No means no, right?  To some people, yes.  That's enough, it's all they need to hear.  Message received.  For others, it's a line to be crossed or a boundary to be flat out ignored.  It's a challenge, even.

One thing we've tried to raise our children with is "No is a complete sentence."  That's it.  "No."  Full stop.

This is handy for parenting (when it works, sigh) but for me, more importantly, it falls under the incredibly critical life skill for setting boundaries.  My children absolutely must be capable of saying no to friends, family, peers, strangers, and even adults who play large roles in their lives, such as their therapists, other parents within our homeschool community, friends' parents, and those we know from church.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I want my children to have the confidence, and know they have the support to say "No" to adults.  Most crimes committed against (vulnerable) children are committed by an adult they know and trust.  It is important my children know how to self-advocate, so being able to say no and stick to it is high on my list of priorities. 

Knowing how to say no is imperative concerning things which are unhealthy, dangerous, illegal and uncomfortable.  This is crucial when you are at risk of being taken advantage of, overextending yourself and people-pleasing.  It is even essential when you simply do not want to do something.

Digression: We all have things we don't want to do but we must do them anyway.  Sometimes they are scary and uncomfortable, or even feel as though they could be unsafe.  But we must to tackle these tasks for growth, maturity and daily life.  I'm not addressing those responsibilities.  What I'm speaking to here are boundaries one must put in place for an emotionally and physically safe, healthy life.

"No," can also sound like "I don't want to," "Please leave me alone," "I asked you to stop bothering me," "I'm blocking your number/social media privileges," "That makes me uncomfortable," and "That doesn't sound safe."  There are any number of ways to say no, but it still means NO.

You do not owe the other person an explanation, a reason, or elaboration of any kind.  When you are taking care of yourself and your family by using this word, there is no need to feel guilty.  The irony here is how often Avery calls me out on this.  "Mom, you always tell us to stand firm in our no because it's a full sentence, but you just gave that person a laundry list of reasons."  Perhaps this is why it's so important to me for my children to be able to self advocate--because I still have great difficulty with it.

I practice this quite a bit with the littles: Tone of voice (say it nicely yet firm, no need to be rude about it), facial expressions, how to walk away or otherwise end the conversation when No is not accepted, blocking phone numbers, game users, etc.  It's important they understand someone unwilling to accept No as their answer is not being persistent, but is being disrespectful.  They need to be able to recognize coercion, abuse, harassment and other red flags.  

There are any number of reasons why people might violate such boundaries.  Perhaps there is a mental health disorder, or they simply weren't taught respect.

Bear in mind, the opposite is also true: My children are learning to accept no as a complete sentence from others, also.  As respectable boys growing into respectable men, as human beings in general, this matters.  

Would I be teaching this to my children if they did not have autism?  Absolutely.  But, they do have autism, making lessons like this one even more significant.  The world operates differently than they do and they need to be aware of this.  Am I at risk of making my kids cynical and skeptical of the world?  Too late, they already are.  Probably.  But just as with anything in parenthood, it's a balance that must be taught.

Here's a quick lesson for you: If any of my kids tell you no in any way, shape or form, they mean it.  Have the decency to respect them.  

Things that are Weird and Hard to Get Used to

Someone please hand me another box of tissues...

Shawn and I really, really miss our kid.  Yes, we are super proud of him and thrilled beyond belief for this new chapter in his life--but I won't lie, it kind of feels as though it's coming at a price.  My arms are a little empty.  Sending our kids out into the world successfully means we've done our job as parents--this is what we work their entire first two decades of life towards!  Yay us!  Yay them!  Good parenting typically means you've worked yourself right out of your job.  

I've always determined Abba had His own good reasons for spacing our kids out the way He did, and I'm telling you, I'm understanding it more than ever right now.  There's no way I could send all three boys off in quick succession.  I'm so relieved life will slow down a little bit again before we release our next one out in to the world.  I'm so grateful there are years to adjust to this in between each child. 

