The Dentist Gets Punched and I Am Awesome!

I marvel at how just a few kind words from a stranger can burn into your memory and leave a print on your heart forever.  I wonder if people know what a profound effect they have when they reach out to express a kind thought to another. 

Today Emily had a dentist appointment. Now, I know NOBODY likes the dentist, but kids with Autism HATE the dentist. H. A. T. E. the dentist.  For some, it's the lights, the sounds of drills, and an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar smells. For others, it's the sensory issue of lying back in the chair, someone touching around and inside their mouth. It's a change of routine, an out-of-place event in a life that must remain relatively the same.

I have a dear high school friend who is a dentist and that's how we started - Emily would come in every 2 months so it would be familiar and hopefully positive and Dr. Dan would let her roam, climb on the chair, look through the drawers, and brush HIS teeth. He never got to touch hers however, so he eventually referred us to Dr. Chad - a wonderful man who sees a lot of special needs children and someone who is on my "Awesome" list.  

When we got there, the receptionist hands me a clipboard and papers to fill out. I chuckle to myself knowing fully well I will get as far as entering the date before I have to go chase down Emily as she "explores" the backroom. Throwing down my belongings, I dash after her, her quick little legs and curious mind taking her all over the place. Again, I hear myself laugh as I remember there used to be a time where I would never have let my purse out of my sight, and there it lay, wide open, in the middle of a waiting room full of strangers. "Emily, NO" I say over and over as she squirts the water, plays with the chairs, the lights, unrolls the stickers, and runs through the file room. "Emily, that's not ours" I say when she tries to take over the receptionists chair, computer, stapler, and markers.  I shuffle her back to the waiting room for about 8 seconds and then she is off to the back rooms again. At this point the receptionist decides it would be a good idea to go ahead and "just put us in a room to wait" Autism has it's perks, you certainly don't wait around for an appointment.

Inside the room is a cornucopia of buttons, switches, and lights for Emily to experience. She goes to work, pressing, flipping and pushing, and on cue within seconds is a hygienist inside our room. "Sit down, Emily" she says in a nicely tone, to which Emily responds by throwing her Jessie doll at her. I pick up Jessie and set her in the chair, "Look! Jessie is sitting! Come sit with her!" "NO" is the response for that, and for a moment I am happy that she actually understood and responded with an actual word. A mini chase ensues around the chair in what I swear is a 6x6 room, and I give up. Dr. Chad comes in. "Good Morning Emily! How are you?" "OUCH! ...Are you Okay?" is her response, her go to phrase when something is not right and she is NOT okay. As Emily straddles my waist and I tip her head back into the dentists lap, I hold her little fists tightly in my hands as he counts and checks her teeth. She kicks into my back, wriggles her head into his chest, and tries to scratch my hands as he quickly and seamlessly applies a fluoride treatment. A rodeo scene flashes through my mind - the event where they let the calf out of the gate and it runs like a bat out of hell and the cowboy has to chase it down, wrestle it to the ground, and tie its legs together, and upon finishing, throws his hands up into the air. Emily is done, we release our grip, throw our hands in the air, and she pops up and out of my lap faster than if you had sat on a tack. She takes a couple of laps around the room yelling, "ALL DONE! ALL DONE! OUCH! OUCH!" Wiping her mouth and spitting on the floor, for fluoride is gross and foreign and she certainly did NOT authorize such a violation of her mouth. Dr. Chad and his hygienist, for their all their efforts, are rewarded by a punch to the back from Emily, and not to leave her mother out, I get one too.

She is pissed and bolts from the room back to the waiting room. Dora is on, and that calms the mood a bit. I get her coat, wipe her tears, sign to her that she is OK, sign that Mom is happy that Emily did such a good job, and that I love her. I give her big squeezes and put on her pink Santa hat. As I zip up her coat, I hear a voice behind me... "You. You are such an awesome mommy" It takes me a second to realize she is talking to me, after all, I AM the one that just got punched in the back.  Choking back tears I whisper a barely audible "Thank you" as I absentmindedly tuck a lock of Emily's hair behind her hair and touch her cheek. I compose myself for just a second or two so I can turn around and look her in the eye. "Thank You." again I say it, blinking back tears. She asks a few questions about Emily, and I answer them and then she says, "Well you do such a great job with her, and it shows" And then Emily, as if to show off, walks up to a Christmas knick-knack and spells out MERRY CHRISTMAS. 

