Owls

I recently saw a cartoon by autistic people depicting themselves as Owls forced to function in the daytime. How the light was bright in large eyes and the hustle and bustle of the day was confusing and scary and so loud to acute hearing. The environment was such that it was impossible to function as they were designed. They could not simply be Owls.
We, as adults, often forget what it was like to be kids. We get so preoccupied with how things are “supposed” to operate that we often go into “fix it” mode, rather than “understand it” mode. Perhaps if we took some of the time we spend worrying about things and applied it to getting in someone else's shoes thinks would “operate” much more smoothly, because our perspective on “supposed to” would change.
We fail to recognize that the lonely, overwhelmed, “small” feeling we dismiss as anxiety is our body reminding us how it was to be a kid- insecure and trying to find where we fit in this crazy world. In the years I have been a parent and those spent working with small children, I have made a conscious effort to remember this perspective. But I have no capacity to fully understand the perspective of my son who lives on the autism spectrum. Though the “small, where do I fit?” feeling is probably universal, no matter our age or wiring. But recognizing how to hear and communicate that feeling with my son is difficult.
My son is a “ranter” and a “raver”. He hates to “cry”. He does not like the sensation of tears coming from his eyes. I think it embarrasses him on some level when he can't make them stop. But He will holler and yell and pretend cry if he falls down or isn't getting his way. It's a learned response that he believes is an appropriate way of communicating “I am sad” or “I am hurt”. He will also speak up when he is trying to control something he does not understand and is trying to make it fit into his world. But Sometimes he simply acts out and he doesn't understand why. And he doesn't act out because he LIKES it, but because He simply does not know what else he's supposed to do.
The other day he came home from school and told me, “ I got in trouble today again Mom. I grabbed [my teacher] and got sent to the office.” I went through the whole, “Do we grab our teacher when we are angry?”, and “Do you like being sent to the office?”. In retrospect, those are incredibly stupid questions. The answers are both “NO” and “NO”. Do I really think he doesn't KNOW that? When I ask “Why did you feel like you had to grab your teacher?” the answer is “I don't know”. I have come to understand that “I don't know” means “I don't know how to answer your question”.
Later, after sitting quietly and reading for a time, he said, “Mom. I don't like getting in trouble.” He tried to look at me, but the tears came. He quickly looked away and rubbed his eyes.
I can't know what it's like to be him and feel how he feels and navigate this world with his challenges. But I totally know how it is to feel completely misunderstood; to not be able to explain what is going on inside me; to look at the place I think I might fit and not like it. I can identify with that. And It Sucks. It's a little bit like an owl, trying to function in the daytime.

Facing the The Winter of our Discontent

This is what you would call a “first world problem”. In light of tragedies and injustices internationally, this really is a silly, insignificant “annoyance” rather than a PROBLEM. But, then again, Is it? In any case, I know that my marriage is strong enough to survive this trying time, but it will require quite a bit of creativity and getting out of our comfort zones. I'm speaking, of coarse, about the NBA Lockout.
I am traditionally NOT a sports fan. My general view on sports as an industry and our country's preoccupation with it is not favorable. But this is not that particular rant. So I'll save my takes on corruption in our higher learning institutions, and how it's illegal to do to animals what we do to fighters and football players....blah blah blah....Like I said, this is not THAT particular rant.
It's not even a rant about the Lockout and who's right or wrong. Which Gazillionares are greedier, the owners or the players or the agents or the lawyers? I think everyone can agree that it's the fans and the individual communities whose economy's are dependent on Basketball Games being played to operate who are the losers. And I find it absolutely insulting and distasteful that each side is using that fact in an attempt to manipulate the other to cave. At this point, as an American, I'm actually surprised the government has not stepped in subsidize these Gazillionares so both sides get their money and the local economy doesn't go in the toilet. OH WAIT! They already used that money to bail out banks and Car companies. Sorry, NBA, you tanked too late! (Don't I keep saying, “It's not THAT rant”?)
No. As is typically the case, my complaint is purely self centered.
When my husband and I met, it was truly corny “Love at First Sight” type stuff. An honest case of the near audible voice of God telling each of us, “That is the person you are going to spend the rest of your life with”. We became attracted to each other in every possible way- physically (I'm mean, we're totally hot. Who wouldn't be?), Spiritually, Intellectually (which had to take A LOT of searching on his part, because I was never the sharpest bulb in the shed). But outside of our Faith, we really only had one thing in common, and that was our love of Music. But we wanted to know and share everything about each other, so that it opened our worlds to so so many new things and ideas. Some things we just learned to “tolerate” but others, we learned to actually enjoy. He accepted Pink Floyd into his catalog, and I, Metallica. I developed a fondness for Hash Brown Casserole, and he, sushi. He discovered an inner liking for Disneyland, and I, the NBA.
I lived in Houston in '93-'94 during the Rockets run. I found myself, much to my surprise really getting into the action of the game. I quickly dismissed it as bandwagonning sensationalism, and didn't pay any attention to Basketball until I hooked up with Tony Green. I found, again to my own amazement, watching the '98 Finals and actually come OUT OF MY SEAT as MJ dominated the game between taking breaks to vomit in the locker room.
Music, sadly, has filtered out of my life. Without a performance outlet for it, I sort have become bitter and really don't even listen to it much anymore. And Tony, who lived guitar every day, now has other priorities.
So, We had Basketball. He, a “Die Hard, Faithful even in the Del Harris years”, Laker Fan. Myself, a “whomever is playing against that Laker's to annoy my husband, except Miami” fan. I came to really enjoy watching certain players play, and others, I liked their off court personalities. I found myself listening to Sports Radio (of all things!) just to learn more about the game and the culture of basketball. I started watching 4th quarters of playoff games, to watching the entire playoffs, to watching The All Star Weekend Festivities, to actually being excited in the fall for Thursday nights when I'd get to see my friends, EJ, Kenny, and Chuck. (Well, Okay. Just really EJ and Chuck.). My husband and I ended up with the closest thing to a “shared hobby” we'll ever get. We had this new thing to talk about, where I could ask questions without feeling like I'm annoying him.
Now, a season without Basketball, and what to do? I really have ZERO interest in Historical Presidential Biographies, and while he DID read the Harry Potter Series, He's draws the line at Twilight (aside from watching the first film for Mocking purposes). I suppose it's a new challenge. Keepin' it fresh. Being Creative and Consciously making as effort rather than relying on the status quo.
But I'm still going to miss Taunting my husband about Mike Brown.

