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.

A soothing hand can cure all.

My day is full of challenges. In part because I have children, and also in part, because I have a very challenging 3 year old. She challenges herself, she challenges me, and she challenges anyone who comes in contact with her. Don't get me wrong, I'd love this personality trait, if that were the reason. But it's not. Her challenges come with the genetic makeup of her mind, body, and soul. She is fearless, she is strong minded, and she is persistant. This is who she is. With or without the 'A" word.  The "A" word just supersizes it. And at some point everyday it will break me down, alittle. It's stressful, as a mother, to not know what your child is trying to say to you. Her lack of communication skills are even more stressful for her. Imagine being in a world where the people around you, including your own mother, don't know what you're trying to tell them? To watch her behaviour and not know her would certainly, to anyone around, look like that of a bratty 3 year old. Of course, what makes this worse, is that she doesn't even look like a 3 year old. She looks like the 5 year old who ate the 3 year old on the playground. Even close family, for that matter, look at her and think she's just throwing a tantrum. But her mind is woven into this complex bundle of wires that is programmed different from mine, yours, and ours.
Everyday, while trying to get her ready for school, something will trigger her. This makes it impossible to carry on in the process of getting dressed, getting packed, and jetting off to school. So, of course, today was no different. We were on the right track. She got herself dressed, and even went, as far, as to put her snowpants on. Then progress stopped. When it came time to get her boots on she went crazy-for lack of a better word. Here I am for 20 minutes trying to do all I can to get this child to put the other boot on. I wrestled the boot on, and the boot went flying off. Finally it got to the point where my eyes filled up with tears. So I walked away. I let the supermom personna come in to play. How dare us let our children see us cry. It's forbidden, as a parent, to let them see us upset. To bring the uneasiness of weakness into a situation that is already unable to be controlled. We are not everyday mothers. We are in the elite status of supermoms. But today that personna of supermom was ripped away from me. Unintentionally, of course. I walked away into the other room with my fist balled up into my mouth, so that I could scream and break down without my child knowing this. The protection of our children can sometimes be the one thing that unprotects them. After a while of the pity party, the crying, and the questions of "Why? Why everyday?" "Why do we have to go through this everyday?", I decided to compose myself, slip back into my superhuman costume, and forge on. I went back into the room and there was my child still tugging at her boot, until finally I threw my hands up, and gave in. The boot was taken off. I thought Molly would go running and make this into a game of defiance. But I was wrong. Completely. When the boot came off my child grabbed it, put it in my hand, and coaxed it so I could see what was troubling her. The inner sole had shifted causing a huge rift in the bottom. So the problem was fixed. And the child calmed down, and went and sat on my lap, and rested her tiny little head on my shoulder. And as I hid myself behind a curtain of her hair I started to cry. And as I sat there crying, while she was sniffling, and releasing the last few tears she had to offer, she slipped her soft, warm little hand into mine. And in the warmth of this innocent little hand I realized something. She is not like me. She is not afraid to show me that she is sad, or angry, or troubled. Her trust lies completely in me. While I am waving the cape on my back to show that my superhuman abilites can not be faultered, this little babe came to me unarmed with no mask, and no shield. And in that instant I became mom. Not supermom, not the perfect mom, just mom. That guard I put up to shield my child was easily destroyed by the simple warmth of that soothing little hand in mine.

Pie at 2 am is fine if you wear gray socks.

Today I got an opening glimpse of what the teenage years will be like for Gretchen, my very strong minded, sassy mouthed 7 year old. I pick her up from her friend's house, and now all of a sudden everything in her room is "so last week." Yeah sure. Want to know what's so last week? The headache I have had since becoming a mother. Now it's come to my attention that this child is not only getting ready for the teenage years, but she's also getting ready for the marriage/motherhood years. Hence her putting her 3 year old sister in time out. A year ago she wanted a bunk bed. So, a bunk bed was bought, and painted, with love, by her father. Today after leaving her friend's house I hear her in her room complaining that she wants a bed on the floor. This wonderful top bunk that she has dubbed her "office space" is now last week's newspaper. Useless. One night over a friend's house and I get stuck with a menacing side show version of an HGTV program. "The room is too small." "These curtains are too long and white for this small room." "Why do I have to share my room with a 3 year old?" The simple answers of "Well because it's her room, too" just don't seem to connect with the enigma that is a 7 year old girl's brain.  So here we are at 4:30 in the afternoon, with a child who insisted 4 hours ago to redo her room, because the room like this just isn't serving its purpose. Apparently this room has so much potential to be unlocked and discovered that this child decided to take it all apart. Now hey, I'm all for inspiration and taking matters into your own hands, but now we have a 7 year old who is done with this project, because a new project has come to mind. Apparently this project involves markers, a big piece of paper, and an image of what she would look like as a mermaid eating a cheeseburg. And now what is to become of this bedroom project and the 7 year old redecorator from hell? The bedroom will be finished by the mature and smart parent and the 7 year old will now try to "Picasso" up a mermaid eating a cheeseburg picture. And at some point tonight the house will resume into a less hostile environment. And the 7 year old who threatened her brother with her hand out and the following quote "See this hand? You will feel it one day", will hopefully passout from designer's remorse. Throughout the day and evening this place is a madhouse. A zoo. This house, that is used by other neighbors as a threat of "if you don't behave I will send you to THAT house over there." But at 2 am, while wearing my nice and quiet gray socks, I can get away with peace and pie.

I fought in the war, but the toothpaste won.

I tried. I really did try to help this child. And, as most of you already know, I'm referring to my beautiful, autistic 3 year old. I will try not to mention the "A" word too many times, because I don't want it to define who she is. She, herself, defines who she is. So back to where I was. The dear child wanted to brush her teeth. However, I was not allowed to help. I am NEVER allowed to help. When the pajama's are being put on backwards, and she's rolling around screaming as if they were poisonous I am not allowed to help.  When she wants a glass of chocolate milk, and refuses to let me help, and the chocolate powder gets dumped into her cup like an elderly woman addicted to Metamucil, I am not allowed to help. And so today when she decided to randomnly brush her teeth, you guessed it, I was not allowed to help. So here we are in the kitchen together. Me, watching her squeeze half a tube of toothpaste onto her brush, and her, completely missing the brush. And where does the toothpaste end up? On the floor, of course.  So here I am watching this toothpaste hit the floor, and decide that it's time for a mother's helping hand. Which was not well recieved. Immediately the outreach of my hand to grab the tube sent Molly into a frenzy. A frenzy that ended with this 3 year old slipping around on the kitchen floor that was covered in toothpaste. But, does she give up? Does she surrender to the paste and move on to more important things like Special Agent Oso and a cookie? Of course not. She forges on. And, while squirming on the toothpaste infested floor, she manages to get the toothbrush into her mouth. And, alas, the toothbrushing was accomplished. So, in the end, I fought the war, but the toothpaste won.