Love Languages

Avery's love language is stuffed animals--lovies.  He can sniff out a stuffed animal buried 5000 feet under the ocean, over 20000 miles away.  I'm not kidding.  The kid has a problem.  When he finds one in a store he just has to have, citing it's many pros, it's hard to tell him no.  It is guaranteed that if you have one in your possession, it will find its way to Avery's bed.  We hung a hammock for his many lovies, but they continue to be scattered all over the floor and in his bed.  Some nights I have no idea how there's enough room for him to be comfortable, but he makes it work.

If he shares his lovies with you, especially his beloved puppy ear, it's a pretty big deal.

Much to Avery's delight, as we've cleaned out the old house and organized our new home, we've uncovered countless stuffed animals from my childhood, and a few of Noah's old ones I had tucked away.  He is in heaven, carting them off to his bedroom to introduce them to the rest of his gang, giving them names, and placing them around his room, deciding who gets the honor of sleeping in his bed, and who is relegated to the hammock.

Last night, he very generously offered to share a stuffed animal with each of us.  Noah and Shawn declined, until I texted them both reminding them that this is his love language.  "TAKE A STUFFED ANIMAL."  Oh.  I asked Avery to choose one for me, then asked why he chose that one.  "Well, because it's ugly and kind of scary and I really don't like that one."

Oh.

So much for love languages.  Kids, man.

I'm Sorry (A Letter to the Forgotten Ones)

Dearest Child,
I'm so sorry for what you were put through, for how you suffered.  I'm sorry.  My apology is empty and rings hollow.  It is too little, too late.  My apology is not what you needed, but it is all I can offer.  If I had known you, I promise you that I would've done more to help you.  Instead, you died and suffered alone, never knowing the love a child should know from his mommy.  You were hurt, ridiculed, laughed at, neglected, abused, humiliated, starved, and ruined by the very hands that should have loved you and protected you.  I'm sorry no one ever stood up for you and protected you, I'm sorry you fell through the cracks.  The system failed you.  I'm sorry.

You are the reason I read the news when others warn me not to.  Your story deserves to be heard.  You deserve to have your name said with love.  Your soul deserves prayer, and your tragedy deserves tears shed.  You deserved so much more in life, and I'm sorry this is all I can give you now.

You are one of the reasons my own children get extra hugs, the reason I hold them a little closer and a little longer.  As if, somehow, but loving them more, I can reset the deficit created by what you lost.  I know that's not possible, but that is still my thought process.  My promise to my own children, that I will protect them, love them and provide for them, that they will always know security and safety.

You are one of the reasons I pray for the other forgotten children.  I pray they will not fall through the cracks, I pray mightily for them, that they will have someone stand beside them, stand up for them and say NO MORE.  I pray that blind eyes will not be turned, justice will be served, and hope restored.

You, dear child, deserved the best out of life.  Instead, you were handed the worst.  My head echoes with what your last moments must have been like, my imagination going to dark places I wouldn't wish on anyone.  My last prayer for you, my knowledge for you, is that you now rest with the Father--a Father who loves you more than you could ever possibly fathom.  I will not forget you, I will remember your name, and I will love in your precious memory.

Rest easy now, Love.

Parenthood: Life Unscripted

I'm a planner.  I'm a prepper.  I don't like surprises. I like to know what to expect.  I don't do well when things don't go according to plan--my plan.  My education in parenthood, and the unplanned, unscripted life of parenthood, began almost sixteen years ago when I found out I was pregnant with Noah.  I quickly learned that nothing goes according to plan, starting right there with conception.  

We all have big ideas, big plans, big dreams for our children.  We envision the paths we'd like them to take.  We want better for our child than what we had.  With that first blue line, we start making plans.  Sometimes, before that baby is even more than a twinkle in his daddy's eye, we're making plans and dreaming dreams. Perhaps the blue line was unexpected, and the dreaming and planning begin there.