Post- Potter Depression

Well......I guess that's it. It's not really an “empty” feeling- just a final one. I suppose when the book series ended, I still had the films to look forward to, the interpretation of which to speculate and scrutinize upon. Now, it truly is a closed book. There's nothing new to discover. No new perspectives to be gained. How ridiculous to grieve a fictional world, but grief, like a lump of wet concrete is what is sitting in my stomach (along with half digested popcorn kernels). But with this type of grief, there's no element of hope or a “better place”. It's like when the road comes to the end and there's nowhere else to go- just a big blank wall in front of you.
Is this a taste of how it feels for people who don't believe in an afterlife? You come to the end and there's not even a dark chasm to stare into? Just “Nothing”? THAT IS SAD.
I know it sounds like I'm taking Harry Potter WAY too seriously, or death WAY too lightly, and to those who find offense at the comparison, I am truly sorry (however, if you know me, I'm sure you just assume the former). But, truthfully, I really could never even conceive of the concept of “the end” before, and I'm starting to understand it just a little bit. I never fully appreciated what vastly different experiences death is for people without Hope.
My husband's mother passed away a couple weeks ago. We are going through our stages of denial, anger, sadness....etc...But our brand of grief has never been for an “ending”, but for a different sort of “continuing”. We don't grieve for her. We grieve for US. We are the ones who have to make the adjustments to a life where she is now physically absent; where I get a pang when I can't get the right amount of cinnamon in the coffee grounds the way she did, so we could sit in the breakfast nook at her round table and just chat and sip our yummy coffee. But I have never had to consider her “gone”. She has passed out of the phase of being from having to trust God for the answers into knowing His answers were always there; from having to overcome doubts and make the choice to rest in Hope, to today basking in knowledge, satisfaction, and the completion of being in the Presence of Her Lord.
As a recipient of her love, I truly feel a sprinkling of that excess joy her spirit is now saturated with. A joy in knowing she is not limited to our memories of her, but is currently thriving. A joy that my body can not contain, so I HAVE to cry in order to let it flow, because if I don't, if I just “stuff it”, it will cease to be joy. Joy must be active and growing. Joy that is choked and cut off will become bitterness, and bitterness will ERODE what Hope we do have. How people live without Hope or experiencing the fullness of God's love for us I just don't know. I suppose it explains a lot about the current condition of humanity.
So, I am left with the words of Albus Dumbledore, “Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.” Who would have ever guessed that living with Harry Potter for the last decade or so would have increased my compassion and for Lost people? I guess my question now is : What is my responsibility to inspire those people to experience Hope, accept Love, and license joy in their lives? And by what vehicle can I most effectively put that into practice? Well, if I need ideas, I suppose I'll have to ride more trains. As Harry Potter AND Micky Mouse were both “born” on Railway Journeys, it may be a place to start. And I have to fill that little space that has until now been reserved for “The Boy Who Lived” with gratitude, Blessed Assurance, and and increased capacity to love others.

Conversations About Grandma

My husband and I are people of the Christian Faith, and as “Believers” we feel it's important to instill spiritual values in our children. Because of this, we did what any good evangelical parents are trained to do- let the church do it! The modern church is a wonderful place where we can bring our kids to an over the top, entertaining, faith circus- complete with bounce houses, Sponge Bob Videos played on huge screens, and snazzy music at top volume (“if you want to have fun like this forever, kids just say this little prayer to Jesus and it's done!”) Yes, if MY Sunday school resembled a Nickelodeon game show set, I would have invited more friends. So, if the goal for the Contemporary Suburban Church is further indulging already privileged children so their parents will tithe- they are succeeding. But what if you have a kid for whom loud storytellers and Jumbo-trons are like razor blades over his entire body? Perhaps, in that situation, that particular method of evangelism is flawed at best.
We have been blessed with a son who has Autism Spectrum Disorder. He has a symmetric, right angled mind in a world of abstractions. He has little patience for perspective other than his own- because he really believes his way is the correct way. If he thought it was wrong why would he bother with it? He has a near photographic memory which is helpful for math facts and spelling, but “exceptions” to grammar rules annoy him. If there are exceptions to rules, than THEY AREN'T RULES, merely typical occurrences. We are learning how to communicate with him. Usually, our daughter has to be the translator, as she seems to understand her brother better than anyone. When we ask him if he wants a hand picking up his Legos, and he answers no, that does not mean he doesn't want help, it means he would prefer it if we didn't amputate a limb and give it to him. So, when we put our son's spiritual enlightenment in the hands of “First Church of the Sensory Overload” it was what we call an EPIC FAILURE.
I was so discouraged. How was he supposed to learn about Jesus if he didn't go to Sunday School? Then, God punched me in the gut with the fact that it wasn't the churches job to expose him to Christ, it was mine.
Our daughter and son differ as much as two siblings can. She is relationally gifted, finds beauty in the abstract, and is suspicious of absolutes. The Understanding that God exists and he sent his son Jesus as a sacrifice to atone for our sins, was not all that difficult for her. With her brother-his thought process is more like, “okay, you're telling me there's this God guy who has to be a giant because he was big enough to create the whole universe and he has this son who was killed brutally, (so, he loves ME, but allowed his own son to be murdered) and came back to life as this itty bitty man who wants to live in my heart so when I die, I can't come back to Earth, but go to this mythical Heaven place that is in outer space? But SANTA 'how's he supposed to visit all the children of the world in just one night?' Clause is supposed to be a load of crap?”
yep, that's pretty much the gist.
Ugh! He must think I'm a terrible liar or I'm an idiot. The kid has been completely opposed and a bit frightened by the idea of God. He plugs his ears, hums, and leaves the table when we pray at mealtime. When he was little, he used to “pray”/recite Linus' Luke 2 scripted monologue from A Charlie Brown Christmas. I would think, “At LEAST he's got THAT in his brain somewhere. It's gotta' one day count for something.”
Our prayer as parents has continually been for God to reveal Himself to our son. All we can do is tell him the truth, but that has usually met with, “I don't want to love God.” or “Jesus can't love me”, which breaks my heart just a little bit each time he says it, but we still try.
The concept of “death” has also been interesting to try to explain to him. He began to understand that life wasn't like a video game, where when you get three chances to “die”, and even after your last one, you can just start the game over- it was permanent- you didn't come back. His grandmother is, as I write this, very soon to make the transition into death. As she has become more ill, we have attempted to explain this to our kids. He says “but I don't want Grandma to die”. We don't either. He doesn't like it, but he seems to have come to accept it. And perhaps it is, in part, because of all these conversations about Grandma, that I came into the living room the other night to find my faith filled daughter speaking with a gentle intensity to her brother. I began making vain comments about doing something irrelevant, when she told me, “Mom, wait, Chase says he wants to believe in Jesus.”