I once heard this advice about dropping your child off at college: "Don't look in the rearview mirror (as you leave)"; but there isn't much advice about watching your child pull out of the driveway for the last time.  How do I do this?  I've talked with every friend of mine who has already traveled this road, I've picked brains, I've hugged and held on for dear life.  Most friends sent their kids off to college, so they had time to adjust to their absence before watching that final departure.  I couldn't turn my back as he pulled away, I couldn't avert my eyes, I couldn't just go in the house and ignore his exit.  I couldn't cling to him and ground him for the rest of his life--and believe me, I really REALLY wanted to.  It was tempting to try it just to see what would happen.  Or maybe take his car keys.  I wanted to run after his car, chasing it through the neighborhood to the final stop sign, begging him to change his mind.  In the weeks leading up to his departure, I went through my anxiety and migraine meds like they're Tic Tacs.  Ever since he announced his move, I've been joking that just when I think I've been through the scariest part of his life as his mom (anyone remember when he broke up a knife fight at a Jamaican orphanage?!?!? Life as a first responder???), he ups the ante, saying, "Hold my Bang and watch this."  This time it was moving.  Far away.  On his own.  Even though I know all of this is the absolute right thing for him to do and the right time to do it.  He deserves to live his life.  He deserves happiness.  He's doing exactly what he's supposed to do at his age.  And I am happy for him.  No--I really am, I promise!  When I remind the littles it's okay to be sad for us but we need to be happy for Noah, it's just as much for myself as it is for them, though.

Needless to say, it's been an adjustment here.  Food and sodas aren't disappearing at alarming rates anymore,  I'm not tripping over his shoes and random socks, his cat just might be more depressed than the rest of us are, and even though the littles and I have transformed his room into a classroom/sensory room/ABA room, we find ourselves still referring to it as "Noah's room."  I feel as though I *finally* got my feet under me as a family of five, and now I'm having to readjust--again--to being a family of four.  Venturing out with the littles (conversation between myself and Shawn: With Noah gone, do we still refer to them to as the littles???), I have this odd, insecure feeling, as though I need to announce that I have a grown and flown child as well.  "Family of four?"  "No!  Yes! Wait! I mean, there's six of us--well, five.  But yeah, four, I guess."  Our family is experiencing a new normal, and it's been a little weird.  You hear about downsizing homes, material items, cars, etc, but No.  One.  Tells.  You.  About.  Downsizing.  Your.  Family.  As.  The.  Kids.  Move.  Out.  The emotions are big and they are real.  There have been a LOT of tears.

Here are just a few of the things we're adjusting to:

*Dinner reservations for four

*We are still that loud family, but not that big, loud family

*Not having to buy as much toilet paper (and yet, our grocery bill hasn't decreased because I'm still in "feeding three kids" hoarding mode)

*Even with two children remaining, four cats, a dog and an incredibly opinionated duck, there's an emptiness and a quiet in the house

*Not having to double the dinner recipes (but I'm still over-cooking because I'm not quite sure how to not cook for an army)

*Not finding cereal dishes in the sink in the morning after a midnight kitchen raid (as frustrated as I was, I'm kind of missing that sign of life)

*No mumbling grumpy pants stumbling down the stairs to polish off last night's leftovers before heading to work

*Towels and dishes made a remarkable reappearance and are no longer vanishing into thin air (also, we aren't running the dishwasher every night now--what's up with that?)

*My days aren't laced with constant sarcasm and dry humor (well, there's still mine, but I'm missing his contributions)

*The bickering is quieter and with only two voices, a little easier to follow 

*My Shawn's-at-work/on call-partner-in-crime is missing (Avery is desperately, lovingly, trying to fill that hole)

*Not waiting up at night to make sure he gets home safely from work

*We gained a wonderful new sort-of family member, whom we adore and love already, and she just fit right in immediately

*Not having to tiptoe around and whisper in the morning as we begin our day and he ends his (although, the littles think this means they can now make enough noise to wake the dead)

*Buying a smaller, non-family grid calendar for 2022 and retiring Noah's calendar ink color (What?  Your family members don't have designated colors on the family calendar???  Weirdo.)

I miss my boy.  But I'm so damn proud of him and I cannot do anything but know we put our everything into preparing him for this moment--knowing he is ready for it--and pray the best over the rest of his life (and make sure he knows he can always come home).  I can't wait to see what the next chapters of his life hold for him.

Carried and Loved

"How many children do you have," and "Three boys?" are questions which always catch me off guard.  I know the answer, but is the person really asking  for the honest answer?  Sadly, it is one of those "merely polite" questions, so I seldom go into detail.  But I always feel guilty.  

