On the Eve of the Thirteenth, I'll eat the cupcake.

My son, Seamus, turns 13 tomorrow.
It is 5, in the morning, and sleep has long since evaded my body.  Instead, as a fine replacement, I am surrounded, by  the memories, of the life, that changed mine.
When I gave birth to this child, everything changed. The universe, gravity, my waistline. My life. Nothing would be the same. I became responsible  for another life. I couldn't back out now. He was here. And he was mine. There is nothing that can prepare you for that. The instant you look at the face, of the child, you carried for months and months, it begins. Love. Pure love. Nothing tainted with hurt, lies, love songs, break up songs, ice cream to see you through the sadness. Just love.
Infancy came and went. Those moments and milestones captured forever in my brain, in my heart. The toddler years ran through my life fast. Too fast. Then things changed. He grew. No more Thomas the Train, no more cute little boy things. They were swept away by life size Lego sets, video games, and the constant reminder that, this child, was growing up.  Watching him walk down his path was not always easy. He had to endure a father, who never showed him love-until Ben came, a mother who struggled as a single parent, being bullied, and learning to muddle through the mess of life. But, I also got to witness so much more. I was given a child whose heart compares to no one. He loves all, and gives all. His thoughtfulness and compassion amaze me. He is the greatest reminder that the world does not dictate the behavior. He has so much good in him. So much love. I have a son who will be thirteen tomorrow and he still hugs and kisses me goodbye. He still tells me he loves me, every single day. And I love him. To hold your baby in your arms is amazing. To slowly learn to put the baby down, and let him grow, on his own,  is unforgettable. I love him. It's that simple. I've spent so much, of these past thirteen years, trying to realize that this is real. I am a mother. The conditions of love don't exist. I can easily love without strings, without fear of that love leaving me. I have spent much of that time laughing, crying, doubting myself. It's not easy. And it's never done without fault. But it's done. It goes on. When raising children time doesn't crawl. It passes by us faster than sound. We adjust to it, as best we can. But, it's hard. To reach into the deep recesses of my mind, and try to remember that he was a baby takes a lot. At one time I held him close to my heart, in my arms. I did everything for him. And then, one day, it was gone. I couldn't  pick him up, I couldn't dress him, I couldn't rock him to sleep singing "Me and My Bobby McGee" anymore. He was too big. I didn't know what to do. His independence was the beginning of my dependence. I depended on him to call out for me. I longed for those times I was needed. And, although they didn't come, as often as before, they came. And I realized, I'm not losing him. He's not slipping through my arms, leaving me alone and wondering why he's not asking me to make him Mickey Mouse pancakes anymore. He's standing next to me, holding my hand, so that I can walk through his life with him. The size of my baby, has changed, but the love hasn't. I still tuck him in every night. I still get my "I love yous", I still get to be his mom. Nothing will change that. I'll always have that honor that was given to me. I'll always worry about him, I'll always wonder if I did enough. And,  I'll always know, that this is my son. My beautiful, tender hearted young man.
So.....on the Eve of  his thirteenth birthday, I sit here, writing this and eating one of  the cupcakes he asked me to make him. On the Eve of this thirteenth year, I sit here satisfied. My heart is content with knowing that, even though there were many things in life I could not give my children, there is one thing I could always give. Will always give. Love. The unconditional love that leaves you breathless. The same love that you need, as much as,  air. The same love that gets you through the toughest times, bringing you into a happiness that consumes every inch of you. I am a mother. I love unconditionally and I am loved unconditionally.
Happy thirteenth birthday, to the one who forever changed me. My son. My beautiful Seamus. My love for you is beyond measure. My joy at seeing the young man you have become is indescribable. I love you. There's not much to it than that. Loving you is, as easy as, breathing.

30 days of thankfulness, except for that nail in my foot.

