The Straw and The Camel

I was going to call this one "I Need Vodka".... But, well, we won't go there.

It's been a windshield-breaking, phone cracking, kitchen fire setting, meltdown-having, Prednisone-filled, PMS-fueled week, on top of the 6 weeks I've already been sick with symptoms no one can really explain.  Avery has been up since 5:45 this morning, talking absolutely non-stop.  I'm not looking for rainbows and unicorns,  I'm looking for my bed.  Worst of all, my oldest is being bullied to the point at which he's talking about "taking their advice" concerning suicide.  How exactly is one supposed to respond to that?  Not just to the bullying, but to the immediate fear of letting your child out of your sight ever again?

Yeah, I'm not handling stress all that well this week.

To say I'm a little extra sensitive to things this week would be an understatement.  I'm tired, I'm worn, I'm angry for my son, I can't get through five minutes of the day without bursting into tears over one thing or another.  I am on overload.  I am RAW.

I went to work this morning--my safe place.  The center has always been my haven.  ALWAYS.  Daily, life-involved crap is not allowed there.  There is a peace that envelopes me as I walk through the door, inhale the scent of the pantry (it smells like my grandmother's--don't give me a hard time), and just kind of take in everything God has to offer me, and the rest of us, there.  There, we are about one another, and those God brings to us to care for, and even when nothing is right, everything is okay.

Today, things crashed a little bit.  Today, my haven wasn't the haven it usually is.  Today, it was the straw that broke the camel's back.  Today, I actually had to remove myself from a situation while there.

Remember I said I'm already feeling pretty sensitive?  Well, when people are insensitive, when they proclaim to know a lot about something (nothing), and then continue to babble incessantly on that topic in which they are ignorant--I fume.  I silently beg that person to JUST.  SHUT.  UP.

And, knowing me as well as you do by now, I'm sure you also know the term 'autistic' sets me off. My son HAS autism, he is NOT autism--do you see the different when you call him, and others with autism, 'autistic?'  Autism is not what makes Noah Noah, it's part of him.  Some call it nitpicky, some say I'm arguing semantics.  To me, it would be the same as calling a child who is overweight, a 'fatty.'  It's a label, not a diagnosis.  I don't like labels, because then we forget about the person inside.  GET.  IT.  RIGHT.

Today, those two factors--ignorant people, and incorrect terminology--came crashing into my already on-edge, oversensitive, bruised mommy self esteem.  There was a woman going on, and on, and on--about autistic kids.  I've never met this woman before, but she claimed to be a teacher's aide who--ding ding--worked with "those poor autistic kids."  She went on and on about how hard they try, they just have so much against them, life is just so hard for them, it's so frustrating working with them--I cringed.  I wanted to hide under the table.  I tried to tune her out, I really did.  I swear I did.  I wanted to turn around and stare at her, hoping lasers would somehow shoot out of my eyes.  Our admin noticed  I was wearing my shoulders as earrings at that point; she put her hand on my one of my new earrings, both of us realizing I just needed to move to a different room.

I did--change rooms--but not before I screamed at her, in my head of course, that my child kicks autism's ass every single day of his life.  He not only does that, but he ROCKS it.  He is not autism's bitch, autism is HIS bitch.  My child is not autism, he is NOAH.  I will not allow my child to be a victim of autism (or anything else)--he will be a survivor and thrive in life.  Did you get that this time?

I really wish I had a great message to end this post with--something snazzy like, "Think before you speak." Or "Educate yourself"-- or, "You never know who is listening when you're being stupid and ignorant so please just keep your mouth shut"--but really, after spending the last 4 hours in tears, breaking down in Target just trying to choose a pair of ear buds, looking at my cracked windshield, staring at my burnt up kitchen wall and cabinets, and realizing I still have another week of prednisone, and at least that long before my PMS will end, and my kid has another 5 years in school with the brats who bully him--I'm spent.  There's no message here this time, just me: An angry, frustrated, tired, raw, worn out mommy who is in desperate need of a little bit of nice.

