Merry Christmas, From Our Left Field to Yours

From our family to yours, praying blessings over your families, your homes, your jobs, your lives.  May your Christmas be merry, and your new year be blessed beyond your wildest imagination.

Ever try to organize 3 cats (all wearing bow ties), 2 boys, 1 dog, a mom, and a dad for that ONE perfect picture???  We took about 30....  It just doesn't happen.

Here are some of our best efforts:

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

What Would Your Sign Say?

Last week in church, the message was about modern day miracles--God still does them.  Our pastor did something remarkable, dedicating the majority of the message to providing proof.  As the praise and worship team sang, close to 30 people came out, one at a time, holding cardboards signs.  On one side of their signs were their struggles:  teenage pregnancy, drug and alcohol addictions, financial struggles, jail time, miscarriages, troubled marriages, health crises, suicide attempts, homelessness and  joblessness--the list went on.  On the flip side of their signs were their testimonies: redeemed, beloved, saved, forgiven, miracle pregnancies and resolved health diagnoses, revitalized marriages, loved and accepted without judgement.

It was beautiful, heart-wrenching, and tear jerking.  It as amazing, awesome, and moving.

Later, I spoke with Noah about it, asking him if he understood how much courage it took for those men, women, and teenagers to get up there and share their stories.  We also talked about how important it is to share our stories and testimonies when we are given them.  How else will others know to have hope, that there is hope?  I also want my children to grow up understanding that everyone has a story, and it may not always be visible, or immediately apparent--so we can't, shouldn't, judge others.

This has also started the wheels turning in my own head:  What would MY sign say?  Beginning years ago, much of my testimony has centered around a rescued marriage, a child who wasn't supposed to be, acceptance of my health limitations, and the healing that came with accepting Christ.  I suppose the front of my sign would say, "Sick.  Lost.  Angry.  Bitter.  Ugly."  The flip side would be, "Healed.  Loved.  Saved.  Beautiful."

Life has thrown some curveballs, and I've not really known how to adjust to them.  Alright, so I know the answer to that one, so possibly it's more that I don't want to.  Instead, I have chosen to resort to my angry, bitter, ugly ways.  I have openly rejected much of my life outside this house, outside my immediate family and friends.  Having been rejected by people outside these four walls, having been so deeply hurt by people who are 'supposed' to love me and be a part of my life, I have not wanted to feel warm and fuzzy and Christ-filled.  I have told myself that cutting myself off from certain people, drama, and parts of life is simply self-preservation.  My children and husband need me to be sane, healthy, and emotionally present for them.  I am unable to do that if I am constantly having to field drama that is not mine, or unhealthy, toxic relationships, even when those relationships are family.  I need to move on.  Yes, there is some truth to that.  Distancing myself has been healthy in some respects, but sometimes, that drama is like a drug.  It still has the ability, the potential to draw me in and turn my life on its arss.  That is the unhealthy part: the part that allows me to hang on to my anger and bitterness, rather than completely severing it as I work to separate myself from the cause.

So, what would my sign say now, if I were able to send these strongholds where they belong?  Perhaps the first side would again testify to my anger and bitterness: "Rejected. Angry.  Bitter.  Ugly.  Judgmental.  Cold."  And the second side?  "Forgiving.  Loving.  Beautiful.  Warm.  Content."

What would your sign say?  Pray for me, dear friends, and I shall pray for you.

Here We Go Again...

You know, raising Noah is a constant battle--but the battle isn't always with him.  Many times, I have to battle the professionals we rely on for help and guidance.  Sometimes I have to battle myself to remember it's about him--he's the one having the hard time, not me.  Other times I battle just plain old daily life.  Lately though, I find myself battling ignorance more than anything.

This morning I had a full on temper tantrum.  Stomping my feet, yelling, crying, and most definitely acting worse than my children.  I have no idea where they get it from....  My mommy hackles were raised just about as high as they've been in a while.

See, here's the thing--someone has claimed to have a cure for Noah's autism.  I'm sorry, what?  I swapped emails with this person for an entirely different purpose, and this person has spammed me with miracle-product emails instead. This person is not a medical professional, does not hold any degrees that I am aware of that make her an expert, nor is she even a parent of a child on the spectrum.   How dare she.