Many people have listed, everyday, what they're thankful for. Truly I have enjoyed reading all the amazing things that people are blessed with. And, the simplicity of what gives us joy is a wonderful thing.
I have gone a different route. I'm combining everyday into one post. So here goes....
Now, obviously I'm thankful for the common things, God, family, my beautiful children, life, etc...
But, what I'd like to discuss are the things that we  sometimes overlook.
I'm thankful that one of my kids actually threw out that empty cereal box.
Thanks to the person, at Shaw's, who picked up that package of toilet paper I dropped. Truly they knew that skinny jeans are not good for bending over.
Blessing to you, kind sir, for reminding me that, yes, indeed, my children are a handful. Without people telling me this I might actually forget that parenting is not easy.
Cheers, Ben Graffam, for ripping up our kitchen floor, in preparation for the new one. Although, that friggin nail in my foot felt less than pleasant.
Kudos Gretchen, for informing me that, I do have a lot of gray hair, when my roots come in. Funny, I just thought it was a lighter shade of a non existent color.
And, yes Molly, I appreciate you telling me everyday that I have a butt for a gut. You know how I adore butt guts.
I'm thankful that every.single.day.of.my.life. I have one kid tell me that the supper is gross.
Thank you to the woman who cut me off at the store, forcing me to trip over a pair of shoes that someone left in the aisle. Which, in return caused me to bounce off of the bra rack. I love chain reactions.
And while we're at it....thanks to whichever kid left a slab of butter on the kitchen floor, which caused me to do the splits, and rip my favorite sweats.
Oh, and thanks for the 30 minutes a laughter that followed.
I'm very thankful for rice pudding. It's pudding with rice in it. What's not to be thankful for.
I'm thankful for the following-Netflix, Hulu, Pandora, and Candy Crush. All in that order.
A shout out to my friends, family included. Sometimes you annoy me, mostly I miss you, and always I love you. You should be thankful for that.
An exceptional thanks for the person who created Walmartians. If you don't know it, look it up. You'll be thankful you own a belt. Trust me.
Thanks to that1,000 year old dinosaur who pulled out in front of me and made me almost hit a squirrel. I firmly support the idea that you'll get yours!
Thank you Hallmark for playing Christmas movies 1 month before December starts. I look for new ways to torture my kids, and this was the jack pot!
Dearest Hazel, my true gratitude for you popping me in my eye with your Nunchuks. I loved watching people squirm when I told them I had pink eye.
Thank you, Molly, for telling your teacher that I wear pull up for my bogina. That was fun to clear up.
Thank you Seamus for being you.
Thank you Gretchen for never letting anyone fool you. And for also telling that boy that I was going to send a threatening letter to the principal, about him. I love threats. Threats are fun.
Thank you Molly for telling it how it is. You like me, you don't. You love me, but I smell weird. I get that.
Thank you Hazel for giving me a break from buying girl toys. And for seeing the faces on people when they find out that the kid behind the Batman mask is, indeed, a very pretty little girl.
Everyday I'm thankful for something. Be it funny, realistic, or humbling. Everyday I count my blessings, and thank my maker for them. I pray for those who aren't as blessed-atleast not in the same ways.
I'm truly thankful that life has brought me here. I love my family, even if, at times, we're completely dysfunctional, unconventional, and non conformal.
And finally what I'm most thankful for......Thanksgiving dinner.
C'mon you all know you are, too!
Happy Thanksgiving! May your bounty be full, your bird be fully cooked, your wine and beer be flowing, and your chocolate cream pie taste almost as good as mine.

Cheerleading through a tsunami.

Usually I blog about my children. After all, that's the main reason I started this blog. But sometimes a mama has to simply blog about herself. This is a very serious issue that I struggle with, and I thought I would share it. Only I'll add a pinch of humor and a dash of insanity, and call it me.
Anxiety. It's no joke. It takes over your life, and binds your happiness with unbreakable chains. It grabs a hold of you and consumes you with a paralyzing fear. It sends you running to the doctor's every time you get the hiccups, and has you running around your backyard, like you're a beheaded chicken. You find it hard to function and to cope, with any piece of reality, in front of you. Your heart races, you get dizzy, tingling, numb. And then you remind yourself what it is, and poof! It's gone! And this is me. My name is Carey Graffam, I'm 36 years old, and I have suffered 1,692 heart attacks, 963 strokes, 836 aneurysms throughout my body, and countless other illnesses and diseases.....in my mind. On the outside, usually, I look completely normal. On the inside I look and act like Stuart Smalley taken hostage by the Grim Reaper. Sure I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it people like me. But, what does that even matter? My impending doom is lurking around the corner. I have a helpless feeling of gloom. And I succumb to it constantly. I'm like Eeyore on steroids. I don't have a rain cloud over my head. I have a massive tsunami hanging over me, and at any moment...BAM! It's going to wash me into the abyss of pulse and circulation checking. Why am I this way? Who knows. I have had more testing than a rat in a cosmetic's lab, and yet I'm never satisfied. And that's only because these doctors, who have gone to school for years, and treated people, for even more years, know absolutely nothing. Obviously. I mean seriously? You can't even diagnose that, not only do I have heart disease corroding my heart, but I also have 18 forms of cancer? I am a proficient at this. I know what I'm talking about. I have read millions of Yahoo questions and answers, and have diagnosed myself on WebMD for alot longer than these people have been doctors. Those 30 echo-cardiograms mean nothing to me. I know what I feel....I'm feeling it, dammit! I am the poster child for hypochondriacs anonymous. If it's out there, I feel it. I can't even skim the newspaper, and see an article for heart medication without getting palpitations. This is my life. It's frustrating and hilarious at the same exact time. Because the truth is that I am a perfectly healthy woman, which is the frustrating part. And I work myself up, for absolutely no reason, and make it so bad, I'm crawling on my hands and knees telling my son to call for an ambulance-and the sad part....they know me by name. So, at this point, I have decided that I should be laughing at this. Why not. I am who I am. I am that woman who goes to the store, gets sweaty hands, and has to look in the mirror to a) check her pupils for dilation, and b) pep talk herself down. I have become my own cheerleader. "You're okay Carey! You are wonderful and healthy! You got this girl! You got this!" I am me. I am the 40 million who suffer from this debilitating disorder. Will it ever change? Who knows. But one thing that I do know....I am like almost every other person in the room. But the difference is that I can laugh about it, while checking my heart rate. I can smile while paralyzed on my entire left side. And I can cope, because I'm smart enough, I'm beautiful enough, and gosh darn it people like me.