............It was a very long second before I could process this information. I wanted to be sure I wasn't dreaming. I didn't say anything. I sat next to him on the couch while he told me that God had “written a letter” to him on the palm of his hand, telling Chase He loved him, so “I want to believe Jesus and I want want to forgive everybody and God forgives me for anything bad I have done.” I sat next to my autistic son as he prayed salvation into his life- not a script, but his own words- to who was now, not just “God”, but HIS God.
It's funny how things work out. That discussing his grandmother's illness would be the catalyst that would help him put together all the little nuggets of truth we've tried to give him. We can't “bring” anyone to salvation- not even our own kids. God has to be the one to do it Himself, and each of us has to either accept or reject Him. All we can do to help that along is expose them to Truth and live that Truth as best we can. I seem to always be asking “Why?”, and He always seems to answer, “I got it.” Hopefully, my faith will one day be as strong as my children's.

"The Cost of War"

My great aunt Sue passed away in the night. She was a lovely woman who lived and appreciated a blessed life. I have this silly little scenario that plays out in my head:
She goes through a tunnel and enters this beautiful atrium filled with light and peacefulness. She takes her place in a line of people waiting for their turn before The Judgment Seat, which will confirm her eternal destination. She has a glow to her face, which enhances her lovely smile. All the lines and creases that in life bore the signs of age and illness have smoothed away. The person ahead of her in line welcomes her and shares her joy. Another person has filed in behind her. She turns to extend a warm greeting to the newcomer and her face, while still radiant, scrunches up in horror. Osama Bin Laden, eyes wide in surprise has filed in behind her. He says to her, “Why am I in this line behind you, woman?”. Aunt Sue simply gapes at him, and looks around exasperated and asks in her Tennessean drawl, “Am I in Hell? Are you serious? I have to wait next to you? Don't you touch me, Mister! I'm not one of your 40 virgins, (“I should say not, Madam!”) and if you think that's what you're in for once you get through this line anyhow let me tell you, I am sure you are mistaken......” and she continues to speak her mind to a confused Bin Laden for the next hundred years or so. Heaven for Aunt Sue, but certainly not what the Al Qaeda figurehead expected.
This morning, as I was washing the sleep away from my face, I herd my Beloved exclaim over his breakfast burrito “HOLY CRAP! They got Bin Laden!” I ran into the kitchen to verify what I had heard, and as Tony wiped the egg off his Droid, turned on the television. I was greeted with a visual montage of crowds in Washington, New York, and Philadelphia waving American flags and singing our National Anthem during President Obama's words of remembrance :
“The images of 9/11 are seared into our national memory.....And yet we know that the worst images are those that were unseen to the world: The empty seat at the dinner table; Children who are forced to grow up without their mother or their mother or their father; Parents who will never know the feeling of their child's embrace. …..After nearly 10 years of service, struggle and sacrifice, we know well the costs of war. These efforts weigh on me every time I, as commander in chief, have to sign a letter to a family that has lost a loved one or look into the eyes of a service member who's been gravely wounded...... And on nights like this one, we can say to those families who have lost loved ones to Al Qaeda's terror, justice has been done.”
Really? Has it?
After I heard that statement, I (rather Geekily, I know) recalled the words of JRR Tolkien speaking as Gandalf Greyhelm:“Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”
I do understand the “feeling of closure” part. Many times in my role as a mother, I have wanted the rip the hair out of someone who hurt my child, so, the dramatic murder of the person who is responsible for leading the people who killed your loved one has to be satisfying on some level. We are a bloodthirsty people when we have been wronged. We have fantasies about what we believe some people “deserve”. Our country is founded on the very principle of “liberty and justice for all”, but we only really want it because we feel we are entitled to all the good things it implies. But, I'm going to be honest with you, I don't want all the things I deserve. I do deserve justice, and would be in a world of hurt if I got it. I have wronged, hurt and disappointed people, and in some (not many, but some) cases, I do not feel remorse in the slightest. I deserve death, just as Osama Bin Laden did. Now, I'm certainly NOT putting myself in the “Pure Evil” category of Bin Laden, Hitler, Idi Amin, but does rejoicing in their slaughter really make me any better than those who danced in the street after the attacks on our citizens?
I really wrestle with this. How do I reconcile my idea of “justice” with my belief in a God who loves us all exactly as we are and desires a relationship with each and every one of us, Hitler included?
This morning, my mental conflict led me to the Biblical account of The Exodus, and Pharaoh Amenhotep II. I read how God gave Pharaoh multiple opportunities and provided several miraculous wonders to reveal Himself to the Egyptian king, and it was Pharaoh's Pride that hardened his heart toward those efforts (Exds.7). I have to believe that Dictators and terrorists are at various points in their lives given those same opportunities, and once they have hardened their hearts for good, God deals with them and uses their defeat for the good of His own people. Do they "deserve" those opportunities? No. It's because GRACE is free and is precious and amazing! I also believe that God not only grieves for the suffering inflicted at the hand of those same dictators, but also for the personal relationship He Himself is denied and the transformation He desires to perform in their lives.
And while I agree that the assassination of Osama Bin Laden was probably necessary I take no joy in it. I love, respect, and and am grateful to the members of our armed forces who risk their lives in order to make the world a safer place, but I weep for what those individuals have to go through to train and condition themselves in preparation to kill those who stand in opposition. That our human condition makes it necessary to sanction murder in pursuit of security. That we live in a world where we have to program people to disconnect from their own emotions in order to do their job effectively. What are those brave, adored, selfless servicemen left with after the parades are over and the medals have tarnished? How does someone who proudly and courageously had no choice but riddle another person from head to toe with ammunition or perform an attack which may have cost the lives not only of enemies, but innocent civilians reconcile that within themselves once they come home? These are those worst images that are “unseen to the world”.
I thank you brave soldiers for gladly risking life and inner peace for my sorry behind.
As Navy Seals Team 6 is paraded around in a traveling paparazzi circus, and the young man who's bullet ballistics will reveal dealt the fatal blow is heralded as a modern day Buzz Aldren, remember what in his soul it must cost for one man to take the life of another. This is the true “cost of war”.

