A Leap of...Faith?

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Well, I picked Logan up from school today.  He started to cry in the van.  It was the kind of crying he does when his feelings have been hurt, or he's upset about something.  

While Logan is verbal, this still presents a huge problem.  He can't describe to me what happened to make him cry.  He is unable to use descriptive language to describe a sequence of events or relay what he's feeling emotionally.  So, when I said, Did you have a good day at school?  he said, No.  When I asked him fifteen minutes later, Did you have a good day at school?  he said, Yes.  What's the answer?  

Well, who made you cry?  What happened?  

He can't tell me.  He said something about a Mrs. X.  But then in the next sentence, X became a student, so I have no idea who he is referring to or what part they played in his day.

This is one of the BIGGEST problems that parents of special ed kids face when their kids go to school.  Aside from schedule changes, dietary issues, bathroom issues, meltdowns, the question that hovers in the back of our minds is:  Are they safe?

Which is just crazy.  We shouldn't have to worry if our kids are safe.  We shouldn't have to worry if they are being grabbed roughly, told they're stupid, ignored, invalidated, or otherwise mistreated.  But it's a huge worry, and it's a worry because this type of abuse does occur at the very hands of the people who are supposed to be protecting our kids.  Special ed is not for the faint of heart, and it's like any other job:  some people are great at it, some people are mediocre, and some people are just plain awful and should never have gotten that job in the first place.  

Our kids are not like other kids.  They can't tell us if someone is being cruel to them, if they are being bullied or harassed, or if they need something at school that they're not getting.  We send them to school and it's a leap of faith that they will get a teacher who is patient, kind, but firm enough not to let them run amok.  It's an important issue because special education students often end up with the same teacher and paraprofessionals for years.  This is not a one year relationship; it's a lasting one.  Teachers and parents should work together for the best interest and benefit of the student.

Logan was very blessed to have extraordinary teachers at his elementary school.  He made amazing leaps in speech and interaction during the time he was there.  By the end of the school year, last year, he was learning how to read.  

I can only hope that in the coming weeks, whatever caused him to be upset will not recur and that he will enjoy his time in middle school as much as he did elementary school.

The Pressure

I rarely get sick.  And I hardly ever have an allergic reaction to anything.  Yesterday, while showing some land, I tromped through some woods in a pair of slides, and I'm pretty sure I wandered through many batches of poison oak and poison ivy.  But I don't have anything to show for it.

But something in the air got me stirred up today and yesterday and I was miserable.  I have a really loud sneeze...it's so loud that my 11 year old laughs and imitates it and electronic toys in the house reply when it happens.  It's embarrassing, but I can't really do much about it.  I realize, of course, that these are first world problems.  It could always be worse. I could have a Guinea worm (Google it.  It's gross.)  Or Westboro Baptist could be picketing my house.  (Which might actually get really interesting..I don't think my neighbors would stand by passively while this happened...)  Whatever it is that is causing my nose to feel like it's been stuffed with a pair of sandbags, it can leave anytime.  And don't let the door hit ya in the butt on the way out...

An Explanation

Occasionally, I will write a blog post, and friends or family members will think that it's about them.  So, let me be clear about something.  If I have some sort of an issue or problem with someone, generally speaking, I will meet it head on and address it with that individual if they allow me to.  I'm not a stab in the back kind of person.  I prefer to shoot straight while someone is looking right at me, or bide my time until they're ready to talk.

That being said, I recently wrote a blog post about the movie character Gaston.  I sincerely hope that no one thought this post was about them.  It was about a cartoon character.  It's sort of my own view on these characters as a whole...they all have issues, when looked at through an adult lens, and it's humorous to me to take them apart and analyze them.  This has been done before, and not by me.  I thought of doing a whole series of analysis on them, but that would be time consuming during this semester, when time is extremely valuable and not to be wasted.

Another example is when I write posts about what to do and not do around autistic people and their families.  Inevitably, someone will come to me and say, Oh, I apologize if I've ever done that to you or I'm so sorry if I said or did A, B, C.  These posts are never intended to call someone out.  They are intended as general, informative guides on how to communicate with autistic people and their families.  They are intended to educate, not embarrass or make someone feel bad.  If you recognize yourself in one of them, then perhaps that is impetus for further self-examination.