The best Christmas present this year is not wrapped in paper or fancy bows, but a stranger in a dentist office sharing a heartfelt thought. I will hold that woman in my heart forever. I hope she knows just how much that meant to me and how much I cradle every word she said delicately in my heart. 

I AM a awesome mom. And my daughter SHINES.

Twickn Tweet.....FINALLY!

I am a little backed up on my blogs, so bear with me in December as you read about October...

Every Halloween we do the same thing....we close up our house and head over to my parents neighborhood. It is a kid-friendly, well-lit neighborhood with plenty of Trick-or-Treaters running around with their plastic pumpkins filled with candy. Living in North Dakota, we have lucked out the past few years with the weather and although chilly, have not had to Trick-or-Treat in the snow. (Don't laugh, it has happened)

Emily was diagnosed in the Spring of 2008. That Halloween was a hard one. Our two boys eagerly got into their costumes and grabbed their pumpkins, anticipating filling it to the brim with goodies. Emily, at 2 years old, wanted nothing to do with it - she didn't even understand what was going on. At that point, she had no eye contact and could only communicate by shrieking and grunting. When we got to Grama & Gramps, the boys jumped out to score their first handful of candy from them while we got Emily out. We watched sadly and with jealousy as the other parents walked hand in hand with their toddlers dressed in adorable costumes and we put ours in a stroller. Our hearts sank as they rang my parents doorbell and they said in little squeaky voices, "Twick or Tweat!" while we tried to stop ours from screaming and shrieking. We followed the boys from house to house while we waited on the sidewalk by the stroller, rocking it back and forth because if we stopped the motion, Emily would shriek. I felt like I had an infant, not a toddler in my stroller, and as I gave her a bottle to calm her down, I cried cold tears. When we got home, my boys ate until their tummies hurt, and I cried myself to sleep.

The next Halloween, I wandered through the girls costumes and selfishly bought a Snow White costume for Em....just in case. The days leading up to Halloween, I brought out the Snow White dress for Em, and much to my surprise, she wanted to put it on! My heart exploded with joy and big, fat happy tears rolled down my face as she ran to the mirror to spin around to look at herself. The day rolled around, and this time, my oldest son was "too cool" to Trick-or-Treat, but Ben couldn't wait. I got Emily in her costume and we traveled to Grama's. We had some apprehension, Emily was too big for a stroller, so she would have to walk. This could be a disaster. This was one of the first of many times where Emily blew us out of the water. She not only walked next to us without running and bolting away, but she followed Ben up to the houses! Quickly, I whipped out the extra pumpkin I had brought in vain for her to carry! By this time, Emily had learned to enunicate a bit, and we were just starting to teach her a few words in sign language, so through tears and unbridled joy I heard her say, "Tandy" and as she signed, "Peese". SERIOUSLY! DID SHE JUST DO THAT? Then next house, "Tandy, peese" NO WAY! ...now we did have a few bumps - she blew out everyones Jack-O-Lanterns, traded candy with the people handing it out and ran into a few peoples houses, but all in all.....what a difference a year makes.

This year, we knew it was going to be a good year. She loves Jessie from Toy Story and had been wearing her costume for weeks now (non-stop I might add), but I still didn't know if she really UNDERSTOOD what exactly Halloween was. Again, to Grama's. She got out of the car and didn't even have to follow her brother....door after door, she ran up to them, rang the bell, held out her pumpkin, and this year from her lips, "Twickn Tweet" She got her candy, signed AND said "Thank you" and off she was again. The smile on her face and the twinkle in her eyes as she galloped across the yards made me realize...She gets it. She knows. I exhale.
....People cry at different holidays for different reasons, but I don't see many moms sobbing on sidewalk corners during Halloween like I did this year. I reflected over the past Halloweens and how far Emily has come in these past few years, what she has accomplished, how she has grown. My heart bursts with pride and joy over my daughter, my family, myself.
Halloween has become a sort of judgement day, a marker for Emily's progess, and I look forward to what the next one will bring. I'll bet she blows us away again.