“Do not rejoice when your enemy falls, and do not let your heart be glad when he stumbles.” (Proverbs 24:17)

Autism: The Musical

No. It's NOT a new irreverent Eric Idle/Mel Brooks production. This is an HBO documentary about Elaine Hall and a group of autistic children with their families who collaboratively write and put on a musical production in 22 weeks. The movie starts out as Elaine shares how her struggle with infertility and unsuccessful pregnancies led her to adopt Neal, a Russian orphan. Through a series of home movies, we are allowed to witness that precious moment when this little boy enters her life, and the phone call to her parents when they get back to the states and Elaine tearfully proclaims, "Dad, we're Home.” A lovely and poignant ending to an episode of Adoption Stories, but only truly the beginning of her story. When she thought the hard part was over, just when the pain of miscarriages and empty strollers was behind her, life throws the curve ball of Autism her way.
I believe a mother's fantasies for her children begin long before they take their first breath. Then, typically, at some point, and for a myriad of reasons, the fantasy breaks, and your left confused and often rooted in denial; “What do you mean you don't want to play baseball?”; “What do you mean this is your boyfriend Spike who has a motorcycle and herpes?”; “What do you mean you aren't going to college?”; “What do you mean you're moving out of state?”; “What do mean you' have cancer?”. All of our little expectations we had for ourselves that didn't work out, we put on our kids, and now THOSE have gone to hell! Isn't That a bite in the ass? (and, YES, this post is littered with a lot more run-on sentences, so, If that irritates ya, EJECT NOW!)
I was a person who often kept my concerns and fears to myself. In my twisted way I thought I was protecting the people I loved, while at the same time acting out and really hurting them. I didn't let on to people around me when I became concerned with my own child’s development. I secretly hoped I was being neurotic (not a stretch for me) and quietly got the courage to pursue professional help. My son would often not respond to his name, so my first stop was an audiologist. I was assured by the audiologist that he could hear and was probably fine and he was still young (he had just turned two)but a speech pathologist would give me some ideas about language development. Well, she did give me ideas about language development. She also told me language development was only one concern. It was then my fantasy broke. It was then that I heard the word Autism in reference to my child for the first time.
After that appointment, I put my son is his car seat, busted out my Nokia phone, and called my poor, unsuspecting husband. I was somewhat detached and told him quite matter-of-factly, that our child had something wrong with him and it could be autism. How's that for blindsiding someone? We decided to go forward with our referral to Inland Regional Center and meet with a psychologist so they could tell us our son was fine, he just needed speech services, and lay our fears to rest. No such Luck.
I didn't know anything about Autism other than the dude in Rain man had it, which didn't give me much hope, as I was not a gambler. I transferred my mourning, my fear, my insecurity, and my anger into a quest for knowledge. I sought control in the only way I knew how. If I could find out enough about autism, I could beat it. Off to the library I went, where I weighed myself down with medical reference books, books on adaptive behavior therapy, gluten and casein free diets, sensory massage, language acquisition, thimerisol poisoning, you name it. I went to conferences. I sought help from a behavior intervention specialist, and attended classes on behavior modification therapy. He was making progress, but he was still having tantrums, potty training was nowhere in our immediate future, and compliance at school was non existent. He would often shut down and throw himself on the ground and would have to physically be carried or restrained.
I found myself in many situations where I was sitting across a table from knowledgeable people giving their professional opinion about my son. At age three, I sat across a table from women from our school district who were less than optimistic regarding my child's behavior and progress. They told me they didn't think he had autism, but a language problem coupled with Oppositional Defiance Disorder. I sat across the table from a neurologist that told me I needed to medicate my child, because soon he would be too strong for me to manhandle. The bathroom was my preferred place to cry.
We made the decision to move to a school district with a reputation for better services. We moved our daughter from a school she loved to a school with different math curriculum, so, she struggled. My husband and I were both working, he two additional side jobs. They had to sacrifice so much, but the move, for our son, was so positive. He began making excellent progress in school. We went to our first Individualized Education Plan meeting in the new district. Seated next to me on my side of the table was my husband. I can't tell you what it was like to know I didn't have to sit there and fight alone. His teachers and therapists were well prepared and willing to do what needed done to help our child. I left feeling empowered- like I had just left a war meeting with a strategy for taking autism down.
He indeed continued to progress, but day to day living was still a challenge. I still cried in the bathroom. I prayed every day for God to touch and heal my son's brain and miraculously make him “normal”.
One evening, we had fought over getting in the car, getting out of the car, eating, toileting, bathing.... I was tired. It was time for him to pick up his trains, and he refused to do it, but I knew I had to be consistent. I was using the “hand over hand” method of forcing him to comply and it turned into a big tantrum-y mess. I was raising my voice, my daughter must have been hiding in her room because our conflicts would always upset her so. While I was restraining him in his tantrum and telling him to calm down, what I was really doing was begging him to join the fight and work with me to resist this thing which was “autism”. And in his kicking and screaming “no” and pushing me away, my heart finally heard the words he could not say, “I am autism. You are not working with me, but against who I am. How can I fight myself?”. I finally got that this isn't cancer or aids or something that is killing my child. His brain isn't dying, it just functions differently. This is who he is. This is his world, and instead of attacking it I needed to learn what that world was like, then make him feel safe in my world so our worlds could come together. That to open the door to his mind meant opening mine first. To let him know that he could trust me and that the world is a scary place for everybody, and I would be there to hold his hand through it until the time when he didn't need me anymore.
God didn't need to fix him. He needed to fix me.
Now, we know there are no limits to what our child can do (accept be a professional athlete- it's just not in the gene pool). We are blessed by being surrounded by therapists and educators who see, not merely potential, but beauty and value in our son. We no longer sit on opposite sides of a table to fight against autism, we sit together to find a way through our own lack of understanding. To take information from one another to find new ways to navigate this life, for us and for him. We are truly a team as a family, and I no longer have to be so proud as to go cry in the bathroom anymore.
Autism: The Musical gives the viewer a glimpse into Neal, who is completely non verbal; Lexi, who's phenomenal singing voice makes you marvel that she can only communicate in repeated phrases and has none of her own words; Wyatt who wants desperately to be liked by his peers, but can't relate to them; Adam, a little guy who asks to hear Ravel's Bolero by playing bits of it on his cello; and Henry, who knows everything about any prehistoric creature or reptile anyone could every know. Each kid represents a uniquely different piece in the puzzle of autism.
Personally, it was hard to watch. It just brings up so many feelings, but truly the feeling I am ultimately left with is gratitude. Why did I watch it? I guess it felt like a good day to cry. You can find it at your public library or on YouTube by Autism Channel 17 in six 15 minute segments.



