. Her right hand is balled next to her chin and her left hovers in front of her mouth and nose. A slight tuck of thumbs and a swallow of bile burns her throat, but she has a face to wear. The determination in her gaze hides the fear that is urging her fight into a flight, but she steels her resolve and plants her feet, bending her knees slightly so they don't lock on her when it's time to move.  He doesn't realize he tells her his next move as he steps before he reaches for her shirt. His cologne met her before she saw him and this close the assault on her nose is enough to make her flinch. She's been here before and she knows that she has learned the next move like a dance based on muscle memory.  She drops her chin and shoulder in a hook aimed at his ribs stepping in and on her right side below the left side of the rib cage he exposed in his attack. With a quick draw back of her stinging right hand, she lifts up his slightly slackened left arm with her left forearm, moving closer and following through with the force of her right elbow and forearm, twisting her back for a second hit with the back of her elbow, catching his ribs again. As he's bent in pain she takes a second to snap a left cross at his cheek and feels positive his stubble stung her more than her bony hand could have hurt him.  He was taller than her but he didn't have her solid frame.  He probably didn't look past her jeans and stilettos.  He takes a moment to fight the pain, and step back.  His fury builds but that moment was all she needed and she runs off, slapping the pavement in bare feet as her shoes lay abandoned on the street and her purse is still miraculously strapped across her body. Wouldn't it be amazing if we could all just defend ourselves? My first fist fight was me getting punched in the stomach because I teased a boy about his teddy bear on the school bus and insisted on touching it even after he said it would get my butt kicked.  I had the wind knocked out of me but the shock was most painful.  I remember walking home and the anger fell from my face in silent tears and shame.

In middle school I had more enemies than I knew what to do with.  I think it started as jealousy, but I was so not aware of anything related to my looks that I didn't know what to feel other than fear.  I was the last to leave the classroom after each period because I was afraid of getting jumped.  My looks were always given as you see them.  I still can't work with a curling iron and frequently see men in drag that deserve my girl card and breasts more than I do.  (Perks of not being afraid of a beautiful man is they will sometimes help you with makeup tips.) I will rarely spend more than $20 on any one item of clothing or accessories.  My designer purses are all gifts.  I'm loved.  Envy me. That same love showed up for me one day after school. I finally told my family what I was so afraid of.  The next day my sisters came to pick me up from school after drill team practice. They sent me to the car and went up to the drill team room where some of my biggest fans were.  I have no idea what was said or done.  I just know I was told to take a vacation for the rest of the semester.  The problems went away and there was talk about my sisters stepping out of line as the adults that came to my rescue when my teachers and administrators didn't.

Growing up I saw my Mom rage at my Dad, then pick up the pieces of their life and do what she could to take care of us and any other person who needed help. She's the most giving person I know.  There is something inside of her that she's given to me that has the ability to cut down the strongest tower.  For her, it is the ability to get up and do what survivors do.  For me, it's an ability to frame ideas that seek out the vulnerabilities that can be used to undermine a situation and tilt things in my favor. She has this fight that is full of strength and determination, but as a kid, it always came out as the phrase, "grab and twist."

I'll just leave that there a minute.

My Dad marched with Martin Luther King Jr.  He served in the Army during the TET Offensive in Viet Nam. Naturally, I grew up around his post traumatic stress and with a healthy dose of patriotism and respect for our vets. I know not to wake him abruptly because his fists rise before he does.  He's not a fan of fireworks and he taught me that time doesn't heal all wounds.  Work and perfect love do. You can't ignore or drown out your pain.  He never fought with Mom. She would rage, and he would stand quietly.  He didn't want to fight with her, and she needed a reaction.  Any reaction was better than feeling ignored.  It also taught me to work around a shaky temperament and I can dance on eggshells if I need to. That dance came in handy as a wife.

We learn a lot from our family of origin and sometimes we have to unlearn what we know.

I wasn't always an advocate.  For most of my youth I was self centered and obsessed with a good story and personal time. Fighting for someone else wasn't my thing because I didn't care if it didn't involve me, until it did involve me. When I had kids, and learned about autism is when I learned about  a good fight.

When we first married, we lived in the garage at my Mom's house.  It was converted and my project home.  I was learning plumbing basics and I was so proud of putting the trap in under the sink all by myself.  That was the first toilet I installed and it will be there forever because when I tiled the bathroom floor, I didn't know I was supposed to remove the toilet first.  It's grouted to the floor and it doesn't leak.  But a new toilet would require a new floor as well. Live and learn. When we moved into our first apartment it was perfect for our family of three.  When we were about to become a family of 5, it was time to move.  I expected part of our deposit back.  They tried to charge us a few thousand above that.  I looked into renter's rights.  I took them to small claims court and I won.