Where's Emily's shoes? ...Oh, she ate them.

They say hindsight is 20/20, and I believe that to be true.  When something happens to you and you are in that moment, you can do nothing but react to that moment.  It's when the moment passes, and you reflect on it, possibly several hundred times, that you can see the moment for what it truly was - and it is then I do believe you learn from it, and you grow.  

If I had wrote this during the week that it had happened, it would have been full of anger, sadness, frustration, and utter helplessness. It would have been a plea to God to help me figure out my daughter, help me figure out this Autism that shook up her brain like a snow globe that got tipped off a shelf. A fist to the sky, shaking "WHY!?!" 

But now...now I feel smarter, stronger, and actually have a little bit more peace in my heart. I have reflected, I have seen it in hindsight - and I share my knowledge with you.

A few weeks ago, Emily started refusing to ride the bus. By refusing I mean screaming, shrieking, biting, spitting, stripping down naked seconds before the bus came, and throwing rocks at the bus when it did. RE-FU-SED.  It drove me MAD.  The week before, she loved it, looked forward to it, and left with us both smiling.  So, why the 180?  Why does she hate it this week? Why is she acting like this? Frustration sets in. Your mind starts racing, and digging through the mental library of information tuck into the nooks and crannies. I felt like Scooby-Doo and the Gang running from room to room trying to find the bad guy - in this case - the answer.  Every day was a struggle, every day my heart broke a little, and every day the confidence I had gained as a mother of an autistic child slipped sadly away into the depths of nowhere.  I cried in my car, I cried in my house, I cried myself to sleep.  After 2 days, I stopped wearing makeup - it didn't seem to make much sense.  I sobbed on the phone to my mother, my husband, my friends. By Thursday, I was a mess - I couldn't think straight, anxiety had robbed my appetite and my sleep and left me with a purpetual headache and constant stuffy nose. 

Then, Friday morning came. Yes, it was only one more day, but it was still ONE MORE DAY.  I can't do this, I can't possibly drag her down the lawn one more time, can't possibly break down on the front stairs again.  And then, then my husband came home. Took the day off to hold my hand, to help me cope, and although I didn't know it then, he would give me a sense of perception on the entire week that gave me back my sanity and my strength.  We got Emily ready together, and he watched and I dragged her to the bus, her fighting me everystep of the way.  Tears welled up in my eyes as I apologized for the 5th time that week to the bus driver, and for the 5th time that week I hear, "It's OK".  I watch the bus drive away with her screaming inside it. 

Game over. My body is done. I start to hyperventilate and go numb. Uncontrollable tears stream down my face and I barely make it to the stairs where my husband waits for me. Sparing you the details of how my husband talks me down and out of my anxiety attacks, I am done and he hugs me and kisses my forehead and begins.....

He explains that of the range of her meltdowns, this one was not that bad. It's not "Zoo" bad. Not "Have to leave Grama's" bad.  And that helps.  It helps alot. 

Over the course of the next few days I start to put together the pieces to the puzzle of that week.  The symbol of Autism couldn't be more perfect.  Thats what these kids are - one big puzzle.  But the pieces are all the same color and God doesn't give you box with the picture on it for reference.  I think that sucks, but on the other hand, I have always been super awesome at puzzles, so bring it on.

So many things can affect these kids, things that unless you are submerged in this world, you would never ever think of them.  They can have heightened senses, and the hum of the lights, the feel of their clothes, the smell of someones shampoo, can send them into a frenzy.  They can also be affected by the change of the seasons, the phase of the moon, time change, and the stress levels of the house.  

Another gem of information that I was blessed with was shared to me by a man with Aspergers.  If you can imagine your child as a character in a video game, with one of those "health bars" in the upper left corner.  When the health bar is green, life is good, they can take hit after hit, but still go on.  But, after enough hits, the bar goes to red, and by then, all it takes is one more hit....then GAME OVER.  Emily hit Game Over.