And, then we meet our child... Our child with his own dreams, his own plans, his own ideas--and, his own opinions.  His own way of doing things.  His own life to live.  He arrives with his own personality, and his own version of your genetics.  He is his own person, and not always the way we had imagined.  We realign our own visions for this child so that ours match his.

This is, of course, our goal as parents, as bittersweet as it may be: To raise them well, and release them into the world when it's time, whether it's according to our plans, their plans, or a combination of both.  As they grow and mature, it no longer becomes our job to say no to something or to sway their decisions, but instead to guide them, and trust them to make the adult decisions we've raised them to make.  The lengthening of the apron strings is a painful process, sometimes more for us than for them. We coach them, cheer them, support them and love them through milestone after milestone.  One day, they're infants, then we blink and they're headed out the door to start the next chapter of their lives.  How does that happen?  Where does the time go? It's a difficult, shocking moment when we realize the child we've raised is no longer such a child, and is becoming capable of making such adult decisions.

This is part of the unscripted life of parenthood.  Our kids don't always go according to plan, and that's okay. Their plans don't always go according to our plans either, and that's okay too.  What matters, in the end, is that they know they are loved, and we know they are free to do what we've been preparing them for all along, no matter what that may be.

Hope, Faith and Acceptance

When Noah was born, autism came barreling into our family like a Mack truck.  We didn't realize it at the time, and it took us until he was nine to agree to have him diagnosed.  As someone who had worked with children with severe autism, I thought I knew what autism looked like, and this did not look like the autism I knew.  I fought it as long as I could, but I knew there were differences about my child that only autism could explain.  As parents, it was the most difficult thing we've been through with him.  We were originally denied services because it was decided his need was not great enough, and I had to fight.  Even though we finally received those services, we did not see much improvement.  Noah wasn't interested enough, and wasn't willing to do the work.  I will never be able to fully describe the gratitude I still feel for the equine therapy center we eventually found, for the instructors, the horses and the setting.  We saw dramatic improvements almost immediately, and we knew it was God-given.  Our church at the time was supportive, and we were able to see why God had moved us there; several other families there had kids 'like' Noah, and they lovingly guided us through the process, held my hand, listened, hugged and helped me remember to laugh.  When we realized we couldn't cope with day to day "Noah-ness" and homeschool him at the same time, we were blessed with a truly amazing fifth grade teacher upon re-enrolling him in public school.  I will never forget the kindness we encountered during those first two years as we struggled to find a place in this world for our child.  We struggled with making him conform to society versus making society accept him as he was.  We knew he needed to learn it's okay to be Noah, as God made him, but how?  In all honesty, the original specialists did not give us much hope.  In fact, those were almost their exact words, "He's on the mild end of things, but don't get your hopes up.  He will need lifetime care, be unable to hold down jobs for long, or do more than menial work."  They called it a lifetime disability.  That declaration rang in my ears for weeks.  When I think about it now, I laugh.

Obviously, they hadn't heard of our mighty God, who does have the last word, indeed.

Even though Noah heard the doctor's proclamation, I think in many ways he was relieved.  My guilt kicked into overtime and I began wondering how long he'd worried what was wrong with him and why he wasn't like other kids.  We did our best to stress that nothing was wrong with him, his brain just works differently.  I also worked hard to find new doctors, doctors who would speak life to my child, and not set up road blocks.  Once we did that (and found Miss Jen, Miss Christina, Justin and Molly!), things began turning around.