New Chapters

One of the chapters in Noah's life-book has been his therapy riding. This is, quite possibly, the most important chapter in his book. There are days I don't know where we'd be without these horses, instructors, volunteers and staff--without this farm, this therapy.  It's not just horse therapy, it's family therapy.  I still remember his first lesson--watching that grin on his face through the tears on my own.

Turning onto the gravel road, there is an inaudible, yet collective sigh from everyone in the car.  Our shoulders droop, no longer carrying the weight of the world.  Our bodies relax, our faces smile, our lungs take deep, cleansing breaths.  None of the daily nonsense is allowed here, and for an hour each week, everything is okay.  Noah is just a normal kid, doing normal kid things, happy, knowledgable, safe.  Everyone there is there for our kids; no politics, no 'my kid is more troubled/more normal/worse/better than your kid,' we all live on neighboring planets--if not the same one--and we're all there, all for the same reasons.  Kindred spirits, weary, battle-worn soldiers, parents searching for reprieve.

Our family--and I say all of us, not just Noah, because we all benefit from our weekly farm visits--has received blessing upon blessing just by being part of this therapy center.  In addition to the horses and amazing people, we're blessed each week just by the beautiful location of the farm and the nearby lake.  We've been given--given--opportunities to attend events, and just do fun things as a family.  The biggest blessing obviously is seeing our son happy and successful.  

Before riding, I carted Noah from OT to PT to ST, to social skills groups, to this and that and everything else.  Nothing worked--because he wasn't interested.  It was boring for him.  Most of it took more work than he was willing to put into it.  There were countless arguments, and we weren't getting anywhere.

Enter Miss J.

At wit's end, I emailed a friend at church, saying "Hey, I know you ride.... Know of anyplace that does therapy riding?"  As a matter of fact, she didn't just know of a place, she taught at such a place.

Miss J worked with Noah for over a year.  She saw things in my child that I myself struggled to see at times, and was desperate for others to see in him.  She saw potential, she saw worthiness, she saw a natural gift with horses and horsemanship--and she worked hard with Noah to cultivate that, to grow him, and to help him see what he needs to see in himself.  Miss J has helped Noah learn to be comfortable in his own skin, to learn to be Noah, to accept instruction and praise.  She took complete leaps of faith with him, she set high standards, and he has far surpassed that.  He excels.  Not only has she helped him in the ring, but she's helped our family out of the ring, by securing long-term scholarship money for this expensive therapy. Not only did this therapy begin with Miss J, but it began--and continues--because of her.  I am humbled by her love for my boy.  Maybe she was 'just doing her job,' but it's never felt that way.  When you have a child like Noah, you spend your life screaming at people to take note, to see your child as worthy, to help you, to help your child--and when that finally happens, well, it's pretty awesome.  Miss J managed to do all of that without treating him any differently, without making life 'easy' for Noah, all while treating him like a typical kid.  He's not "Noah with all the issues," he's just Noah.  Noah wouldn't be at the point he is at today if not for all the work Miss J put into just doing her job.

Miss J left this summer to have a baby, and fought hard for Noah to have the instructor she wanted him to have, the instructor she knew he needs--and now we have Miss C, another incredible gift to our family.   Miss C is part of our horse chapter, but is creating a new chapter of her own, as well.  Like Miss J, she sees the potential Noah carries within him, and he's just Noah.

We knew in our hearts that Miss J wouldn't be coming back.  She set everything into motion for Noah, then took a step back.  But, she was still there in the background.  Last week though, she announced she and her family are moving back home.  Even with Noah's amazing progress with Miss C, I'm experiencing some grief over this. While I'm happy for Miss J, and I will always be grateful for her and everything she's done, I will miss her terribly.  Today, trying to say goodbye, and thank you, I couldn't.  I can't do it without tears, and there just aren't words for everything I want her to know.  Instead, I settled for a wholly inadequate "Thank you" in a quaking, trembling voice.

I don't know if Miss J will ever know what she has meant to our family, but I am quite sure she isn't finished touching lives.  I do know that wherever she is, wherever she goes, she will be a gift.