Emily took several hits that week - more than I had realized until I had gained my hindsight.  HIT: There was a full moon.  HIT: It was around the first day of fall.  HIT: I had started finding the full skins of grapes in her stools and had figured out she must have ate almost a pound of grapes.  HIT: I also started finding small to medium pieces of black material in her stool. I was puzzled until I found what was left of her black patent leather Mary Janes under her bed.  Yup, you read that right - she ATE HER SHOES.  

My mantra, what I say to myself over and over again to prevent me from going crazy is this:    Everything happens for a reason.  I have to look for what God is trying to teach me, I must learn and grow and find the good, even when it feels like the world is crumbling around me.  Everything happens for a reason.  It allows me to accept the shitty things in life and have no regrets.  Everything happens for a reason.  I had to go through that week of hell to understand a few more things about my daughter so she can be everything she is destined to be. 

Everything happens for a reason.  Find it.  Learn and grow from it.  Peace will follow.  :)

No Judging Please - This Is Our Living Nightmare

Today my heart is heavy. Another Autism mother burys her beautiful child and will never be the same. That child is Mason and his story is so close to ours that it creates a sick panicky feeling in my gut and a lump in my throat the size of the world. 

Mason was 5 and had Autism. His sister was taking care of him when he escaped out his bedroom window to find a nearby pond full of delightful water that most Autistic children are drawn to. He drowned.

You ask, "How can this happen?" You wonder, maybe judge, "Wasn't she watching him?" I'll tell you - it happens fast.  Faster than lightning.  You cannot judge, all it takes is an instant. If you judge her, then you judge me, for Emily has escaped as well.

The first time was about a year ago. Everyone in the house was going about their business - the boys watching TV, and me folding laundry in the other room. I should also explain that this family lives their lives in 3-5 minute increments - meaning, every 3 to 5 minutes, someone checks on Emily. Checks to see if she has got into the lotion, shampoo or soap. Checks to see if her diaper is off and she is smearing her feces into the floor. Checks to see if she is downstairs playing in the cat box. Checks to see if she is in the backyard eating mud or sand. Checking, always checking. We had just checked on her...she was safe. I walked into the kitchen and I just KNEW. I felt it. She wasn't in the house. Panic races through your body and grabs your heart and your blood turns to ice.  It felt like it took forever to get to the front door, and once I did, I could hear the honking of horns. Oh God....NO! There, running down the middle of the road at dusk in a diaper is my daughter. Oblivious to the traffic, the horns, the screaming coming from her mothers lips - all she notices is how wonderful it feels to go fast and feel the wind whip into her body. I've said it before, but it bears repeating - SHE IS FAST. I catch up with her a block down the road, pull her onto the boulevard and weep.

The next day, locks go up, barricades are created, and everyone is on high alert. We are safe....or so we think. The thing about children with Autism is that they often have a one track mind when they want something and that thing becomes their world for that moment in time. Nothing, NOTHING else matters. Most often they lack the ability to sense danger, the ability to be cautious. Emily has no fear. No fear of water, fire, strangers, cars, dogs, height, or anything else you can think of that a neurotypical child would be cautious of.

Fast forward to this summer. A brand new park was put up in the neighborhood this summer, and although you can't see it from our house, it is just across the street and around a corner. Emily was playing in our fenced in backyard in the sandbox right under the livingroom window. Ben wanted to play UNO. So, I checked on Emily, and sat down in the living room under the window to play. Shuffle. Shuffle. Deal. "Ben, hop up and check on your sister please" A look of terror spreads across his face as he turns around, "MOM! SHE"S GONE!!!" Oh God, how can that be? I just looked into her eyes, just told her to not eat the sand, just to play nice. If the front door wouldn't have opened for me as I pounded it open I swear I would have made one of those people cut outs like you see on the cartoons when they go through a wall. Where, where are you baby? Oh God, WHERE ARE YOU!?!? I see no cars askew, no blood in the street, hear no cars honking and say a quick silent prayer to God for that. THE PARK! Taking off in my bare feet, I sprint towards the park and I see her, running towards the slide, sunlight bouncing off her hair.

Catching up with her I swing her up onto my hip and hug her as my tears wet her face, her hair, her smile. I can't hold her tight enough. I never want to let her go. "Shlyde!" she points, and laughs. She has no idea. All she wanted to do is slide. 