It's Blue Autism Molly Mom.

If God came to me and said "Carey would you change the course of your life?" I would say "No. But thanks for asking." And this is true. Life has brought me here, there, and many places I never really wanted to go. But, most of all, life has brought me here. So here I am, in Wells, Maine with 4 children I adore and a husband who I love completely. We have the ups, the downs, and the all arounds. And on this day in particular we have Molly.
Everyone of my children is something extraordinarily beautiful to me. I love them all with complete heart and soul. Which is how it should be. I favor none and I love none less. But with the simplicities of this natural occurrence comes the complexities of individually loving each one of them in a very special way. I am a pure mama bear who will protect each one of them to my death. And when action is called for protection I will pounce right on it. I have marched into the principal's office with my guns ablazing and my flags flying high protesting bullying, and ridicule of my children. I have fought the world and the cruelities it brings against children in general. And I have made conscience decisions to do whatever it takes to teach my children life lessons and be there for them to help cushion the blow when something hits them hard. So I would never take this journey of life down a different road. I am satisfied with the things I have and I am satisfied knowing that life will always be a roller coaster ride. Molly, on most days, seems to be the conductor of this ride. With Molly a dull moment would gladly be accepted, but will always fall short of making it to my doorstep. Molly reminds me every single day why parenting is the hardest job of all. She is a significant source of stress and impractical tears. But she is Molly. My Molly. The autistic barrel of cannonball fun. She rolls into town riding on the winds of chaos and leaves your town in reckless abandon. And you will always welcome it back. With loving eyes fixated on you she will make you question your own sanity, forgetting that sometimes she has lost hers, as well. So on this day I welcome her wholeheartedly to continue being her. I welcome back the everyday mundane repeats. I wait for them to come. And they always do. I wait every morning for Molly to say to me "Molly Mom where's Gretchen?" And to reply "She's at school, Molly." Only to have her correct me with "No Molly Mom she's at school her Mrs. Brown's class." And this will be repeated on the hour every hour until Gretchen has returned to us. In her mind she knows that this reassurance needs to be fulfilled in order to make life continue. In my mind I'm thinking "Polly the parrot has nothing on me." But if this is what she needs then this is what I will give to her. She is my color blue. She is my constant companion in the battle to make people understand that these children are special, but not in the institutionalized way. They are special in the way that makes everyday a new day. They may not act like we expect them to, they make not talk like we want them to. And that's fine with me. I  declare myself bilingual, because I can not only speak English, I can speak autism as well. Molly's autism. When she asks for her red I know just what to get. And when she asks for her one I know just what she wants. And when the ignorance of people has taken its toll on me for the day, and when she sees me crying and asks "Oh no Molly Mom you okay?" I know exactly what to say to her. "Absolutely."  In this moment I will always be okay.
On this day when you wear your blue make sure you know exactly why you're wearing it. It's not just a color to symbolize a day. It's a color to symbolize the fight that we all go through for our children. No matter how young or old they are. No matter their abilities and disabilities. We will always wear our colors to show the most important thing of all. These are our children and we love them for who they are and what they mean to our lives. So today when I wear my blues I will have the constant sound of Molly in my ear saying to me "It's blue autism Molly Mom." And as I grin and remember how she woke me up at 5 am screaming to find her pirate's hat my reply will simply be "You bet your sweet little cheeks it is, kiddo."