In conclusion, if someone wants to assume the worst about anything I've written here, I can only say that a lot can be assumed by what someone writes, especially if you have little contact with the writer or only see them on certain days of the week. Some of the people who have come to me have been church friends.  I would like to say here that my church family is made up of some of the best, most supportive people I've ever had the pleasure to know.  If there is any place that my son feels welcome and secure, it's at church.

In conclusion, I would like to say that  I've been through enough emotional turmoil in my life up to this point to be able to step back and say I am not responsible for anyone's assumptions or feelings, and if someone is out of sorts, it's not something I'm going to lose sleep over.  Their loss, not mine.

Ridiculously excited to be in a class called "cognitive psychology".  That is all.

The Thing about Mom

Tonight I feel compelled to write about my mother. I  hope she's reading this, because I want her to know how much I love her.

My brother and I grew up with a mom and dad.  Our parents didn't divorce until I was in my first year of college.  My dad was known for being "smart".  I've written about this before and I don't really want to go back into it now, but he was one of those people who didn't ever need to study and who could pick up mathematical concepts the way some people pick up a common cold.

But, my mother.  She is a phenomenon.  I had the best childhood because of her.  She never sweated the small stuff, like play doh in a shag carpet or crayon on the wall.  She taught me right from wrong but she didn't detonate when the wrong was pretty bad.  She just loved me. No matter what.  She still does.  I always knew that no matter what I did, I could go to her, and she would love me and be there for me.

Because of her I gained the confidence to do whatever I wanted.  I knew that I could be the best if I worked hard enough.  Her love and belief in me was like a rock I leaned against and still is.  I always knew that she cared.  I always knew that the source of that love and concern was a fierce entity all by itself...if she ever suspected that I or my brother were hurting or being hurt, or suffering in any way, she became someone else entirely...someone lethal and determined.

My mother taught me how to treat other people.  She taught me to be kind and respectful.  She taught me how to be brave, and how to weather emotional storms.  Her example is what I hearken back to when I'm trying to parent my own kids.

She created a loving home for my brother and me.  She is creative, she is organized, she works hard, she laughs...and how I love that laugh.  Betty Rubble.

My mother understood and still understands that the most important thing in life is the people that you love.  Things like status, designer clothes, large houses, and fancy cars were never important to her.  My brother and I were.  And in that, she taught us the true meaning of eternity:  Investing in the things that will stay with you in the next life is the key to true happiness.

My mother took us to church and introduced us to God at a very young age.  She went to church alone for years...something that's difficult to do when your other half has absolutely no interest in religion at all.  She is brave. She showed us, through her example, that sometimes doing the right thing is not the easiest thing, but it can be done.

What she gave me, I can't find in a book.  I can't buy it, trade for it, or pretend it.  It's priceless.  It's her wisdom.  It's her guidance.   It's my life.

 

Please Make It Stop.

Logan and his little sister are sitting on the couch.  He is an unwilling participant in whatever game they are playing, which involves a burrito and a stegosaurus.  Every time he tries to get up, Abby yells at him, so he sits back down and plays some more.

I am not interfering.

I am not interfering because the whole day, Logan has been stimming, sticking his face in my face, asking when school is going to start, yelling when I tell him it doesn't start until Monday, getting upset when I tell him we have a Saturday and a church day before school, screeching, grabbing my arms, pulling on me, climbing on me, and picking on his bug bites until he has picked himself bloody.

He's a mess, and I am weary.  A few years ago, this sort of behavior reduced me to tears, because it is constant and does not let up.  It's born out of anxiety on his part and an inability to control his emotions or make reasonable judgment or deduction based on information.  He does not know how to assume anything.  He does not understand that once mom says it will be a certain way, then that's the way it is, because he is too anxious for that.  He requires constant reassurance.

Now it's just an annoyance.  This is not meant as a criticism of Logan.  It's the truth, though.  The screaming and the stimming and the constant pulling on mom is annoying.  We all deal with it in some form.  We love our kids.  We don't love the behavior.