As we walk back, a car pulls up and a 20-something girl gets out. "Are you her mother?" a snotty tone rings out in my ear. "Yes, I am" I replied, now noticing how out of breath I am. "Well, what kind of a mother doesn't notice her kid missing? She was almost hit by two cars, one of them being us! Seriously, weren't you watching her?"

I wish I could tell you everything I said to that girl that day. Some of it I honestly don't remember, some of it I cannot repeat because my mother reads this. But I do remember saying to her, "It's called Autism, Google it B*tch." Anger. Fear. Exhaustion. My heart pounding and my legs screaming at me, I carry my daughter back to the house, put her on the sofa, and call my friend who also has a child with Autism and he wanders too. I start to hyperventilate as I choke and sob and tell her my story and weep and weep and weep. So close, I came so close. My Emily, my beautiful precious gift from the heavens could've been taken away from me in an instant. 

She had squeezed her way out of the backyard gate through a space that my cat has a hard time getting through....she wanted to go to the park. She wanted to slide.

All Mason wanted to do was play in the water.  And now, we all mourn the loss of yet another child and our living nightmare continues.....is our child next?

A School Bus Full Of My Memories

Emily started school this week, which mean all last week I worried. I worried about her new schedule, her new teachers, therapists and paras. I worried she would meltdown, throw things, hurt herself and other people with her outbursts. I worried she wouldn't transistion well, be counterproductive, and most of all, miss me.

One worry by one worry she squashed them. Squashed them all. Her new schedule (afternoons this year compared to last years mornings) suits her. Her new teachers, therapists and paras - well, she can't stop hugging them and she lights up when she shes them. Meltdowns? None to speak of so far, and her transistioning has improved so much since last year her old teachers are "wowed". And, yet, the last one - the last one is the hardest.....she doesn't miss me. At all.

Her teachers suggested she ride the bus to and from school - it would help establish her routine for her and set her up for the transistion into school. I reluctantly agreed while selfishly inside I sob, "But what about me? What about my routine? My transistioning?"

This is the first year I have put all my babies on the school bus this year. Well, they are not babies anymore. Noah is a freshman and Ben is a second grader but every day of every school year since they were 3 I have dropped them off and picked them up. Eleven years of listening to music and singing. Eleven years of asking about their days and listening to the answers. This year, "POOF!" it is gone like a flash of lightning. I watch them walk to the bus stop and get on and I am jealous of that bus, listening to my babies jabber to their friends and carry their precious bodies to school. I am sad as they drive away, leaving me alone in the driveway with my lukewarm coffee in my jammies. Towards the end of the day I check my phone a thousand times for a call that says they have missed the bus so I can pretend to be annoyed when inside I would be elated to go get them. The very least I can do is pace outside in my driveway and pretend to weed my garden until I see them hop off that bus and smile at me.

So when Emily's teachers suggested this, my heart sank and I felt it thunk against my feet. She is my last baby, and I thought I would have more time. More time to look in the rearview mirror and watch the sunlight dance against her hair. More time to listen to her ever increasing recognizeable speech, not caring that most of it is scripting from animated movies. Just those few extra minutes I get to see her smile and listen to her laugh.

This is a new pain I have not experienced. And it hurts. Even if it is for her benefit, I am so reluctant to let her on that bus. So reluctant to let them experience the joy that is my daughter. That is my right. And for the greater good, it has been stripped away from me.

No longer will I get to hear her say, "LOOK! Ish my shkool! Emmees shkool!" No longer will we get to walk hand in hand to the car where I put her in her seat and she looks at me and smiles and says, "Cshicken? Joooce?"

Oh, I know I will see the joy in her face when she gets to ride the "Shkool bush" Watch her run up to it like it's a rocket ship to the moon. I will get to see her explode with delight when they drop her off and she runs into my arms....and in time, I will get accustom to this new joy and forget the old ones. But today, I feel a little bitter as the School Bus drives away with all my memories....