If you have the pleasure of knowing Noah now, much of what I could tell you about those years would surprise you.  You wouldn't recognize him as the same kid.  He's grown so much, overcome so much, matured, and just accepted who he is.  He's learned to love himself, embrace his life with autism and be proud of how God made him.  Noah knows this is part of God's plan for him, something bigger than him, and he has fully taken responsibility for it.  Over the years, he's taken a positive attitude about it.  It's not a burden, it's not a disability, it's just part of life.  As Noah has said, "Everyone has their differences.  Mine just happens to have a name."  He's very nonchalant about it, and talks about his diagnosis quite openly.  I'm proud of the friends he's made as well; explaining one of his behaviors to them one day by telling them about his diagnosis, they shrugged their shoulders and said, "So?"  I'm so grateful he gets to be Noah with them, and they accept him as he is, in all of his quirky, goofy awkwardness.  Recently in church, he openly declared his autism a gift and nothing less before God and everyone, choosing to do so on his own, with his own handwritten signs during a testimony.  Brave.

As Noah's mom, my goal is no longer so much awareness as it is acceptance.  I do not feel that my child needs a cure, but I do know there are many parents of children with autism who feel differently. I fully respect them and understand it.  I do not feel that my child needs to be able to conform to society, become 'normal' or risk being shut away because he functions differently than the majority of the world's population.  Noah was never meant to fit in, he's always been meant to stand out.  I've had the blessing of finally being able to hug my child, and of hearing him speak my name in the same sentence as "I love you."  Many parents do not have this luxury.   Yes, it's a luxury, and it's something I do not take for granted.  For those parents, and for those just beginning their journey down this road, I want Noah's story to be one of hope.

This has been a long road.  It's not always been easy, especially in the beginning.  I was angry, I yelled and screamed at God.  I hated autism.  I grew bitter.  Now, I know that Noah would not be Noah without it.  In many ways, I'm even grateful for it.  I know that on the days it was hard, frustrating and maddening for me, it was even more so for Noah.  He endured bullying and teasing, and was easily taken advantage of.  But, I see who he is now, and I'm proud of him for not allowing any of that to make him bitter, only better.

Noah is my hero.  His courage, bravery, wit and sense of humor have made this journey half of what it's been.  He continuously teaches me something new about overcoming obstacles and taking pride in how God made us, about being the kind of parent my children need me to be, and about myself.  Through Noah's journey, we've all found out what we're made of, and we've learned it will be okay.  I'm not the hero, and I always correct people when they tell me that.  Being Noah's mom was not the struggle; being Noah, in the beginning, was the struggle.  I'm not special because I'm his mom, or because of what I "put up with," as some people have said.  I get to be his mom, and I have the privilege of watching him become his true self.

Choosing Gratitude and Joy: More of You, Father!

For Easter Sunday, our church is doing 'cardboard testimonies.'  On one side of the posterboard is the struggle, then on the other side is how God overcame it.  Everything from drug addiction and near divorce, to illness and job loss, to name a few, have graced our pulpit in years past.  God is so good!

While I've thought of a few testimonies (perhaps inappropriate...  Noah:  "The doctors said "Asperger's," God said, "Suck it.") our family could give, Shawn and I have decided to sit this one out unless specifically asked.  We've given several testimonies in our church, and not only are we sure our church family is getting tired of it, but it's someone else's turn to share their miracles.

This really caused some major reflection for me, though.  There is so much for our family to be grateful for and rejoice in!  Wow!  God has provided so much for our family:  Improved health, three children, job security for Shawn, a better living situation, healing for Ezra's heart, healing from past hurts for myself and Shawn, overcoming Asperger's for Noah--I could keep going!  And I'm so grateful for that!  We have been gifted with just so much to thank God for, each and every minute.

Most of all, God provided His one and only Son, not just for me and my family, but for you and yours, also.  He loves us SO MUCH, that He provided His child--His CHILD--as a sacrifice to save us from ourselves, from our own sins.  Part of me thinks, "What kind of parent does that?  I would never do that!"  The other part of me thinks, "How tremendous His love for all of us, His many other children, is for us.  And how tremendous is Jesus' love for us that He was willing to fulfill the prophecy?"  Just amazing.  Daily, I'm blown away by the gravity of that.  Every day, we are given new life, grace, mercy and forgiveness.  Every day, we are given a chance at a do-over.  Every day, our Father loves us, no matter how rotten we are. We don't have to do anything to earn it, it's just there.  His love for us, His compassion and acceptance for us--it's all freely given.  All He wants in return is all of us, all of ourselves.  We seldom deserve it, but there it is, anyway, just for us, because He loves us.

