A Very Very Autism House

Monday was that day again--World Autism Awareness Day.  That means it's that month again--Autism Awareness, or Acceptance, Month.

It's always Autism Day in our house.  With a suspected four of us (plus one cat) on the spectrum, life is seldom boring, and anything but normal.

What IS normal, anyway????

Many people think if they've seen their cousin's uncle's goldfish's kid with autism, they've seen them all.  More are beginning to understand that autism doesn't look the same in everyone.  That's how I missed it in Avery, and I'm supposed to be an para-expert. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "Well, he doesn't look autistic!"  Sigh.

So, what does autism look like in our home?  Autism used to look like pacing in the backyard (our version of stimming), enough that he created almost a moat around the yard.  It looks like tippy toe walking.  It looks like complete disorganization and fire-hazard rooms, but OCD-strict grocery store shelves. Autism looks like wordless screaming in the middle the grocery store, a restaurant or other public place that is too loud or otherwise overstimulating.  It looks like out of control, bratty, shut-that-kid-up-lady behaviors to the unknowing eye.  Autism looks like obsessing over a certain toy or subject or tv show, or something to the point we parents have to put our feet down, and declare moratoriums on said toys, subjects or shows or somethings.  It looks like sentences, or words, repeated many times in a row.  At the end of some days, it looks like utter defeat, ending in tears and complete exhaustion, knowing it all starts again at the crack of dawn again the next morning.  It looks like weekly appointments with various specialists and therapists, and searching for those professionals who will believe in my kids as much as I do.  Autism looks like gratitude for those who must do their jobs, but are willing to put accommodations into place for us as they do them.  It looks like ten steps forward, and twenty two steps back.  Sometimes, autism looks like a complete meltdown over what, on the surface looks like nothing, but started earlier that day over a tag, or an uncomfortable sock, or something similar, and has built throughout the day, then suddenly explodes over that seemingly nothing.  It looks like fierce anger, crippling anxiety, and restrictive obsessive-compulsive behaviors.  Sometimes, autism looks like physical violence, towards himself, or towards me. It looks like me physically restraining him with my own body until he's safe again.  It looks like frustration when uninformed people judge us, and anger with general ignorance.  It looks like me, exhausted from trying to explain my kids, and just plain sick of having to explain them at all.  It looks like frustration with those who patronize my kids and treat them as less than they are because of a label.  It looks like high intelligence and amazing humor.  On our best days, it looks like introversion and social awkwardness.  On our worst, autism looks like reclusiveness.  

Autism looks like me, advocate, warrior, teacher, defender, protector, MOTHER BEAR.

Autism looks like them, my REASONS.

Autism does not look like pity needed, victimhood or hopelessness.

Over the past seven years, I've gone from screaming at God and pounding my fists on my steering wheel in a rage, to looking at the work He and Noah have accomplished in Noah (and our family), to not batting an eye when I approached the issue of autism concerning my younger two.  And????  Your point?

It's not always easy, but this mama's got it covered.

It's a constant, daily battle, but we're up for it.

We have to be.

This is autism.  This is our life.