This is what a lot of spectrum parents (this is what I call us...those of us with children on the spectrum.  We are parents of children with autism.) have to put up with.  This particular school district does not allow its autistic children to enroll in summer school unless they have started losing skills that have been taught during the year.  What the school doesn't understand is the havoc that this wreaks on our lives.  Our children thrive on order.  They love rigid schedules, because then they know what to expect.  It minimizes their confusion and anxiety to live this way.  When the school year ends, that ends as well.  It's impossible for a family with autistic and "mainstream" children to maintain that type of order and rigidity during the summer.  So every summer for about two weeks, we go through a dreaded "adjustment phase" when Logan has to get used to the fact that there is no class at 8am, no PE, no teachers, and no cafeteria (one of his favorite places).  At the end of summer, we go through it again, when he anticipates starting school again.  He battles a mixture of excitement and fear, because it has become an unknown during the summer.  Will he have the same teacher?  Will his friends be there?  What will he do?  Where will he go?  These are mundane questions for us adults and for children who aren't in a special education program.  For Logan, and for many children like him, these are all-consuming questions.

Especially this year, because he is transitioning to middle school.  He's excited.  I took him there to tour the school and he loved it...he wanted to see everything.  At the same time he also said that he wanted to go home.  

How do you battle such a maelstrom of emotion?  It's difficult for an adult to sort through conflicting feelings.  I wonder how it must feel for someone with sensory issues who doesn't adjust to change very well.  

There are some people who have come to me and said, I could never do what you do.  But the truth is that that's a load of crap.  You do what you have to do because it's your child.  

Oh, Gaston.

I saw this today and found it humorous.  Cracked me up, actually.

I've always felt a little sorry for Gaston.  I mean, let's be honest.  Taken at face value, he's got it going on.  He's big, and gorgeous. He's strong.  He's a man's man, and he's popular around town.  Everyone seems to adore him or want to hang with him.  He's got this great baritone voice.  Women swoon over him (but it should be noted that those women are of the vapid, a few-crayons-short-of-the-box variety).  So what's the problem?

The problem is that he has got the worst case of narcissistic personality disorder, EVER.  He doesn't actually love Belle.  He wants Belle because he perceives her as the best there is, and therefore, his rightful companion, because he only deserves the best (his words, not mine!).  He doesn't appreciate her for who she is, which is a smart, funny, independent woman. Instead he has visions of tying her down with oodles of children while he tracks mud through her house with his huge smelly feet.  Perhaps, if he had once shown any kind of interest in her life or feelings, things may have been different.  But that's not what Gaston is about.  Gaston is about Gaston.  There's nothing wrong with that, ladies, as long as you understand what you're getting, which is a man who will always put himself first, before your wants, before your needs, before everything and anything that may be important to you.  You will be getting a man who can't ever see your value as a person, because he's too busy admiring the value he has placed in himself.

But, yes, I do feel sorry for him.  He had such potential.  And therein lies his tragic flaw:  an oaf who doesn't know he's an oaf will make a fool of himself in public and never be aware of it.

That being said, he and Belle may have actually made a great team.  Why?  Because she had the worst case of Stockholm Syndrome, EVER!   They would have been one big, happy, dysfunctional couple...Belle, always seeking after something new and exciting, Gaston, not able to provide what she needed...and around and around they would go, until twenty years later, they're sitting in a marriage counselor's office, trying to figure out why the hell the sparks don't fly.  Meanwhile, some large man-animal that lives in a castle has to figure out how to break a curse by himself, because he finally realizes that no one should be responsible for the recovery of his soul but him.  Then, after he does that and learns that loving yourself opens the door to accepting and loving others, he finds this woman from Scotland named Merida, who adores that he allows her to be herself and doesn't place any character constraints on what she can and cannot do.  (Wow, this really got out of hand...sorry)

And they all lived dysfunctionally ever after.

Anticipation

It's 346 pm today and I got soaked to the bone.  I am now wearing my jammies and just polished off a cup of hot chocolate.  I still feel chilly and the thought of climbing into a cave of blankets in the dark and not answering the phone or having any human contact whatsoever sounds absolutely divine...like the sort of thing you might find in the Elysian Fields, or something.

But.

I have work.  I have some fresh ravioli in the fridge waiting to cooked for dinner.  (roasted red pepper and garlic, if you wanted to know) and some more work to do on that second draft, plus preliminary work on the sequel.

