Tales Of The Wild Things

The pause. It's a period of time every parent facing a diagnosis for their child finds themselves in. The pause is this purgatory of denial, and research, and blame. You wonder if this is real or if you're misinterpreting symptoms. You wonder if you caused this, somehow. You wonder what this would mean for their future. You wonder if the answers might be even worse than the questions. You pause. For me, the pause started pre-diagnosis when I had to check an entire row of "not yet" boxes on a developmental questionnaire. I wore my insecurities and fear like weights tied around my ankles, and I drug my feet through the long process of seeking help. Seeking help, then turned into seeking an official diagnosis, and that added yet another weight to my body; The weight of other people's opinions about autism. Some people built me up and commended my efforts. But some, even to this day, don't believe this is a real thing and that I was just looking for an e...

Why are we so quick to judge? The other day my family and I went to the grocery store, and right as we turned to the produce isle we saw friends that we stopped to chat with. We happened to stop right between the avacado display, and the flower display. Luckily for me, Wyatt quickly turned his attention to the avacados spaced in a way that bothered him and not to the vases of flowers that were not lined up in size order. I allowed him to shuffle the avacados around because it meant he would be quiet and mostly still rather than having a meltdown before we even had a chance to start shopping, An older woman walked up as Wyatt stacked the avacados on one side of the display. She very loudly expressed her disapproval by clucking at him. I shot a glance in her direction, but very specifically chose not to acknowledge her. Then she began to lecture Wyatt about not moving the avacados because he was going to bruise them. Wyatt stared blankly at her, my husband politely joked with her, and...

This is the part I haven't figured out yet. Friends, I can spin beautiful words on a page about all the amazing things that autism has brought to our lives. I can give you a glimpse into how we have overcome the day to day issues. But I don't know how to do this. I don't know what to do as I watch my child sink it sickness, utterly clueless about what's wrong. I see the way he holds his eyes differently. I watch as his words quickly slip from vaguely being able to tell me something is wrong with his stomach, to no words at all and just groans of severe discomfort. He swaddles himself in a blanket and stares blankly at the wall. He is spending all his energy on whatever is going on inside him, and there is nothing left to even ask for one of his favorite toys. My mom-gut sounds an alarm that this is a different kind of not communicating. This is a different kind of tired. There is something really wrong. And with that comes anxiety that I think only special needs ...

I switch off the lights and change from my yoga pants to my pajamas. As I crawl into bed, I hear my husband's heavy breath from the sleep he somehow always finds way before I do. I close my eyes and try to find rest, but my head literally feels like its buzzing. It's a hive of to-dos, and worries, and Did-I-Pay-That type questions pinging off the walls of my skull. Someone once told me that it was annoying how moms acted like their job was so hard. They just wanted to complain. It's just being a mom. That thought pops into my mind as I climb out of bed to double check that the doors are locked and that the kids are ok. I guess I do complain a lot. There are surely people who have harder jobs than I do and they definitely don't get to do it from the comfort of stretchy pants and their own home. I guess I should spend more time being deeply grateful for the fact I get to work from home and spend so much time with my kids. I should be grateful I get to go to the gym...

Have you ever thought about the power you give to your insecurities? I remember one day a while back, I was getting dressed for the gym and I realized all of my leggings were still in the washing machine. My only option for the leg-day ahead was compression shorts. I died a little inside thinking about how people might judge the cellulite on my legs or think i was too big to be wearing shorts at all. Why couldn't I have been born during a time period where curves and rolls were attractive? But, then again, booty shorts wouldn't even be a thing in that day and age, and I surely would already be dead from small pox or stoned to death for one sin or another by now. I digress. I closed the drawer and decided I could just skip the gym that day. And then it hit me. I was so insecure about other peoples opinions of MY body, that I would rather stay home than risk someone thinking something negative about me. What kind of life is that? What kind of example was that setting for ...