In the absence of being there is a hole in my shoe.

Through the course of my life I have learned several lessons. The first and most important one being that someone will always be there for you even when you think no one is around. The second one I learned is that someone will always try to find a way to disrupt the balance in your life even without the knowledge of doing so. And the third I learned is that if you put a sandwich bag on your foot when you have a hole in your shoe you will be just fine walking in treacherous weather. Which translated means no matter what people throw at you, you can block it from interfering with your life. Plus your foot will stay dry. People are rude, thoughtless, ignorant, and just plain ridiculous. Now granted I can be a savage beast when provoked, i.e. eating the last kit kat bar and not telling me, cutting me off just to NOT go any faster...you get the point. But of the many things I do, one thing I do not do is throw nasty insults at a child. That's right.....you knew this was coming. Take for instance my little Miss Molly. My dramatic, karasmatic, tumultuous bundle of everlasting joy and everlasting hysteria. It comes as no shocker that she is a screaming demon in the body of a four year old, and it's also no surprise that she is as much "normal" as she is autistic. I know this child like I know a good chocolate cream pie recipe. To a T. Which is why I know that this particular child is beauty incarnate not  just by the way of looks, but by the sweetness of her soul. This very soul belonging to that of a four year old. A baby. A child who has roamed this earth for a mere four years. So it makes me sit here and wonder over and over how an adult can be so cruel about a life so small. How can someone who has wandered this earth for over 3 decades look at a little life and remark in a way that is not only disgusting, but borderline astounding. As an adult shouldn't the "Been there, done that" scenario apply? I guess I have either grown too naive, or I just expect too much from people. I have gone through a journey with a child who just started to talk a year ago. I have walked hand in hand with a child who, to this very day, is still grasping to understand something she doesn't but everyone else does. I do not excuse her behaviours with the constant plea deal "Sorry officer, she would have known not to set Burger King on fire, but she's autistic." I do excuse her behaviours when she is genuinely afraid of someone or something and she cries. Because this is not just an autistic thing this is also a child thing. So have I grown partially insane in my thirties when I question why an adult-a child who has grown for many, many years- is caught by this child's siblings saying something disgusting? Have I become too sensitive or too soft when I get not only spitting angry but saddened when I'm told by two children not over the age of ten that they were heartbroken when they heard a grown man talk horribly about their sister? I am baffled how a grown-up, who is not only family, but a "doctor" in the making can sit there in earshot of an 8 year old and a 10 year old and say-about a child who was THREE at the time- "All that fucking child does is fucking cry. Well isn't that fantastic. Here I am struggling to help guide this child through the aisles of Walmart without some 41 year old woman still wearing her Tweety Bird pajama pants remarking about what a monster that kid is, when I have the same nonsense hitting home harder than I thought. So on goes the sandwich baggy, because you may see a pain in the ass child who only cries, but I see so much more. I see a timid yet fearless contradiction who will cry, and kick, and scream at you and then turn around and tell you that she loves your beautiful shirt. So I, the woman formerly known as mom to my daughter and now known as Molly Mom, will let the world have its gluttony of  visciousness. Far be it for me to make someone else feel like they've done something wrong when really all they were doing was being honest in completely ripping apart a child. Who am I to make that person feel upset for this heinous lack of judgement when, mostlikely, all they were doing was trying to feel better about themselves. This is the new world order. Feel bad about the way you look in the mirror? No problem. Just go up to a 9 year old boy at McDonald's and tell him those french fries make him look fat. And I know I have the rantings of an 80 year old alcoholic woman who was once a broadway star, but isn't the way of the world suppose to be this way? Aren't we as parents supposed to get protective over our children? There is no way on God's beautiful green earth I would feel anything less than hostility towards a person who shreds his filthy claws into not only her back, but mine as well. I have four beautiful children. Children who are not perfect, but children who envelope my life with love. These four children encase my world everyday with nothing but reasons for knowing that life is purely amazing with each one of them in it. They are all different. They are the tenderheart, the brainiac, the warrior, and the adventurer. And they are mine. So maybe I would be more insane and more naive for believing that the ravings of an insignificant being mattered in this chaotic, nonstop, beautiful world of mine.

Could I have a side of cold to go with that stare?