Later we moved and I started pseudo managing a property for my Mom.  She wanted a tenant evicted and I started and finished it.  In hindsight, I may have missed a few steps, but at the end of the day they moved out and it's not my fault they didn't search for loop holes. They would've found them. Now Mom gives and takes the responsibility from time to time, but I'm okay with that too. I usually have quite enough on my plate.

My kids have always been in public schools.  I was grateful that the free assessments set us on a path with Regional Center and the school district that started services and therapies we needed.  My kids didn't come with instructions.  Most people figure it out as they go and I'm in that boat, rocking and upchucking over the side and on the deck with the next person still finding those sea legs and just as annoyed that there is only one Head on deck and it's busy. It built up over years, but their behaviors were adjusted and worked around in the classroom to the point where we saw it as behavior that needed adjustments, and not the emotional neglect that my kids were suffering.  I was always involved.  I sat through classes.  I still know the voices of all of the principals and vice principals that have overseen my kids. At the end of the day, becoming a teenager is hard enough without sensory dysfunction and below average social and communication skills.  My son was taken from school by ambulance and put on a 72 hour 5150 hold.  Our constant vigilance at his side and his calm when with us got him released early.  He still had to endure being at that school for another 6 months until we were able to get him an emotional disturbance diagnosis and placement in a nonpublic school for autistic kids.  I had to write letters, follow up respectfully, document and keep on top of things. I've had to make calls to different departments and regions to see where I could rattle a few chains.  A couple of years later and my second child went through the same process.  A short while after that I would fight for compensatory hours and a refund of therapy co-payments and win with the help of an attorney that the district paid for me.

I'm also an In Home Support Services provider for my kids.  They have needs outside the scope of typical parenthood and the state recognizes this by  paying me and sending me W-2 forms at the end of the year.  My kids would need me to do what I do anyway so when the union started taking dues I had a problem with it.   It took a few months, phone calls, and even and affidavit but I got a check from them too.

I think the hardest fight is the one in which you decide early on that you don't want to give it your all.  It's when you pause to think about the repercussions instead of doing what you know comes next, instead of worrying about consequences you won't face.  It's when you decide to be gentle in your attack, setting yourself up for defeat, and knowing the road you are on is the high one. It's hard when people think they have you beat, but don't realize you haven't taken off your kid gloves and have been pulling punches because part of you still cares enough to want to protect them.

Hating Motherhood While Being In Love with Mothering Children

I can't tell you what kind of a mother I wanted to be because before I met my husband I didn't want to be one. My high school years included my parents and their journey as foster parents. I saw kids in foster care with more trauma in their lives than I have the right to imagine. Witnessing so much pain coming out as anger, hate and tantrums was really strong birth control. I saw that having kids wasn't all dress up and play time. I saw enough to know I wanted no part in that. It added to a messy soup of my trauma from the sudden (to me) destruction of my family. I saw my parents not talk for years and still live together and I couldn't understand what would change our functional dysfunction into not working and why my Mom would divorce my Dad. I get it now. As much as I love my Dad, and I do, I couldn't imagine ever feeling I wanted a husband like the one he modeled. I can see that same pattern in my own marriage now. I can see where I adopted my Dad's stoic indifference as my Mom railed out her frustrations and I would take my anger out on dishes and silence. I think of the ouroboros snake rather than irony. Irony alludes to humor and I see none when I look at my kids. A few hours ago I could hear my middle son rehearsing a made up conversation with his Dad and trying to make sense of what he has to work with now that most of his memories are impossible to see in the current changes in our family. Healing is a lot to ask for and I'm looking at it as an adjustment we'll all make. When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I was in a liminal space that was so beautiful I didn't want to see what was before it or what would come after it. I generally felt fine and infrequent bouts of morning sickness were distractions of novelty. I enjoyed the changes in my body and I remember we laughed as we explored the faint stretch marks that trailed across my belly as we marked week by week of his pregnancy. Even when I was bedridden toward the end and he wasn't growing steadily enough, I was in my own haven of life bearing. I was busy counting his taps and tapping him back. September 11th hit our nation in an attempt to strike fear in every home, and I was so focused on my husband's safety in downtown Los Angeles, that I didn't think far enough into the world to see that I would be sharing my child with it 15 days after the towers fell. It was a terrifying few weeks but early on I made a choice to not live in fear. A life of fear is hardly a life worth living.

Once he was born, I had to reconcile who I was with who I thought I should be. When I met my husband I was hanging out at pool halls, drinking with the guys and smoking 3 packs of cigarettes a day with a few cigars now and then. I was decidedly everything a mother shouldn't be. It took a while to discover there were a few things I could enjoy and things I wanted to let go of, but mainly I learned I couldn't blame my kids for my choice to have them, or hold them responsible for my choice to give up a few things for them. Joint custody has given me the space to be the mom they deserve when they're here, and the free spirit I crave to be can stay out of the house as often as I have been.