“....the reality begins to set in that: No Matter how much you love 'em, and no matter how many dollars you throw at them, this kid's got Autism. Forever. The End.” - Lexi's Dad

Confessions of an Attention Whore

I do so like attention. I like it a lot. Too much. Tell me how funny I am; Envy my beautifully crafted Scrapbook Pages; Say that my children are gorgeous; Admire my high score on Lego Star Wars Wii. I take praise and accolades in any form but credit or lies. You can't simply compliment me lavishly for my delicious chocolate chip cookies, and NOT be expected to express your delight at my steak nachos. AND you have to be telling the truth. I will not accept false flattery. If you don't adore my cookies (probably because you lost your taste buds in a tragic McDonald's hot coffee incident), then say nothing. And IF you say nothing, I will always assume you didn't like them or I did something wrong. The absence of legitimate “atta' girls” sends me spiraling down in a frenzy of doubt and self loathing. “WHY? WHY? WHY do they hate me? Did I add a 'heaping', rather than 'level' scoop of baking soda?”; “They don't like my shoes! They are laughing at me right now because I thought these shoes were GREAT and they're really horrible!” ; “I got lazy and used scissors instead of going upstairs and getting the circle cutter, and They are disgusted by my incompetent circle cutting!”.
A bit dramatic? Well, to consider yourself a proper Attention Whore, one must have a flair for drama. I can absolve myself of any responsibility for my own feeling of self worth and put that on You good people. BUT only look at me when I'm doing something worthy of highest praise. You are not allowed to see flaws, or even that which is merely unremarkable.
Pay no attention to that bourgeois woman behind the curtain, working frantically to keep up appearances! I have built a wall which retains the insecurities of a lifetime! Your approval is my mortar, and my good intentions to get you to like me are my bricks! I will not accept insincere “butt kissing” on your part, but it is for YOUR welfare that I must work harder to be dishonest with you, and omit my weaknesses in order to maintain the projected image we have built together and you have come to so highly esteem!
(Sigh) Isn't it funny when we scream for people to recognize our triumphs, they unavoidably also notice when we fall flat on our faces.
And now that I have fallen, I can have compassion for those whose personality cults I have been a member of, who were eventually exposed as being disappointingly human. I recognize my own responsibility in helping build their wall of illusion. I thought that if I could just maximize my strengths and minimize my weaknesses, I could be LIKE them, or, as my competitive nature insists, be BETTER than them- more successful, more respected, more loved.
Maybe if we accept the fact that everyone has issues, there wouldn't be so much pressure to look like we don't. How many situations have we created where the livelihood of others depend on the success of an individual Personality? I mean, how would it be if an active politician showed up at an AA meeting? They would likely lose their job, and so would all the people who work for them, because we can't have that representing us! How many lives would be different if ministers could seek help for sexual issues long before they become big problems? If they admitted they had an issue, it would hurt the success of the ministry they are such an essential part of (like, GOD can't be real if you aren't perfect!). We want a diet guru who can identify with our food addiction, but they had better not struggle with it and get fat again! Athletes must be continually superhuman. And if they succumb to the temptation that if they just take this little injection, no matter how harmful, everybody keeps making money, and are later crucified for it when someone finds out. Entertainers have to have the fountain of youth, but when they obviously start to need plastic surgery for their plastic surgery, they become the standard late night talk show monologue joke.
We build our idols and tear them down one after another in search of one who is worthy of us, one we can be worthy of besting.
Attention Whores mistake their own definition of success for significance in this world. We need to understand, that twisted definition we have of “success” isn't real. It may seem to look like it's working for us in the short term. We may also think that 5 minutes of that illusion is better than a lifetime of 'ordinary', but once we think we've tasted that definition of success we are always hungry for more, and we'll do what we think we have to to feed that hunger.
But, we will NEVER be able keep that up. It sucks when they find out we're really just a person, and not a Grand and Formidable wizard(again I Sigh). But, I suppose, it's also pretty cool when the wall comes crashing down, and you are completely exposed and raw, that there are some who will stick around- not many, but some- who see the ugly, but can still see the good stuff too, and they still like you. They may even help dust you off and stand up. It turns out that if I had been honest about my struggles along the way we could have helped each other, and truly connected in a way only imperfect people can.