Yeah.  Sequel.

Writing is funny like that.  Sometimes, when you're not even done with the first book, the second one is born, and it demands your attention the same way a screaming infant clamors for nourishment.  It cannot be ignored.  And in this instance, writing is just as soothing to me as a cup of cocoa.  I write because I love it, because there is something I have to say, because those words will fill me up unless I pour them out onto paper.

What's the book about?  Well, I'm not going to say.  I will tell you that the second draft has begun.  There are no glittery vampires or oversexed werewolves.  There is, however, a very interesting man.  And he's far from ordinary.

Snuggle up, friends.  And you may want to leave the lights on.

It rained!  It rained!  And for one lovely, hallelujah filled moment, I could pretend it was actually fall!

Which means I'm extremely sleepy.  I want a bunch of blankets and some cocoa and I want to go back to bed and sleep for like, fifty years.

But there are four reasons why I can't do that.

And I love those four reasons.

I just wish that they came with pause buttons.  Or that I had that "shut up" necklace from the "Twilight Zone".  I'd rather it worked with different words, though...I don't like the idea of just randomly screaming "shut up".  I'd prefer it if I could yell "Check out these abs" or something...just a thought.  Not that I actually have abs...

Patience

Elder Maxwell also taught: “Patience is a willingness, in a sense, to watch the unfolding purposes of God with a sense of wonder and awe, rather than pacing up and down within the cell of our circumstance. Put another way, too much anxious opening of the oven door and the cake falls instead of rising. So it is with us. If we are always selfishly taking our temperature to see if we are happy, we will not be.”² 

I often see this meme that says, "May the bridges I burn light the way".  Today I stumbled onto the full quote.  It means much more this way:

The Silent Roar

(Getty images)

Anxiety is a terrible thing.  According to the Anxiety Disorders Association of America, approximately 3.3 million adults in America 18 and older suffer from some kind of anxiety disorder.  It came to my mind this evening for a couple of reasons.  School is starting.  Bills are due.  Doctor appointments are looming.  Dentist appointments are looming.  My financial aid hasn't posted yet.  Real estate is slow.  

But is that really what causes anxiety?  It's not the state of things as they are.  It's about the "ifs".  It's about creating scenarios and worrying about situations that may happen.  Taking my examples a step further, let me illustrate:

School is starting and what if the kids don't have all the supplies they need?  What if they don't like their classes?  What if they don't learn anything?  What if something happens at school and I'm not there to help?

Bills are due and what if I can't pay them right away?  How am I going to pay for this?  

Doctor appointments are looming and dentist appointments are looming and what if they don't go well?  What if Logan stims in the waiting room?  What if we have to wait a long time?  

My financial aid hasn't posted yet and what if it doesn't?  What if I can't go to school this semester?

Real estate is slow and what if it doesn't pick up again?  

Do you see?  Anxiety is like a silent roar.  It's a predator that stalks you throughout the day, making you glance nervously over your shoulder, second guessing the path you're on, forcing you to tense up and prepare for an attack that probably is never going to come.  It's a silent roar in your head and a voice that never quiets.  It's a critical sneer on the face of the future...a future you imagine to be fraught with pitfalls and embarrassment.

Everyone has some form of anxiety.  And everyone deals with it a different way.  Usually I run in the opposite direction straight into the arms of happy-go-lucky land.  We may not have enough money to pay bills?  Oh well.  It will work out.  School starts tomorrow?  Thank God.  My financial aid hasn't posted and I may not be able to go to school?  I'll focus more on my job and updating the house.  Doctor appointments are looming, etc?  Well, it's about damn time we got those done.

The other thing I do, when I feel like I'm getting anxious, is I try to stop for a minute and re-focus with a more eternal perspective.  I'm really not the one in control.  Ever.  That's the other half of anxiety.  It's trying to control things you can't control.  And it's a myth that you're in control in the first place.  Everyone's reach is limited.  God's isn't.  And at the end of the day, you really have to let go and give it to Him.  It's hard to do, especially when you have a plan in your head about the way you think things need to go.  But life isn't like that.  Life is not a projectile missile.  It's silly string, people.  It's messy, it's all over the place, and if you don't know how to relax and have a good time, all you're going to see is a disaster every day.  