So I guess since Autism Awareness month is wrapping up it's best to get my "I have an autistic daughter" post done now. Which is wonderful, because I love the chance to write about what a spectacular being she truly is. I mean, of course, all of my children are wonderful and amazing, but Molly has that itsy-bitsy, extra dose of  "zing".
To quickly recap: When Molly was two I knew something was off. I'm a mother, so how could I not know. Well I did know. And after talking with Ben and observing her we both decided to have her "looked" at. After several different opinions and a bunch of tests the end result was that Molly was a high-functioning autistic child. So immediately we got her help and she started school. And since placing her into this school we have seen a tremendous difference. Not just with her speech, but with her social skills and her self restraint. Well most of the time anyway. With Molly you can't walk up to her and start asking her questions or hope to have a conversation with her. She doesn't grasp that, yet. Molly will talk on her own terms and she will say what she wants to say and not what you're hoping she will say. She is no puppet and we certainly are not her puppet masters. And I'm hoping this strong suit stays on her through life. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting things your own way. However, since everything is on Molly's terms the mere suggestion that you might want to help her and direct her can set off an atomic meltdown. You must be a fool to think she would want the Finding Nemo underwear-or as she calls them underwams- when what she wants are the blue underwams. And who are you to try to help her brush her hair when she is more than capable of creating an even bigger rat's nest than before. We are foolish in our attempts and blinded in our efforts. This child is no dummy. This child knows how to eat her pancakes. Of course she knows that first you eat the cup of butter on top of them, then you eat the syrup, and then you pick up the whole pancake and you eat it. But, for us simple minded bumkins we are dumb enough to not know that this is how these pancakes were meant to be eaten. Which is the hard way we found out while out to breakfast the other day with my mother in law, sister in law, and all of our children. And so, my nurturing husband thought he was being a good dad, when he touched the pancakes, that set the mood from a glorious, sunny morning to a grey-sky, filled hurricane. The touching and directing of this child's pancakes changed her from a happy and silly little girl into an uncontrollable, angry, screaming child. Now we knew why she was screaming and having a fit. We knew that it wasn't because she is a spoiled brat who wants it her way. We clearly knew that it was because this screaming child is an autistic child. But the patrons around us did not. We could feel the burning of eyes on our backs. The cold air of under the breath remarks, about this screaming brat, filled the room. We get this everywhere. We get it at restuarants, we get it at stores, we get it everywhere. Even if I try not to let it bother me, any insignificant human could tell you that, it not only bothers them, but it hurts. The exterior armor doesn't always protect the inside suit. On the outside it may seem like I'm cool and collected, but on the inside I'm falling apart. What parent wouldn't be. I read an article this morning about a mother of an autistic child hearing a woman call her child a monster. A monster. Not a brat, but a monster. A word associated with creatures from the underworld, vampires, werewolves, killers, etc... And although I have never heard this word flung at my child--and I pray for the person who ever did say it, because undoubtedly rage would take over my body--I have heard remarks and I have seen face to face the cold hearted looks. These children are not monsters. These children are not brats. These children are our children. This child is MY child. My child that I carried for 9 months. This child that I sang to, read to and talked to while in my womb. This beautiful, bright eyed angel that I brought into this world. She is not a brat and she is no monster. She is a child living in a world that doesn't ride on the same tracks as she does. She is a 3 year old trying to figure out how to make her parents, her family, and everyone else around her understand what she needs. She can not, for the most part, form the words to tell us what she needs. What she can do is scream to let it out. Scream because something has upset the balance in her sensitive realm and her brain won't allow her to tell us what it is. I remember one day at the store I had a cashier ask me what was wrong with her and then ask me if she was getting help. Getting help. Like she is a savage beast who needs therapy and restraint. As if her screams were formed from nucleur gasses that could potentially level the whole store into a 3 foot high surface. I admit that I told her what was "wrong" with Molly. And normally I don't. For several reasons. The first reason being that I don't feel I owe anyone an explanation as to why my 3 year old toddler is pitching a hissy, and the second, even without autism, isn't that what many 3 year olds do? I've seen children practically 10 years old throwing tantrums and why?? Because they're children! I'll never get used of how immature, undisciplined, and ignorant adults can be. When you're staring at a screaming 3 year old and mumbling who, in this situation, is the real monster? It's not too hard to figure out. But with all of this social misery comes alot of joy and alot of satisfaction. The amazing sound in my ears when hearing my 3 year old finally call out Mommy. In seeing her finally be able to get her pajama's on by herself. Feeling the warmth and love from this child as she grabs my face to kiss my cheek. She is no monster. She is no brat. She is beauty at its finest and love at its grandest. She is that ray of sunshine that catches my eye, on a cold and rainy day, when she comes in the room with her bathing suit on, a witch's hat on her head, and sunglasses on her face and she starts singing "Someday my prince will come."  And while she is waiting for her prince to come I'm enjoying every moment I have with her. Every single moment be it happy, sad, angry, or downright unbearable. I'm not just watching this child grow and learn. I'm watching her sift through the vines of life to find her own path. She doesn't need to be guided and directed. She just simply needs a hand to hold, so that the person she's walking with, can see the amazing world this child has created for herself and everyone around her. She is no monster. She is no brat. She is a beautiful, thoughtful, and loving child who just happens to be autistic.