Passion and Posting

I love The Facebook- it allows me to keep friends in all corners of the globe. Let's face it- most of us are lazy and self centered and really only have interest in what's right in front of us. Occasionally, we miss that friend, who, once upon a time, raced us down the isles of Target in a shopping cart; Or that sassy gal who danced with us in the rain at midnight. Or EVEN that girl you hated who you had a bio class with. We wonder where life took them. Now, we can be all voyeuristic and find out! It is comforting to know that you aren't the ONLY one who has gained 40lbs since high school, and that Bio Class Cow may still be thin, but her children are highly unattractive in comparison with yours (AND she's still doing the sausage roll bangs! OH PA-Leeze!)
It also allows us to connect in some way with family members we DO genuinely care about, but with whom we share little to nothing in common with except unpleasant memories. And when weddings and funerals force us to be together, we always have Farmville to help us avoid the awkward silence. When we wouldn’t know what to say in a phone call or letter, nothing says “Hey, I'm thinking of ya” better than a gifted virtual chicken.
I do observe the Facebook pleasantries. I lob a “Happy Birthday” on the walls of those I may have only met briefly through a friend at the supermarket. I don't go spamming messages, nor “invite” people to fictional events ( sorry, I'm “not attending” WORLD SMELL THE FLOWERS DAY). I try not to be so attention seeking as to cryptically post “OMG, I CAN'T BELIVE IT!!!!” or the like in order to manipulate others into perusing me for information.
The custom marketing is pretty awesome. I do find stuff I like, and if I get tired of seeing annoying pictures of Toby Mac (just because I classify myself as a Christian, does not mean I like crap music) on the right of my screen everyday, I have the power to close the windows marking them as uninteresting, repetitive or offensive. I DO like the “Groupon”, in spite of the recent controversial commercials, and will repost a link if I am totally excited about something (I AM a bit of a coupon whore). 20 bucks for 5 admissions to The Magic House? I am IN. “Like” Chipotle for a buy one get one free coupon? OH YEAH!
When someone posts something with which I find general favor, but have really nothing to say about it, there’s the bless-ed “like” button, used to both affirm the statement that means enough to someone to spout it to the world, and register my valuable opinion without having to go to much effort. And you know what 'they' say, “opinions are like [backsides], everybody's got one”, and something I have in abundance (both in the opinion and [backside] department).
Though most of my personal posts are just random statements to say “hello, world! I'm here!” or images I find amusing enough to share, Facebook is a place where we sometimes register our rather passionate feelings about certain things and spark dialog among people who may have very different viewpoints. While I have seen lengthy comments bantering back and forth about “OMG! Did you see what so and so was wearing at the Grammy's?”many people use Facebook as a platform to make public statements regarding polygamy, human rights, religion, politics, etc... This format of “conversation” is rather dependent on people having the ability to accurately communicate or interperate opinions and ideas in their comments. A lot of the time, I'm just not hip with the cool kids' lingo. Does FB mean 'facebook' or 'fat bastard'? Is 'lol' really 'lame old loser'? I have to figure out if I'm being insulted and don't even know it.
I don't know about you, but I have been actually speaking to someone, where they can hear my inflections and see my body language, and they still took what I had to say as something I never intended to communicate. How many of us when reading an off the wall statement from one of our friends we completely disagreed with, commented or messaged back, “I'm not sure I understand your post. Can you elaborate on what you mean?”. Not me. I look at it and go “Huh?” and just dismiss it, or, if it is one of my 'hot button' issues, I passive/aggressively post the contrary point of view in my own status with a huge obnoxious graphic. Most people are just braver than I am and will comment back how wrong the other person is and give a three point essay why. I, being averse to confrontation- even in written form, prefer my passive/aggressive method.
One of the things I am personally trying to work on is being more compassionate and sympathetic to others. Once upon a time, I took comfort in my Southern Baptist upbringing and whatever the popular christian culture opinion was, was good enough for me. If a pastor was saying it, it had to be the right way to go. If it was on a christian t-shirt, it was gospel and there was no questioning it. There was no other way to look at it, and no grace for those who didn't see things through the same glasses. Frankly, it's just easier to conform and not have to think. But as I have gotten older and faced a few disappointments, owing to my unfair fantasy that people who identify themselves as 'christian leaders' are perfect, I have been forced to think for myself.
Where I would, at one time, only read the headline, form, then declare my ready-made 'conservative wisdom' and PROVE my ignorance, I now read the whole story, and usually have to look between the lines. I am trying to remember to ask myself, “Why would a person do this?” or “What is in their experience that would cause them to make such a statement?” or “Why does this grown woman in 2011 still have sausage roll bangs?” Sometimes, I just get it wrong. I simply misunderstand or make incorrect assumptions- typically based on prejudices I don't even realize I have. I also need to remember that 'tongue-in-cheek' weirdo stuff I mindlessly post on Facebook, just may ignite the fire under someone else's passion and light me up.
SO, if you happen to see me post a link for a coupon to the 'Satanist's R Us' on line store, check to see if it's just spam, my poor attempt at humor, or feel free to ask me “why?”

So.....Not........Fair.

