I See You, and Thank You

When I introduced myself to someone this morning, he asked me what I do.  "I'm just a stay at home mom."  Most people reply with some version of "Wow, I'm sorry," or "Oh."  This gentleman thanked me.  He acknowledged that I probably work harder than anyone else in the room. Then he thanked me for what I've chosen to do for my children, and what I'm contributing to our world.

So, I want to thank all of you today.  Thank you, all of you moms and dads.  I SEE YOU.  I know how hard you work.  I know it's not easy, but I know we would all agree it's worth it.  When you're schlepping through vomit, doing the 49th load of laundry because somehow, mysteriously, child #2's undies didn't make it into the first 48 loads, chauffeuring your taxi cab through the drive thru on your way to the next activity; your late nights and early mornings, your crazy days and lazy days--you're worth it, and your children are worth it.  I see you.  Your work is hard, and it is worthy.  You, as YOU, add value to our world, but you, through your work with your children, are adding so much value too.

Keep soaking up those hugs and kisses and snuggles.  Keep doing the hard drudge work.  Keep being the good mom and dad you are.

I see you.  Thank you.

Identity Crisis?

The past few weeks have been a little hard on this mama.  Ezra is turning 1 on Friday, and Noah came home recently with a potentially life-changing bombshell concerning his future.  I've really been struggling with both of these, and it finally hit me today, what I've been experiencing.  Thank goodness for very patient friends who put up with my nonsense, and only nod their heads when they get the "I FIGURED IT OUT" texts from me.

It's an identity crisis of sorts.  That's what I'm feeling.

This last, final first with Ezra (and the many more last firsts to follow), and Noah's ability to not only make, but act upon, adult decisions have left me wondering--what's next?  What do I do if I'm not a mom--when my boys don't need me anymore?

Sure, yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll always be a mom.  Once a mom, always a mom, right?  I'll always be their mom.  But what about when I'm not momming on a daily basis anymore?  What about when they don't need me to mom them?  I will always need them, but will they always need me?

*The irony here, is that two years ago, even a year ago, we still weren't sure what the future would hold for Noah.  Would he be able to move out and live on his own?  Would he be able to attend college and hold down a job?  Would we have to provide back up plans or fail safes, or even a full ride?*

And yes, for now, for quite a while still, I have Avery and Ezra (and I'm beginning to see yet another reason why God spaced their ages out so much.... Can you imagine how much messier I would be if I had all three of them hitting milestones at the same time?  Leaving the nest at the same time???  YIKES.), but I'm losing Noah.  It's a slow, gradual process, but it's happening.  There will be a time in the future when a wife will (rightfully) take my place, when I can't be there for every milestone, when I shouldn't be there for every milestone and moment.  It won't be my turn anymore, and I have to let go.  I have to find a way to be okay with it.  It's the inevitable, bittersweet part to parenting.

I'm sure, that to some of you, this seems silly.  I've still got many years with Avery and Ezra, and I have a few left with Noah.  I'm panicking over nothing, right?  Sit back and enjoy the ride while it lasts, right?  Yes, yes, yes.  I will....  and in the back of my mind, I will continue to panic.  Just a little.

This is a hard, crappy realization.  Sure, I want my kids to be happy, successful adults--but do they have to leave me behind to do it (kidding!)?  I knew it would happen, but geez, I have to be honest--I think maybe I was hoping it wouldn't!  Or that it would feel like it's happening so fast.  I know my ultimate goal in motherhood is to send them on their way when it's time--but does it have to be time already?

Alrighty, someone please pass the tissues to this messy mama!

They Are My Why

Let's be honest--motherhood is hard.  We've all heard the cutesy little sayings about being paid in kisses and hugs, nothing ever comes close, and so on.  It's true though, there is absolutely no other job, or career, quite like it.  Absolutely nothing compares--good days, bad days, so-so days--there is no other job that even comes close to motherhood.  It really, really is just so worth it.

There are days I want nothing more out of life than to be a mom forever.  It's a good life, a great life, a life I begged and pleaded for, prayed for and tried to bargain with God for.  My children are my reason for existing.  They make me a better person.

Then there are the other days....  Do you think if I snuck off to a hotel for a night or two they'd notice?????

Here's the thing though--I wouldn't last two nights. I would be bored on my skull after a few hours.  I wouldn't know what to do without the quiet and chaos.  In the moments I do make an escape, I find that I can't wait to be back home with my boys.

They are my why.

Noah, Avery and Ezra deserve everything I can give them. They deserve the best of me.  They deserve to know they are safe, loved, comforted and protected.  There are plenty of children who need these things and don't ever receive them--abused and neglected children, abandoned children, unloved and unwanted children--sadly, I can't change that for them.  I can't physically affect their lives.  And let me tell you, it hurts my heart more than I could ever describe.  I can, however, physically affect the lives of my own children.

This is my promise to them:  I will come, no matter what, no matter where, whenever you need me.  If a lecture and punishment are warranted, I will wait until we are both clearheaded enough to talk about it.  I will encourage you, cheer you on, reassure you and listen to you.  I will teach you, and I will allow you to teach me.  I will pray over you and for you.  I will embarrass you, and I will love you even more when humor me.  I will hold you, rock you, comfort you--and yes, I will discipline you.  Why?  Because I love you. Because you are my gifts from God, and in turn, my gifts to the world.  Because you deserve my best.  Because I can do this for you, because I want to. Because at the end of the day, I get to be your mom, I get to do these things for you, and I love you more than you can fathom.

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.