The answers--Shawn and I have four children; three boys and a little girl.

Sixteen years ago, Shawn and I lost our daughter.  When I don't acknowledge her life, I feel as though I'm denying she existed and the unlimited possibilities life held for her.  I feel as though I'm denying the world around us the joy she's brought us, even in her absence.  I feel like the world's shittiest mom when I don't talk about our daughter.  To be perfectly clear, we did not lose a pregnancy, we did not lose a fetus, we did not lose a clump of cells--we lost a child.  Our child.  We didn't get to meet her and we never held her in our arms.  All the same, I know her inside and out, just as I do our boys.  In complete transparency, I hadn't even told Shawn I was pregnant yet.  I hid the loss for over a year, suffering in silence with shame.  I was absolutely certain I'd somehow caused her death.  I was angry, I was hurting and filled with contempt for myself.

I write about Grace, particularly during October, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, every so often for several reasons.  Even though her life was brief, her legacy is long.  She taught me, and subsequently our family, more in her few short weeks within me than some people are able to teach in long decades on earth.  Grace taught me about being grateful for who we already had in our lives.  She taught me to be a better mom to Noah.  She taught me the true value of life as I was learning to know and experience it.  She deserves to be remembered.

I also write because I want other parents and families to know they aren't alone.  This is a club every parent fears and no one asks to belong to, yet many of us find ourselves here (at least one in four of us).  The parents experiencing loss could look like a big family who have suffered one, or even multiple losses.  They could also look like a childless couple.  Please, if you do know parents who do not have living children, please still honor them as parents.  Never having had a chance to hold your child still makes one a parent.  Be kind.  Loss and infertility are maddeningly heartbreaking, infertility being an inexplicable loss in a league of its own.  Your arms ache and grow weary from the weight of emptiness.  

Everyone's loss and infertility stories are different.  Our experiences vary, as do the reasons and causes. I became very ill after I had Noah, diagnosed with multiple chronic diseases, taking many medications with serious consequences.  My doctors told us we were lucky to have Noah and to not get our hopes up about more children.  After losing Grace, I sunk into a deep(er) depression, resigning myself to the advice of my doctors.

I spent quite a few years white hot with anger.  I absolutely tortured myself, reading news stories about parents unworthy of being parents.  I lashed out at those I deemed unfit, always wondering how it was they could have children so freely, without seemingly a care for them, when I wanted children so badly and could not even force my body to attempt to make a baby.  It felt like a punishment and I couldn't understand who was doling it out or what it was for.  I wrote angry blogs, I became suicidally depressed, I screamed into the abyss and was a generally nasty person to be around.  I blamed God a LOT.  I felt unworthy of life--unworthy of giving life--unworthy of raising Noah, unworthy of being what I considered a good wife.  It took me so long to forgive myself, to realize this was not something being done to me, to relinquish the control I wanted to have over the situation, to come to terms with the entire ordeal.

These days I'm doing much better, but it took an incredibly long time to heal.  I still have a bad moment here and there--a fleeting moment of sadness over milestones we were denied, a song that makes me think of her, family moments that remind me someone is missing.  But I don't dwell on her absence the way I used to.

I hit a remission years after Grace's death and we were given the go ahead to try for another baby.  It took us over two years for Avery (for a total of nine years between him and Noah), and another five for Ezra (a total of six years between him and Avery).  Both were considered high risk pregnancies, but not because of my previous miscarriage years earlier.  Did you know a woman has to have three to four miscarriages in a row, within the same year, before a doctor considers her high risk due to miscarriage?  One miscarriage, two miscarriages, even three or four  miscarriages separated by years and/or 'successful' pregnancies only get you a pat on the head, a smile and "Well, at least you can try again!  There's nothing to worry about!  You're just fine!"  No extra monitoring, no extra tests--nothing.  No matter how scared you are.  Not even to reassure you.  I was utterly unable to relax and enjoy my pregnancies with Avery and Ezra because I was so terrified.  I lost count of the pregnancy tests I took in the beginnings of their pregnancies.  Every twinge, every off feeling, every single thing that didn't feel quite right caused panic.  I'd never been so grateful for HG as I was with Ezra because it meant I was still pregnant with him.  With each trip to the ER and doctor for fluids and anti-nausea meds, I begged for sonograms, anything, for reassurance.  I'm here to tell you, they do not care.  You are simply written off as hysterical.  "If *the fetus is in distress, there isn't anything we can do at this stage anyway."  They use cold, hard medical terminology: fetus, pregnancy.  They will not acknowledge the life you are carrying is a human being, *your baby.  You won't even receive an insincere apology as they leave the room.