“She's such a smart girl. I can't believe she would walk in front of a train.” A tragic epitaph to a young lady who was beautiful, intelligent and driven.
There have been two occasions in my life that I truly believed I was going to die. Yes, I admittedly am a bit dramatic, but these were not one of my lame pleas for attention. I did indeed 100% think death was here for me. Both of these times were during illness.
The first, I was 19years old. I was living in Houston. I had some really terrible virus that left me with a fever, nasty stomach bug, bronchitis, a double ear infection, strep throat and an acute sinus infection. One of the older ladies I worked with had taken me to a clinic. I remember the doctor had his cold fingers on the side of my neck, looking down my throat and said, “Boy, you sure do feel bad, don't you?”. He then shot me up with penicillin and gave me a fifteen day regimen of Augmenten. Later, I was alone, laying on an itchy sofa, with hot tears stinging the outer corners of my eyes streaming into my hair. I had the words to an old song playing in my head, “Going Home, I am Going Home. There is nothing to hold me here. I caught a glimpse of that Heavenly Land. Praise God, I am going home.” Like I said, dramatic, but at the time very real. I vividly remember telling myself that once I fell asleep, I probably would not wake up. I was at peace with it, so I drifted off. Imagine my slight confusion as my next vision was of a friend throwing my stuff on top of a laundry basket on her hip. She guided me down the stairs and into her car out to her parents home so her mom could take care of me. I was drifting in and out of sleep all the way there. As we merged onto the 288 freeway, I realized I was going to live. I am still grateful (but in my sick way, was peeved about gaining back the 19 pounds I had lost.)
When I was 23, I was less at peace with the idea of dying. My husband and I lived in Riverside with our beautiful 14 month old daughter. She was (and is) the joy and beauty of my life. I had been sick off and on, and must have done something to my neck, because I got to where I couldn't turn my head at all. I came home from work crying in pain, with the worst headache you could imagine, and a fever of 104. I became violently sick and started to break out in hives. My husband called his mother to come get our baby so he could take me to the ER. I was in SO much pain. Our darling girl came over to me to ask if I was okay. I must have frightened her. I was so angry and scared, I couldn't even look at her. I thought, “God, why NOW? When I have a husband who loves me and this beautiful child? Why would you take me now?”. Yes, again dramatic, but, again-at the time- real. My mother in law was in a fender bender on the way to our apartment. We didn't have cell phones in those days, so we didn't know what was taking forever. As soon as she got there, my beloved carried me out to he car and to the hospital, where I was immediately cared for. I must have been having such a fit, they didn't want me in the waiting room. I was quickly administered an IV, and then given Morphine. I could taste it, and my throat started to burn. I felt it closing up and I began gasping for air. In a dimly lit emergency room cubicle, unable to breathe with a sea of activity around me, everything got dimmer. I was rolled onto my side and felt a sharp, electric pain from the middle of my back down into my legs, as fluid was taken from my spine. I reflected back to the time on that itchy sofa, but no peaceful resignation or hymn of comfort came now. This was death, and I was pissed about it.
But, it wasn't death, just a “simple” case of meningitis coupled with an anxiety attack and a bad reaction to Morphine. Some time quarantined in the hospital and two years of fatigue and raging headaches, and I would be good as new.
There have been other times- when passing a gall stone and suffering, was was termed “slow burn appendicitis”- that I WANTED to die, but the grim reaper didn't even hint at showing up to relieve me of the pain then. At least with the pain of childbirth, it's over in twenty hours or so and you end up with a baby!
I think the problem is we have a hard time seeing anything but what is immediately in front of us. Ill and alone, I could see no earthly relief from the attack of the infection on my body. Overwhelmed by a wall of pain and fear, I thought the only thing other side of it could be death. But I was very conscious and afraid of what I didn’t know. There are other times when we think we absolutely KNOW what is in front if us and how to handle it, that we don't heed any precaution. We don't know what we don't know. So much so, we take for granted that there ISN'T anything we don't know. Sometimes, we may see what is, or may be, coming. We either accept it, peacefully or unpeacefully, or deny it. Other times, we are oblivious to even look for it, secure in our routine and ignorance.
Such was the plight of the daughter of a dear friend.
Alana was walking home from school, as she did every day. She had transferred to a high school that offered an International Baccalaureate Program, so every day, she had to take the city bus to and from school. And every day, Alana would cross a set of train tracks to get from her bus stop to her home. Some days, there would be no train and the barriers would be raised dormant. Other days, she would have heard the bells and scurried across before the the barriers would lower and the train would come. And other days she would wait for the 100plus freight cars to slowly make their way across the street, and when finally the last car of the train would pass, she would go around the still lowered barrier to get home and get on with all the things she had left to do that day. On Tuesday, she would follow the same routine she had every other day. This time, focused on the hundred-car-long freighter and the things that occupy the mind of a fifteen year-old girl, accustomed to the sounds of the train and the bells, what Alana didn't see was the commuter train speeding from the other direction.
Alana was a creative 15 year old girl with dreams and typical teen worries and a kind heart. She had been a cheerleader, was an Honers Student with strong convictions, a Humane Society Volunteer, a Compassionate Sister to her brother with Asberger's Syndrome, and a Devoted daughter. She did not come from a family with a lot of means, so she knew in order to achieve her goals, she had to be willing to work hard. With such drive and determination and talent and promise, why would God just snatch her from our hands?
All of us dodge the barriers and close our ears to what's around us. Not considering anything other than what we can see in front of us. All of us take for granted that we know all there is to know. And though Alana's consequences are plain to see, what consequences do the rest of us have that we refuse to acknowledge? Those of us with less drive, less determination, less promise, less compassion? Why isn't it fair?
My own teenage daughter will occasionally sleep over at a friend's house. When she does, we trust she is safe and having a good time, but, when we go to bed, we feel it in the air that she isn' t here. We feel she is missing, but she comes home the next day, and we ask if she had fun, and she tells us “yes”. It is a horrifying thought, that my friend will go to bed tonight, with the feeling her daughter is missing, but she's not coming home tomorrow.
A family friend was quoted in the newspaper article about Alana's death, “She was such a smart girl, I can't believe she would walk in front of a train.”. Perhaps more remarkable is the fact that the rest of THINK we are so smart, it's a wonder more of us DON'T walk in front of trains.