Oh, and chocolate helps.  

And a Good Time Was Had By All

The hoops that you have to jump through in order to get your autistic child the medication they need are ridiculous.

Logan ran out of his medication a day and a half ago.  The pharmacy told me that the doctor's office didn't submit the refill correctly. The doctor's office said we would have to come in for a well-check before they would refill it.  So we went in for a well-check today.

While we were there, the nurse said that Logan was due for his 11 year vaccinations.  *sigh*  So, as soon as the needle touched his arm, he jumped, and almost broke the needle.  I had to hold him in my lap, restrain his arms, and wrap my leg around his legs and hold on as tight as I could while they gave him the shots.  (Yeah, it was necessary.  He's almost as big as I am and nearly as strong.  No.  You cannot sweet-talk him into getting a shot.  That's like asking a bull to tiptoe through a china shop).

Now, for those of you frowning because I took my child in for vaccinations:

HE ALREADY HAS AUTISM.  I DON'T THINK HE CAN GET IT AGAIN.

(And this, really, is a moot point, since vaccines don't cause this.)

But wouldn't it be funny if his autism went AWAY after this?  I can just see the headline now (probably gracing the front pages of the Onion):

Texas Woman Claims Son's Autism Cured By Vaccinations

Suddenly, everyone would be rushing out to get their kid vaccinated.  Whooping cough would once again disappear from our border cities.  Measles would no longer make an appearance at Disney.   Amazing.

At the very least, he got a lollipop out of the deal.

Yeah.

So, sometimes, even though you want and need to write, there just aren't any words.  

And it hurts.

Book Hangover!

It's Saturday night and I have a book hangover.  

Do you know what that is?  Let me explain.

First of all, the fiction gods smiled down on me after my recent rant about bad horror fiction.  I discovered a new author by the name of Mark Edwards.  He's based out of Great Britain and his books are usually centered around London.  And he's amazing.  He's written Follow You Home, Because She Loves Me, and the very chilling and nerve-wracking The Magpies, which, in my humble opinion, is his best.  

So, I started devouring these books.  I started with Follow You Home, which was incredibly gripping with its tension and twists and turns, and then read the Magpies.  Yesterday I followed up with Because She Loves Me and I read it pretty much all day until I finished it.  Which lead to a book hangover.

A book hangover constitutes that feeling you get when you've read too much, because you can't bear to tear yourself away from that juicy novel.  Tired, grainy eyes.  Aching neck and shoulders.  Perhaps a headache. That bloated feeling from eating a bunch of snacks that you normally wouldn't eat, because they're convenient and you can't be bothered to cook anything while you're in the depths of this fabulous tale.  Irritability, because you don't want to be interrupted while you're reading.  And then guilt.  Because you get to the end of the day and you realize that it's dark outside and you haven't moved your butt more than three feet in any direction and you suddenly understand that you have been reading the entire damned day.

Oh, the hedonism.  The pleasure. The sheer debauchery.  The cheese puffs and the Hershey candy and the pizzas and the root beer.  The homemade guacamole from HEB and the big comfy chair.  Or couch.  I think I gravitated between every comfortable surface in the house today while reading this book.  And you know what?

I'm.  Not.  Sorry.

This is My Circus, and These Are My Monkeys.

The circus is coming to town.

No, seriously, it is.  That's not a metaphor for something else.  Barnum and Bailey is opening in DFW next weekend.  I really, really wanted to go.  My parents used to take me to the Shriners' Circus when I was a kid.  I LOVED it.  Seeing people fly through the air.  The floor, sticky with popcorn and candy and stuff.  Glow in the dark thingies that you can twirl through the air.  Clowns running around, freaking people out, making them laugh out of sheer don't-touch-me-I-have-a-phobia nervousness.  Animals doing tricks for food.  Ringmasters controlling the animals in order not get trampled, eaten, or gored.  The roar of the crowd. Bodies jumping up and down on trampolines...

Oh.

Wait.

Why the heck would I pay for something I can experience from the comfort of my own home?

Seriously.  Tickets at the door, people.

Confessions

Hi, my name is Rachel, and I am thankful that school is about to start.  Because my hair will grow back.  That is all.