So with that thought, I will choose gratitude and joy.  Thank you, Father.

Being a Strong Woman

I've often been accused of being too sensitive, overly sensitive and just plain thin skinned. I was made to feel weak.  Yes, I wear my heart on my sleeve.  I feel deeply, on every level, with every emotion.  When my friends hurt, I hurt.  When my kids and husband hurt, I hurt even more.  When I hear of a stranger's despair, I hurt.  I get angry reading the news. I rejoice in the joy of others, whether I know them or not.  Books, praise and worship music, music in general, conversations, tv shows, movies, commercials, prayer--all have similar affects on me.  I often am driven to tears and laughter over things that don't personally impact my life, but still impact my emotions.  I am human.

This used to embarrass me tremendously.  I thought something was wrong with me.  Surely, I just needed to toughen up.  I have realized however, I do not want that kind of hardness in my heart.  I don't want it in my life.  I don't want it to be a part of me.  I've learned that being hard hearted is not the same as being stoic and strong. This sensitivity is who I am, and it's how God created me.  I want my sons to know it's okay to feel what they're feeling, and I need to set that example, as well as how to properly handle what they feel, especially when we have no control over the situation.  I want my children to embrace how God created them, and in that, I'm embracing how He made me.

I heard this quote on the radio the other day, and I realized, yes, I'm sensitive, but that doesn't mean I'm weak.  So, a reminder to all the other sensitive women out there:  You are strong, and you are a gift, Beloved.

"A strong woman is one who feels deeply and loves fiercely.  Her tears flow just as abundantly as her laughter...

A strong woman is both soft and powerful.  She is both practical and spiritual...

A strong woman in her essence is a gift to the world."

To strong, sensitive women everywhere:  May we be them, may we know them, may we encourage them and raise them, and may we raise our sons to be men who will do the same.  

Blog Share: What it's Like Being Asked to Have a Child with Autism

This blog post was shared with me, and in turn, I want to share it with you.  It speaks volumes, and it just hits the nail on the head so well.  If I haven't said much of what is in the following post already in my own posts, I've mumbled it somewhere along the line, thought it, or wished I had said it.  I've been reading through more of this dear mother's posts, and let me tell you, she is really in my head!  

http://flappinessis.com/tell-it-like-it-is-on-being-asked-what-it-is-like-to-have-an-autistic-child/

I've reached a point in life in which I can say I'm grateful for autism. Were there things we had to mourn along the way?  Yes. Can I just say, though--I think that's a part of parenthood, whether your child is neurotypical or has special needs.  We all have dreams for our children, ideas of who they will become, ideas of what we want for them, then we meet the individual with the personality.  

Without autism, we wouldn't be the family we are, I wouldn't be the mom I am, and Noah wouldn't be the amazing young man he is.  He's overcome so much, and I want his story to give hope.  I'm not a saint or supermom because I raise him, he's not the lucky one because I'm his mom.  I'm the lucky one--the blessed one--because I get to be his mom.  I get to watch all of his successes and triumphs.  I get to cheer him on.  He's the real superhero because he's the one who lives with this, copes with this, functions with it, and overcomes it, daily. There isn't one thing I would change about him.

I've really felt God telling me to share more and more about Noah's story recently.  There is hope.  Autism is not a metaphorical death sentence.  Yes, it's for life, but please don't ever pity us, or Noah.  Please don't ever pity any of our families or our children.  We are so blessed to just have children!  It's a journey, a different path, but the reality is that each parent and each child takes a different journey through life than the next one.  Autism just happens to be part of ours.