I know we are one of the few fortunate families who came out of this on the other end.  For every one of us who make it, there are countless others who don't.  To those of you still fighting this battle, to those of you throwing in the towel, my heart is with you.  Please know you aren't alone.    

Grace--one day we'll see you on the other side of the rainbow.  Until then, when we finally get to hold you, we miss you.  We love you so much-- Mom and Dad   

The Uninvited

 I've struggled with finding my words--massive writer's block (let's call it a boulder)--for almost three years.  Wow.  Three years.  That hurts so, so much.  While grief was the original reason and is still a major player, I've recently had a huge awakening as to the other, perhaps root-reason my brain shuts down each time I come here to pour out my thoughts in my own personal space.  I've seen so few posts through to completion.  There are currently over 75 drafts of started-never-finished-never-published posts.  Some of them are only a few sentences, others are completed but feel unfinished.  Bits and pieces of insight, life as I know it, inexplicable anguish, raw motherhood...

I started this blog as a safe outlet for myself.  Our then-ten year old had just been diagnosed with ADHD and autism, and we had an infant.  We were trying to homeschool Noah, I was trying to hang on to my volunteer position at a grief center, I was trying to do everything and be everyone--while attempting to maintain (what was left of) my sanity.  I needed a place to vent, and I knew I'd eventually want to look back on those years to see how far we'd come.  I needed a place to keep memories and the deepest parts of myself for my kids to have one day.  This was a sacred place where I could yell, scream, curse the night, pray, cry, rejoice, share news, laugh, encourage others and just be myself.  Things I never dared say out loud could safely go right here.  Writing has always been a healthy form of unraveling myself.  Therapy, yes, but there have still been things I've always held back.  This has been where I could come to not only get everything out of my head, but even to actually get out of my own head.  The words flowed so effortlessly from my brain through my fingertips, to the keyboard, onto the screen.  At the end of a writing session, I would walk away feeling less burdened and less weary.  There was extreme relief with such release.  So much freedom.  Many times, my posts have been unspoken prayers, crying out to Abba or outright screaming at Him, safely put here.  So many tears have been shed while sitting at this keyboard.  Over the years, I've also come to hope this space would be a welcome place of laughter, solace and camaraderie, even a place of being able to explain myself, autism, depression and our lives--and so much more--to others.

This boulder standing in my path has left me wondering if my time as a writer has just run its own natural course.  Perhaps I've finally gotten all the words out of my head (haha) and it's time to just close down my blog.  After all, these long, parched months in between each post have been the longest I've gone without writing in the ten years since I typed my first sentence.  But no, that's not it.  I still have so much to say, so many mamas to encourage, so many things to teach the world (I hope).

So, what is it?  What causes my brain to instantly shut down every time I sit at my computer?  

The uninvited.  

I'm not talking about complete strangers (I actually prefer an audience of outsiders.  There's something to be said for anonymity, for not knowing--not having to know--who is on the other side of my screen.).  My blog has always been, and will remain, a public forum.  I briefly considered making my blog invitation only, or starting an entirely new private one, but I know deep in my heart, that is not the solution to this problem.  Running and hiding is not the answer. (Edit: Yes, after some deep soul searching and a moment of clarity, I did change the name and domain, but not for the reason of hiding.  I did so because it's just the right time for a new name.)  I routinely post my blogs to my social media account, use the website as a tagline in my emails and refer other struggling mamas to my place for love and encouragement.  

Rather, I'm talking about those who have no right to be here, but believe themselves entitled.  People who made choices and continue to refuse to accept consequences.  They long ago forfeited any right to a place at my table, yet I keep finding them behind the bushes, lying in wait for the next round of 'news.'  Some would love for you to believe it's their way of continuing to be a part of my life, the only possible way for them to do so (never believe a narcissist--and please, PLEASE remember there are always three sides to any story--Person A's, Person B's and the truth; a narcissist's so-called side seldom contains any semblance of the truth), because *palm to forehead* I ruthlessly cut them out.  