Here's the other thing--my kid doesn't need a cure.  He's different, not sick.  Noah has Asperger's, and a very mild form of it.  He does not have a heart condition, cancer, epilepsy, or anything else that requires a cure (thank you, Jesus). Noah does not need magic water, a magic pill, a magic wand, or fairy dust.  By telling Noah he needs a cure, I would be telling him something is wrong with him.  There is nothing wrong with my chid--he has differences, as we all do.  As parents, Shawn and I have worked hard with Noah to make sure he knows there isn't anything wrong with him; and to have someone come along and tell me (God forbid they tell him) they have a cure for him?  What kind of message does that send?  No, I have not searched to the ends of the earth in order to fix Noah; I have, however, searched to the ends of the earth in order to help him learn to accommodate his differences, accept them, and learn how to function.  While Noah is not in need of a cure, he is in need of understanding, guidance, acceptance and love.

A few weeks ago I vented my anger about ignorance from the general public concerning children with extra/special needs.  I'll say it again, though--if you do not have first hand knowledge, please don't think you have the answers.  Even those of us with first hand knowledge don't have the answers.  Okay?  Okay. Please be careful what you say, and who you say it to.  You might think you mean well, you might think you're helping.  Here's a wake up call--you're not doing either.  Instead, you're upsetting us, frustrating us, and downright pissing us off.  You also run the risk of emotionally damaging a child.  Your 'help' is nothing more than uneducated insult. Okay?  Okay.  Please don't tell me how to parent my child, please don't tell me I'm a bad mom for not searching for a cure, please don't tell me all of his differences and difficulties are a direct result of helicopter parenting; please don't share your unfounded, uneducated theories or accusations with me at all.  I beat myself up enough without your help.  Please bear in mind, that person you think is in need of a cure is just that--a person.  A human being.  A mother's child.  And, we both have feelings.  Okay?  Okay.

There are days I'd give anything to live autism for Noah. I hate the struggles he has to deal with.  But, I'm that odd parent--I'm also grateful for those struggles.  I know this is how it is for him, this is who he is, and this is just one of the many things I love about him.  I know this is how God is preparing him for life, preparing him for great things.  If my child does not learn how to work himself through a struggle, how will he possibly learn to get on in life?  How will he know accomplishments, how will he know the good things, how will he know just how capable he is?  How will he learn to fight to make himself heard?  I wouldn't change Noah.  He is who he is, he is how God made him (do we need to go over the "He made man in His image" thing again?).  What if, in 'curing' him, I lost all the things I love so much about him?

We are lucky in that Noah is on the mild end of things.  Does he still have a lot to deal with?  Absolutely; we all do.  Does he need a cure?  No.

Truthful Tuesday... The Motherhood Version

1. I despise whining.  I really, really hate it.  It makes me clench my teeth, and my head spin.

2.  I love my kids all the time, every day, every hour--they are my chosen 'career' choice, if you will, and I don't regret it.  However, there are times I don't like them very much and I begin to think about running away to a hippie colony in CA, and calling myself Lavender Sunshine Moonbeam.  In fact, as a mom, I've dreamt of running away more often than I ever did as a child.  One night I almost did, but I couldn't find my other shoe.  Thankfully, we laugh about that now ("Hey Mom, remember that time you accused Dad of stealing your shoe so you couldn't run away?")....  Nothing, and I do mean nothing, in life, has frustrated me more than being a mom.  But, nothing else in life has rewarded me as much as motherhood, either.

3.  Avery is a non-stop talker.  From the second he's up, to literally falling asleep mid-sentence when we put him to bed.  He's also recently begun talking in his sleep.  There are days I can handle it, days it makes my head spin, and other days I just cry.

4.  This time last year, I was hoping to be pregnant with Child #3 by now.  Truthfully, we haven't even tried yet.  We've talked about it plenty, but we're both on the fence; my health, and raising the two we already have, continue to be huge issues.

5. Six and a half days out of seven, I suck at motherhood.  I fail miserably.  I keep hoping the few times I get it right will make up for all the other times I get it so terribly wrong.

6.  Knowing that we had no control over the age difference between Avery and Noah, I still believe that if we'd been able to have Avery sooner, we might have noticed and acted upon Noah's differences earlier.  There is a lot of guilt for not recognizing everything with Noah earlier than we did, and we often wonder how much we contributed to his difficulties.

7.  My kids are the reason I started teaching myself how to bake and cook properly.  I wanted better, healthier alternatives for them (and they still prefer corn dogs and chicken nuggets...).