I remember his first birthday rolling around and I had the perfect outfit chosen for his party. I had no idea he was autistic then and how strong his sensory integration dysfunction was. I had a bad habit of taking him out of the tub and getting him dressed and then going back to drain the bathwater. It was after he was dressed that he climbed back into the water. I was so frustrated and angry and my upset only upset him into vomiting on himself. I already had my mother in law calling because we were running late and I was overwhelmed because he was climbing in the tub when I was telling her we were on our way.

I had our second child and his behaviors were almost the same as his big brother's. The differences were mild enough that I thought it was a personality variance. They were born 18 months apart and it wasn't until the older one was 4 that I asked for an assessment with the school district. We had an assessment and IEP on the same day and that afternoon we learned what autism is and that both of our sons had it. I remember right after the diagnosis I was at Kaiser and still pushing two kids in a double stroller. I was in a pediatrician's office and the boys were sick and being themselves. The doctor looked at me and said, "you poor woman. We have medication for this. You don't have to live like this." I sobbed into my hands at that moment while she stood uncomfortably, but quietly, affording me a rare moment to fall apart. After researching options I would later decide that the risks outweighed the benefits and I chose to medicate myself before medicating my kids unless they got to a point where they felt they were overwhelmed. Typically they're happy in their world, and it's others that are perplexed by their behavior.

With my youngest son's pregnancy I had the well meaning and quite invasive questions about my judgement in choosing to have a third child when we already had two with autism. It was during his pregnancy that I realized having children is a complete act of faith. With the stresses of a new child on a tight one parent income, I didn't always see the support I needed and I had to dig deep. I was very weak at times, even asking my OB doctor about late term abortions, which I had never believed in before. I realized having children is an act of faith in your partner and your commitment to a long lasting relationship that would see your children into adulthood. It's a physical expression of faith in a world that includes teachers, babysitters, family and friends that will all see and at times be alone with your child and it's faith that your child will live in safety with a protection that you can not see. It's faith that what has happened the first two times won't happen again and the blessings will outweigh the sacrifices. It's faith that I will be faithful in raising boys who will become men that will contribute to the world in a meaningful way and that my relationship with them will nurture men who will want to be the fathers and husbands their family deserves, rather than the one they might want to be as I find it a task of intention to push past my selfishness as a parent. I hope to one day nurture a servant's heart (as I'm still looking for it) and a spirit of generosity in them (that one I see when they ask if we can feed homeless people when we stop for fast food). I admit that the extended family, as a whole, only sighed in relief when the youngest was tested and found to not be on the spectrum. At that point our oldest offered to teach him how to be autistic. The baby has been hospitalized twice in his young life. The first time was for a near drowning. I didn't realize our firstborn had filled the tub to play with his toy Lego boat while he was home alone with their Dad or that the baby could climb into the tub at 8 months. My then nonverbal middle son (about 4 years old) saved his brother's life. The second hospitalization happened when he fell off the top bunk of their bunk bed. He was hospitalized for a few days for that concussion. I expect he will do great things in life. You don't survive trauma like that without having an indelible mark of destiny on your future.

My sons were born in 2001, 2003, and 2006. The following years saw surrogate journeys end in 2008, 2010 and 2012. I really loved being pregnant. Being a surrogate had more than monetary benefits. I was able to just enjoy the life growing inside of me. I went to my appointments with a cheering section that was there to celebrate and worry with me. Through my agency I was able to meet people I never would have encountered otherwise. I learned enough about fertility to understand the gift I had been given with irregular cycles and miracles on my side. After the first surrogate birth while my legs were still up in the air and I was in the glow of joy coming from the parents I had just gifted, I already knew I wanted to do it again. The last pregnancy was high risk. Being born is difficult enough. Usually we're all happy to see a wrinkled invalid that looks like it spent a few days being beaten up by a uterus. With each pregnancy, my body just seemed to know exactly how to shift and grow to accommodate the newest child. With the twins, my body had been through it five times before and decided it was at the right dimensions to start labor at 29 weeks. I was hospitalized to keep them in. I won't insult anyone's intelligence. There were extremely miserable moments. I held it together for the most part but it was difficult. It made me appreciate my kids when I couldn't see them every single day and just be with them. I felt like my choice to be a surrogate removed my freedom to complain. The agency and my couple were great about helping my husband at home, but I was so lonely during that time. I had this fear that I had to do everything perfectly or risk killing someone else's babies. That is a huge burden and in my hormone flooded state, I couldn't see how unreasonable I was being to myself. When they were born I would visit daily, then every few days to bring breast milk. When they left the hospital I felt relief and nausea. As amazing as my journeys were, I wasn't interested in another surrogacy and the agency wasn't interested in another high risk pregnancy.