The Potty Rant

Once I saw on Oprah that the least used stall in a public restroom is the first one. I guess, as women, we walk in and naturally overlook the first option. “Nah, I'm sure there's something better down the line”. We don't like to commit- we keep our options open as long as possible. Sort of like, it's the high school dance and the first guy who asks us to go is nice and handsome, but we say no or don't give an answer because we don't want to sell ourselves short . And if they're available, the high school quarterback of stalls is the big handicap cubicle. It's spacious, and if you've overindulged in dairy products the day before and are having a hard time getting things going, you have those nice bars for leverage.(I know, TMI. Sorry). But if the big one is occupied or, unflushed, or there is someone who LEGITAMTELY needs the handicap stall, we go ahead and settle for the closest one. As we've gone down the line, we are suddenly less picky and are at the point when we just need a stall- preferably a clean one.
Now I go into a restroom and think, “well, now that the “first stall” information was on The Oprah Show, is the first stall now the MOST used?” When the anti-germ expert gave her this information, Oprah looked so elated! As though, now she is equipped to avoid all manner of communicable diseases, and was like, “Thank You. You have saved my life”. Then I remembered that she is an Academy Award nominated actress. Knowing this is not going to change her life or habits in any way. Really, when was the last time THE Oprah- Oprah Winfrey had to use a public toilet? Could you imagine, being at the mall, sitting in your cubicle, minding your business, when this hand reaches under the stall and it's OPRAH- “can you spare a square?”. I would be so excited and overwhelmed, I wouldn't even be able to think! I would just grab my stuff and run out – wouldn't zip or wash up or anything. I would be all out of breath and tell my girlfriends, “It's Oprah! She's stranded in the bathroom with no toilet paper! What do I do?”
But that could never happen. Number one, like I'd be in the restroom without my girlfriends! Women like wolves- we prefer to mate for life and travel in packs. Number two, When you hit that level of success Oprah is at, do you even have to use the bathroom anymore? Isn't there some super secret procedure you can pay some exorbitant amount to have someone else take care of that for you? Some type of bodily waste teleportation device?
If it DID happen, you can be sure it would be at Nordstom's because, even if you're not shopping there, they do have the nicest bathrooms. They always have a lounge with magazines, where you can sit and wait for your friends to be done. And the baby changing stations are so well equipped. I was a really young mother- I was married at 21 and had our daughter eleven months later, so I was clueless about baby things. I was so happy that universally ladies rooms even had changing stations. Because if they didn't, what would I have done? Just let her sit chaffing in her diaper until I got home? Certainly not! I'd have to go to the car or something.
When our young family would be out and the need would arise to go to the ladies room, my husband would go on and on about how lucky women were to have such posh restrooms. He made it sound as though men's rooms had a just concrete slab with a drain in the middle of the room, and a communal bucket they all had to use.
Disneyland Park has a FANTASTIC place for babies and young children with several nice changing stations, little preschool sized potty's, private nursing stations, and a section with microwaves and high chairs to feed older babies. Little old ladies in turn of the century costumes could sell you diapers, wipes, formula or binkey's should you need them. We were on a Disney visit in the company of a friend of my husband's who's young wife tragically died, leaving him with two very young children. I thought, “Thank God the park has this facility, because what would this poor man do, otherwise?” I was being so helpful, giving our friend the 411 on the little Potty Place. He looked at me like I was nuts. He said, “I just change them in the men's room” I was appalled! I asked, what does he do, “put a mat on the FLOOR?”. He then informed me, “No, they have changing tables in men's bathroom”.
SO! The secret was out! I was under the impression that amenities in a men's restroom were limited to paper towels, at BEST! I sharply turned to my husband, who was looking at his friend with eyes as big as dinner plates shaking his head. I then asked this friend if ALL men's rooms had changing facilities. He said, yes, malls and restaurants and, yes, theme parks were all equipped with changing tables. My husband then cast his face down in shame. BUSTED!
He was able to pay his friend back for arming me with this information later in the day when we stopped for a snack. Although his friend is good enough to change his kid's own poopies instead of using his charm on an older woman to do it for him, he DID NOT like cleaning up food mess. After telling his children the French Fry Cart was “out of ketchup”, my husband heroically exclaimed, “No, there's PLENTY of ketchup! I'll bring you some. They've got TONS!”
Which leaves me with the comfort that in this world, the bathroom is the great equalizer. Whether you are Oprah, a young mom, or a widowed father, we all appreciate nice restrooms.

More to Lose

Well, yippee skippy, it's another new year. A time to “start fresh”, get organized, resolve to get healthy and be the best “You” you can be! Yes, it's January- the gym is packed, the supplement isle at WalMart crowded, Carpet cleaners and Space Bags are on sale, Nutri System has had a jump in revenue, and we've all filled our crisper drawers with future decayed vegetables we will be throwing out by Valentines Day.
We WILL Watch more PBS and less E. Quit buying lattes and start buying Money Markets. Clean out the closets and clean up the language. Start Going to Church, Stop Overspending. We are going to drink less, exercise more, stop smoking, and throw out that Cold Stone Frequent Customer punch card (only to curse ourselves by April when we would have earned our free Love It Sized Cake Batter with Reese's-@%$!). I just don't do “resolutions”.
As you can tell, I have fallen off the Wellness Wagon once or twice. My “New Year's Resolution” list had become the painful “Stuff I'll Fail to Accomplish Again” list. I am so NOT in denial! I am all acceptance all the time. But why do we feel the need to change? To be something different than we are? I have a good life. My husband loves me the way I am. I am content the way things are. But am I really Fat and Happy, or am I just Bitter and Beefy? Is it just less painful to accept sucking at weight loss and having chronically clean dresser drawers than to do the work required to truly succeed at change?
This last year, I thought I had actually done rather well as far as my habits went. I was exercising regularly. RUNNING even! The Coke was almost completely OUT. We started cutting down the size of our family dinners. I was in the size ten jeans. All was well. Then, on November 4th, I paid my semi annual visit to my doctor, sure to be praised for all the weight I've lost, only to find I had lost only four pounds in six months! WTF???!! Are you KIDDING ME? And save your “muscle weighs more than fat” B.S., and “you really should look at inches, not pounds” hogwash (even though you're right). I would never let anyone know it, but I was devastated. I told myself the number didn't matter, which is why I don't keep a scale at home, or I would be continually discouraged. But it did matter. AND I wanted not only the weight loss but the recognition. I left with neither.
So I said “Screw it! Bring on the Holidays! Where is that Halloween Candy? Super-size it!” Why do I do that? What comfort does abusing my body actually bring? It must bring something, because I do it every stinking time! I get this attitude like, “I'll show 'em!” when the only one I'm “showing” is ME. “Hello, Universe! If I can't be 135 lbs, then I'll be TWO hundred and thirty five pounds! I'M in control of MY world. I can eat seven cupcakes for breakfast if I want to! NO ONE CAN STOP ME! BWWWAAAHAHHAHAAAA!”
Idiot.
But I'm finding that I have more to lose than just pounds and inches. I have to lose the pseudo “I'm in control” attitude, because I am sooooo NOT, or I wouldn't default to the sugar addiction whenever I get all pouty. But at least I have a “normal” issue. Not like those freaks on A&E who are addicted to wearing furry suits and eating chalk. ( Yes, I also make myself feel better about my poor parenting by watching the stupid mothers on Toddler's and Tiaras”)
I know “how” to live healthy, but I don't think I know how to change. Oh, I can switch up my habits for a while. Like, I'm pretending to be this other person who juices and eats vegetables and measures out buckwheat and rice milk for breakfast, when the REAL me wants two sausage mcMuffins and a large Coke. I have not been successful taking the “Act my way to different thinking” approach, but I don't think I'm having much luck with “thinking my way to different acting” either. My Thinker is busted. So I suppose that's where I start- but with a bit more commitment than I've shown previously by simply paroozing the Self Help section at the public library. It will take “goal setting” and “Planning”(YUCK).
But don't go thinkin' this is some sort of “New Year's Resolution”, because it's NOT!