8.  I've learned more from Noah than I could ever hope to teach him.  He's an amazing kid.

9.  Sometimes I have panic attacks when I stop to think about everything I'm trying to teach Noah that he isn't quite 'getting.'  We actually kind of hit a wall a few weeks ago, as parents, worrying about his future, and wondering what kind of provisions we need to make for him as an adult.  Noah is perfectly capable of many great things, but sometimes the drive just isn't there.

10.  My kids are dorks, but they're my dorks.  And I strive every day to be the kind of mom they deserve.  They're pretty awesome, and they deserve awesome in return.  There are more days than I care to count when we all miss the mark horribly.

11.  I really do believe it takes a village to raise children.  I tried doing it by myself with Noah his first few years, and not only did I really mess up, but I nearly broke both of us.  I'm always grateful for our good friends, teachers, professionals, and everyone else we've been provided with.  I can't do it without them.  With Noah, I couldn't quite grasp the concept of handing my child over to someone else: "This is my crying baby to deal with."  With Avery: "Sure!  You want him?  Here he is!"

12.  Noah likes having his ear lobe rubbed, and his cheek caressed ("Counterclockwise, Mom!").  Those are my love languages with him.  He will often plop himself beside me, and place my hand on his cheek or ear lobe.  Sometimes, if we're in public and he starts getting antsy, I'll reach over and start rubbing his ear lobe.  His instant reaction always makes me laugh.  With Avery, we sniff ears (another story for another time), and squeeze each other's hands when we're holding them.

13.  I'm a Type A-er, I have OCD, I plan everything to a T, and I have serious control issues.  I learned right off the bat, beginning with Noah's conception, that none of that works in motherhood.  It wasn't until Avery that I finally figured out how to loosen up a bit more though.  With Avery, I've also learned to learn more, if that makes sense--I've relaxed (but only a little...), learned how to take advice, and learned how to follow my child's lead, rather than trying to make them fit my molds of how/who/what they should be.

14.  My kids have chores.  Yes, even Avery.  Why?  Because I want them to learn how to be responsible adults who can take care of themselves.

Ugh

So many of my posts recently have been rather heavy.  There are updates and revelations I need to share, but I thought I'd share my yesterday with you today (just because it's less of an emotional toll on me!). I figure y'all could probably use a good laugh.

Yesterday began at 5:30 with the house alarm suddenly realizing it hasn't been connected to a house phone for the past 6 days.  Shawn and I recognized the different sound of the alarm (as opposed to the usual blaring that occurs when Avery pushes the Panic button), and were a bit slow to respond.  Captain Panic--I mean, Noah, was faster than us, reaching the key pad first, and immediately began yelling, "THERE'S TROUBLE!  THE PERIMETER HAS BEEN BREACHED," upon noticing the 'trouble' light was lit up bright red. No son, that's not how it works.  Naturally, Avery fed off Noah's overreaction, and began yelling about the trouble, begging us to protect him.

And my day began.  Because 5:30 is a perfectly acceptable time for my children to be wide awake and begin their day.  Sigh.

I won't bore you with all the little things in between the alarm and what happened 12 hours later while I was cooking dinner--for example, the trip to the neuropsychiatrist's office, where my children made it obvious we belong there, or having to literally shove my children in between two cars in a parking lot to avoid being hit by the woman backing out while smoking her cigarette, texting, and drinking her coffee....  I'll warn you though--the barista at Starbucks gives you a really weird look when you ask if she can add a shot of vodka to your shot of espresso.

Instead, I'll just finish up with this last story.

I was cooking dinner in the kitchen (okay, not sure well else I'd be cooking dinner, but you know, given the day I had....) when Avery came in and threw up.  As I was yelling at him to run to the bathroom while I shoved the nearest pot under his mouth, it did not yet occur to me that he was turning from beet red to blue.  Yup.  Up the hallway we ran, while he continued to throw up, and I realized--choke.  And what should come up with the final heave?  A QUARTER.  The very same quarter I'd taken away from him less than five minutes before he appeared in the kitchen.

Later, Shawn and I were talking with Avery about what we put in our mouths and what we don't.  I asked him, "So are you going to put anything other than food, milk, juice or water in your mouth ever again?"  PAUSE.  God help me, the dear child had to think about it.

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.