As much as I hate admitting it, it's also related to fear and anger.  Without doubt, my brain's refusal to budge is a form of self protection.  As hard as I've worked as an adult to overcome past trauma, I still so often resort back to that scared little girl, silently willing myself and everyone else in the house to please just not rock the boat.  Please don't make her mad.  Please don't do this.  I've come so far--but I still have so much further to go.  I am angry with myself for allowing the fear and shame to creep back in.  The shame never belonged on my shoulders to begin with.  I am angry with these blog-poachers, these unwell information seekers who ultimately lost any privilege they could've possibly had to be privy to my innermost thoughts and feelings.

How dare these people presume they are still welcome after everything, how dare they even think of coming here--knowing they aren't welcome, giggling as they get one over on me.  But I know why they do--you can't stop a narcissist from narcissisting.  Quite simply, it is one particular person's way of continuing to attempt to maintain control over my life and I'm sick to death of it.  

You know who you are.  My blog is not your personal newsstand or gossip rag, nor was it ever intended as such once you left our lives.  With your toxic behavior and your unsafe actions, you made your choice glaringly clear.  You set the precedent for the ugly ways in which my sister and I spoke to ourselves, as well as how we allowed others to treat us and speak to us.  You were supposed to keep us safe from danger; instead, the whole time, you were the danger lurking behind the closed doors of what we so desperately wanted to call home, lying to friends and family alike, just a couple of little girls playing pretend.  As much as we wanted someone to see it and believe us, we turned on those very, very few who did recognize your behavior patterns for what they were, out of fear of how you'd react.  You began a vicious cycle of abuse--a campaign of utter hatred--against us, your daughters.  Your rage-filled efforts to control us even into our adulthoods, plunged us into complete chaos, never knowing which end was up and what would set you off.  A lifetime of fight or flight.  Memories of your tantrums and tirades are still enough to leave me quaking.  I had to watch while Nancy perpetuated your cycle, building on it with her own, completely left without any tools to end it.  She ran from you, the fire, to him, the frying pan.  And now I have to watch as her children do the same with their children.  It's taken me years to shake it, to confront it, to make sure I pass as little of it as possible on to my own children.  In our home, we say "I'm sorry," we say, "I love you," (and mean it), we don't gaslight each other, we respect each other, we don't demand affection, we don't demand perfection, we allow our kids to be kids, we allow our kids to be our teachers.  I hate--hate--what you got away with and think you still can.  You are not welcome here.  Nancy may not have gotten out alive, but I sure as hell did.  I will no longer allow you to make the little girl in me afraid of putting myself, my thoughts, my feelings and my choices here, or anywhere else I choose to put them.  I'm taking back my voice.  It ends here.  It ends now.  

Healing

(Edit: This was written last weekend but not posted until now)

I've needed a good day, a good time, a really good something, anything--to just be able to sit back and be--still, present, in the moment--with my family and take it all in.  It's been a long time coming.

I've needed to laugh, to dance, to smile, be silly.  To just remember how happy feels.  To be swallowed up with happy.  I've forgotten what it feels like.  To have fun.  To just be with the ones I love the most, and have a really amazing wonderful time and enjoy myself--to feel safe, to feel secure.  To KNOW I'm safe.  To know it's all okay and it will be okay.  To laugh and live out loud.

Do you ever watch your family--like one of those out of body kind of experiences-- with overwhelming happiness and joy and just think to yourself, "That's it right there.  That's my whole heart.  They're my whole world,"?  You're fully participating, but you're also an intense observer, watching from the outside looking in.  You feel the warmth emanating from the moment, you find yourself caught up in the laughter--your face even hurts from smiling so hard and so big.

And just like that--your shoulders relax.  Your body gives in to itself, it gives in to the moment.  You throw your head back with unmistakable laughter.  You are faced with a reality you knew all along, but still needed a reminder of--especially during and after the low, dark'\ times--those who matter, those who are important, those who make your world go round.  All the tears, the screams, the pent up anger you've been holding in--finally released in moments just like this.  

Tonight, I finally let go. 

I allowed myself to feel everything I needed to feel, every emotion, both good and bad.  I allowed my brain, heart and body to express those emotions fully.  

I did just that tonight.  I let go.  Finally.  And I'm here to tell you--it felt absolutely incredible.