In October 2014 my birth control pills gave me pulmonary embolisms. There's plenty of warnings in the fine print that comes with every pill pack. There's something about the level of hormones that triggers blood clot formation. I felt extreme cramps in my legs one night after walking a few miles that day. Later I had mild chest pain. It wasn't a big deal, except I typically didn't feel my chest, let alone pain from breathing. The doctor checking on me wasn't that concerned at first. He started with blood work that looked a little curious and followed up with an MRI. When he had the scan results he changed his posture and attitude from one that made it clear I was a hypochondriac to one where he sat down next to me and started looking me in the eye. I got it. It was serious. They couldn't release me or death would be their liability. I didn't really get how bad it was until the nurse hooked me up to the heart monitors and walked alongside me as I was rolled through the hospital to the cardiac intensive care unit. The nurses couldn't believe how casually I accepted the fact that sudden movements could dislodge a clot and I could have a heart attack or stroke. She was quite serious when she asked me to move slowly and freaked out when I wasn't moving slowly enough. I was hospitalized for a few days and on blood thinners for months and if I ever get pregnant, I would have to be on blood thinners and then reverse the medication for childbirth to prevent bleeding out. At the same time I can never go on birth control pills again. Hormones. When I start dating, there are many reasons a random test drive wouldn't be worth it. I still don't believe in abortion.

Believe it or not I'm more relaxed as a mom than I deserve to be. I wasn't at first. I've left kid parties early and never again spoken to mothers whose children treated mine badly. I've hovered in playgrounds as a barrier between my kids and anyone that would look at mine differently. It's not just playgrounds. There was one day at an In and Out in Laughlin a few years back when my son was being himself. A woman commented about his behavior and I apologized. After she watched us for a while she approached our table to apologize because she didn't know "there was something wrong with him." Clearly she missed the part where there was nothing wrong with his hearing. She left and I then had to apologize to my son for the ignorance of others. Now I will often try to let them sort out their own fights until I feel they absolutely need me involved. At least with each other. With strangers I'm still a fierce Momma Bear and I will cut you. Tonight kid1 had kid2 in a choke hold and kid3 was crying from kid2 punching him in the stomach. That required the Momster. Otherwise I listen until it can no longer be ignored. Usually if no one is dead, dying or has broken bones I'm good. I get cautious when I hear crying but it's that specific tone of crying that says there is pain or fear. That cry doesn't change from infancy. Mom radar is fine tuned for it and we have an ability to ignore most other noises, being hyper-aware when it becomes too quiet for innocent shenanigans.

We've had several conversations about all sorts of things. I write to find peace but I'm also a blabber. Usually this happens when we're in the car. They can't run away. I control the radio and there's no eye contact. We've talked about autism and what it means to our family. We've talked about divorce. We've talked about depression and suicide. We've discussed homosexuality. They know they'll always be loved and accepted no matter who they love. And yes, I talked to them about wet dreams and changing bodies, and individually I've had to talk to one about masturbation. This conversation happened in a closed bedroom. The first wet dream conversation was about 4 years ago. My oldest was 10. I wanted them to know it's a normal part of growing up. They don't have to say a word, just put soiled laundry where it goes and don't be afraid. I suppose moms with daughters have to have the period talk so their kids don't think they're dying. Lately my son's masturbation has been a problem because of his transparency. He's not great at hiding it and I'm not sure he even tries to. I told him private time with private parts should be private. I didn't want to body shame him when he's already othered from his contemporaries. I also suggested lotion might curtail injuries. It's not comfortable, but I know he has no problem talking to me and he felt relief after the conversation was over because in the end, it wasn't that bad.

I forget to take something out for dinner on many nights. Two to three loads of laundry a day will keep me from falling behind, but it doesn't save me from that special sweater that needs me to stay up a couple of hours on a Sunday night because they need it for school Monday morning. I do what I can without losing my calm and some things require them to compromise because I won't. Housework is not my friend when there are a million other things I need to do but on weekends when they're with me and I have nothing to do but listen to their sounds, it's relaxing to get a good scrubbing in. I realize they will talk like sailors if they think I can't hear them and my police patrols won't teach them to be the kind of adults I hope to raise. Homework frustrates me because I want to just give the answers. That was part of why teaching wasn't my calling.

I'm a mom. I'm a daughter and sister too. At the end of the day, I'm still trying to figure out who I am, but I know that the woman in the mirror is gorgeous and loved by the woman looking at her.