Louder than Monkeys...I love Otters

For a week now my Dad and I have been planning a trip for my kids to the Zoo.  For a week now I have convinced myself that everything will go well, Emily will like it, and I will maintain a calmness no matter what.  As I pack for the trip, Emily wants to pack her own bag - her blankie, 2 Rockets (Little Einsteins), 4 Nemos, Dory, Jesse from Toy Story, a bag of popcorn, a peanut butter sandwich, and her sippee.  I am positive as we load up the car and she is beaming with a smile that makes angels look ugly. She does love the car. The ride, the scenery - all very soothing to her.

Once we get to the zoo, my gut starts to turn. Please God, I need calm. I need strength. Emily sits in her wagon and we are off....maybe this will work.  We get to the first animals - the otters. Emily is estactic as she watches them glide through the water and squeals and laughs and dances along with them.  I smile and laugh so hard I feel my face hurting. This is great, I tell myself, look how happy she is! .......and then it's time to move on. This option of moving on is not acceptable to Emily whatsoever. She shrieks and flails and hits me, then turns to the glass and bangs on it over and over. I tell my Dad to take the boys and we will catch up - no big deal. I try to remind myself that it is the journey, not the destination - so if she wants to watch the otters for a while longer, so be it. 

20 min past...30 min...40 min. Ok, time to move on. Each time I suggest "All Done", a meltdown occurs. Each time, a set of new people stare and kids whisper to each other. Each time, a mom looks at me like I am mean.  I reason with myself if she could just SEE that there are other animals to look at, maybe she could shift her focus. So, I carry her, kicking and screaming, wagon in tow, over to the monkeys. I try to make her see the monkeys, try to get her to calm down. I feel her body getting sweaty and hot, her heart racing as she pounds her fists into my body and shrieks at the top of her lungs. She tries to throw herself on the sidewalk, and I grab her arm to prevent her from smashing her head against the cement. Please God, calm me down - I need to be calm. I somehow notice that the monkeys don't particularily care for this other mammal that can out shriek them, and they all join in to drown out her voice - but she is louder. I feel what seems like a thousand eyes boring into my body - judging me, judging Emily. Stares. Whispers. Parents shuffling their kids away from our direction. I give in.....back to the otters.

Emily's entire 2 hour trip was spent by the otter tank. I might add that after the first hour, they got tired and went to a corner to nap, so Emily watched an empty tank of water. 

Dad brought the boys back and it was time to leave. I know this dance. I know it by heart. No amount of bribes, countdowns, pleading, begging, or commanding will help in this situation. Dad takes the boys and the wagon out to the car, and I follow with Emily. I have her in a straightjacket kind of hold so she wont bite or hit me, but the heels of her shoes pound into my shins and they go about as fast as my heart. POUND POUND POUND POUND. God, please let my muscles hold out, I can't put her down, I can't stop. Just let me get to the car. More stares, more whispers.....I can't take this - hurry hurry hurry. Emily pulls what I call the "dead man" and lets her body go stick straight yet limp, slips from my grasp and bolts across the parking lot. Even in moments like this, I am continously awed and amazed by her speed. I grab her and get her back to the car. It takes almost another 15 min to calm her down enough to get her in her seat and buckled in. She throws things, hits, kicks and lunges at me. I think of my boys, and what they have to put up with. "I'm so sorry" I say to them inside my head, thinking how many times they wish Emily wasn't like this. My Dad tries to help, tries to copy what I am doing, but a few times slips into discipling her like a neurotypical, and I feel hot sticky tears roll down my face as I snap at a man that I have such love and admiration for. "THAT DOESN"T WORK DAD!! JUST STOP!" 

Finally, we exit the parking lot, and my Dad pats me on the knee. I lose it inside. But I try to keep it together for my boys. They hate it when I cry, hate it when I lose my cool, hate it when I look and sound broken. What I really want to do is crawl into my Daddy's arms and sob and sob until I am spent. THIS ISN'T FAIR! THIS SO REALLY SUCKS!!! All I wanted was to take my kids to the zoo. 

As my Dad drops us off and everyone is back inside. Emily immediately sheds all her clothes, like she is erasing the entire day, turns on Madagasgar, and crawls under a blanket. My Dad hugs me, tells me I am amazing and that he loves me. Tells me that I am strong, stronger than him because he admits he would've never been able to handle what I had to go through today. I will carry that in my heart forever.