Carey Graffam to the front of the class, please.

When you're pregnant people give you so much advice. "Don't hold the baby too much so as not to spoil", "Put a mitten over their hands so they won't learn to suck their thumbs in infancy", etc...as you know the list goes on and on. Most advice is brainless, some of it is downright ridiculous-see advice quotes above. But all in all we take it in stride with a dash of salt on the side. There are many things, however, people don't tell you. Mostly how labor will be as traumatic as Vietnam flashbacks, and how, once our babies are born, we leave the hospital with our babies, our bags, and our hearts in the tiny little hands of these angels. One of the biggest things, that fails to be mentioned, is that, as they grow and become more of who they are and what they will become the fear and anxiety grows, too. I'm on baby number 4. The scale of this fear and anxiety ranges from a little twitch watching the baby hold on to the couch hoping she doesn't fall backwards and hit her head, to sleepless nights because the oldest child is not adapting in the world he was born into. There was a time when I could hold his hand and know that if I let go the training wheels were still on to protect him. But now, with the training wheels gone, I have to fumble through the mind of a 10 year old boy hoping that I don't stumble as I blindly guide myself through. Sure I can tell him what's fair and unfair, I can tell him what's right and what's wrong, but most importantly I can rest my head at night knowing that this beautiful boy will make a difference to someone in this world. I won't force my hopes and dreams, of what I think he should become, on to him. We all aspire to make these daydreams of our children being presidents, world saving doctors, even superheros come true,  but in reality most of them won't be any of these. It doesn't mean, as parents, we have failed to engrave the book of knowledge and morals in their minds. It simply means that we got out of the daydream knowing fully well, that even if only one life was changed by them, it would certainly be more than enough. But unfortunately we can't always control the world around them. No amount of bubble wrap can cushion some of the blows that lay in waiting for them. So, as a mother, it makes my heart skip a beat when I hear the world is being cruel to this adoring, caring little man. This child of mine who, since the very first second my eyes were laid on him, stole not only my heart, but everything that came with my life. When I felt him in my arms for the first time, it seemed, as though, the galaxies lined up in perfect formation. I have watched this son of mine grow from a beautiful baby, to a respectful and loving child. So then how? How could this world that I chose to bring him into treat him so unfair? Am I really to believe the old story lines that the good finish last? That the ones who are nice lose the race? I refuse. As painful, as it is right now, knowing that while I am here plucking out my heart strings with every click on this keyboard, my beautiful child is walking alone on the playground watching the other kids play, I will not let that change him. If I have to carry him on my shoulders until my spine is twisted and my knees are completely worn out, I will. Over the past few days I have had a hard time dealing with the news that barely a handful of children in his school are nice to him. To have my child tell me that no one will play with him at recess, so he plays basketball alone or just walks around is heart wrenching. I was told, by him, that when he plays basketball and other kids want to play, he is told to "get lost." So what am I to do? I certainly can't go down there and beat up some kids. And as much as I want to call the parents and say "great job raising that one" I can't. Why? Because that would get me nowhere, and would make it twice as worse for him. So instead, when everyone is alseep, I saturate my pillow with all the sorrows that come with my child growing up, and all the joys of remembering how earlier that night my son came up to me and said "It's okay mom. I only let the ones who love me affect my life, and the ones who hurt me I pray for them." And now I realize that we can tell our children that the world is a cruel place. Or, we can simply trust that they know that, even though life knocks you down from time to time, it's the way you hold your head high while picking yourself back up, that matters the most. All this time I have spent trying to teach my child the facts of life when in reality I was the one sitting in front of the chalkboard being instructed, and I never even knew I was there.