It is not until my Dad is gone, the bags are unpacked, and the kids are settled that I get a chance to sit down. And when I do, I begin to weep - hard, but silent, because I refuse to let my kids hear. 

Autism - you win today. You beat me up and beat me up good. But mark my word, I will learn from this and come back stronger and kick your ass. That's a promise.

"Come" "Lesch Go" "Schwim"

Emily loves the water. L-O-V-E-S the water. So this year, I was determined to take her to the pool.  I packed my bag. Towel, sunscreen. apple juice, lollies (suckers), extra swim diaper, and alot of courage and hope. We got there and had to stand in line - an impossible feat for Emily.  Logic and reason do not apply to a child with Autism. They cannot understand why they have to be right HERE, in line, when clearly the pool is over THERE. Imagine how you would act if someone was dragging you to the mouth of a volcano full of bubbling lava with the intent of throwing you in. That is a meltdown for Emily. She screams, shrieks, cries, hits, bites, kicks, flails, and tries to run away. It is physically and mentally exhausting. I try to calm her, try to stay calm myself, even though I can feel every pair of eyes staring at us like we had just come out of a spaceship. Part of me wants to scream at them, "What!? What are you looking at? This is not her fault! This is not my fault!" But I cannot listen to that part, I have to remain calm. Please God, make this line move faster.... 

Inside, in the pool, it is heaven. Emily has a smile on her face full of so much joy it moves me to tears. She splashes, she jumps. She is having the time of her life.........then, the 10 min lifeguard break. Back to the volcano. I physically restrain her with my arms and legs while she screams. Again, the eyes. The stares. I chant - remain calm, remain calm. I sing to Emily - it seems to help. She particularly likes "You've got a friend in me" from Toy Story. I can feel the tears well up because I feel her pain, her frustration, her inability to understand why she can't swim now when she was just swimming a few minutes ago. Please, oh please, is the break over? I am running out of strength and she is starting to smash her heels into the cement. The whistle blows. the sweetest sound ever.....Lifeguard break is over, and we are back in heaven.

....Every time I take her, it gets a little bit better, but it will never be what it should. There will always be a line, always a break. There will always be a kid asking me why she has on a swim diaper, why she can't talk, why is she screaming like that. There will always be adults staring at us, always wondering what the hell is wrong with that child. But today, right now, my daughter "schwimms", and she is happy. That is all I can ask for today. 

Group

Tuesdays. I look forward to them. I get to go to my support group. It's an Aspergers support group, and although Emily has Autism, they are both in the Autism Spectrum, so we all share very similar stories. I love these people. When Emily was diagnosed, I muddled through this fog of denial and overwhelmingness, and then I found them.  They lifted my fog, gave me strength, knowledge,  & belief in myself as a mother.  We laugh together, we cry together, we get angry together.  I can't imagine my life without them. 

I also go to an Autism support group one Friday a month. This one is fairly new to me, although the women I have met through it I feel like I have known forever. I believe there is nothing stronger in this world than a group of mothers committed to making sure their children live their lives to the uttmost fullest.  These women are amazing. They are strong, they are flexible, they do not back down in the face of adversity. I am humbled to be in their presence. 

The thing about group is that you can be yourself. You can say whatever you want, ask any question you want, and no one judges you for it. Everyone has been there, everyone understands, everyone GETS IT. You can have friends that have neurotypical children, and they listen, and feel for you, but they don't get it. They can't possibly. But people at group do. And that's why I love them. They are like oxygen to me.

I sometimes think of what my life might be like if Emily didn't have Autism. Would it be easier? Yes. Would it be less stressful, less physically, mentally, and emotionally draining? Perhaps. But I also think it would be more lonely, less joyful and not as fulfilling. I would not have had all these beautiful, wonderful, remarkable people cross my path, filling my life of their joy and friendship. That I cannot regret. I cannot condemn her Autism for the simple fact that it has taken me down a road that is full and rich and joyous. Yes, it is full of potholes. Yes, sometimes the gravel hurts my feet and the mud on it is hard to walk through - but still, a lovely road nonetheless.