We Get But One Life

Today marks an anniversary of sorts for myself.  On October 22, 2013 my life changed forever.  It was one of those life-changing events that you don't plan to have happen, or even want to have happen. It just does.

Sometime after dinner on October 21 when the kids had gone to bed, I had begun putting together lunches for the following day.  Suddenly it was very difficult to move my right wrist.  And when I did try to move it, it was quite painful.  My first thought was that my carpal tunnel was acting up.  I had never been officially diagnosed with carpal tunnel but years of clerical work had taken their toll on my body.  But that would have been odd.  I was currently on a leave from work so I had not been typing or doing any of my usual job duties that would have aggravated things.  My next thought was that perhaps I had broken a small bone in my wrist.  A few days prior I had fallen down the stairs and reached out with my hand to brace my fall.  Had I broken a bone then and hadn't realized it?  My thoughts went to a fellow co-worker describing how she had fallen in the shower and not realized until a few days later that she had indeed broken a small bone in her wrist.  Whatever the case I had things to get done and I did not have time for nursing what I was certain was nothing.

In an attempt to get fit and healthy I had recently begun working out with a personal trainer. Although I was feeling slightly nauseous (which I attributed to the smell of the fish cooking in the oven) I made myself go down into our basement and complete my daily workout.  I had difficulty getting my right workout glove on and during the workout I used my right hand and wrist as little as possible.  Getting my glove off at the end of the workout was even more difficult and I noticed that there was a "bump" on the top of my wrist.  I thought it was a "Bible bump"; a ganglion cyst that used to be treated by striking it with a large, heavy book (i.e. a Bible) so as to rupture the cyst and cause it to drain.  But then again what did I know?  It was another work colleague who had informed me about such bumps.  So given that my wrist was swollen and aching, I did what made the most sense - I iced, took two Advil and went to bed.

Fast forward to approximately 1 o'clock in the morning.  I was sleeping and suddenly there was my young son trying to crawl into bed with me.  Call that Divine Intervention.  I know that it was a Higher Power that sent my son into my room to awake me.  As soon as I awoke I knew that something was very wrong with my wrist.  What happened next and how I ended up at the hospital is neither here nor there.  Suffice to say that within a very short period of time the hospital's ICU Intensivist was at my bedside telling my husband and myself that I was "a very sick girl".  He said that I had necrotizing fasciitis - flesh eating disease - and that surgery would be required.

I'm Going to be Okay!

There are many things that happened from that moment on that will remain with me forever.  And there are several things that I cannot recall.  What matters most, however, is that when I was finally taken off of life-support and could make some sense of where I was and what had happened, I was surrounded by the people who mattered most in my life and my arm and hand were still attached!

Today is October 22, 2015.  Some days it is hard to believe that two years have passed since that most unfortunate incident.  And other times, when I catch an adult staring at my scars, when a child asks, "what happened to your arm?", when the weather turns damp or cool and my hand seizes up, when I catch myself thinking about the skin graft and the numerous operations and procedures, I remember every single one of those 730 days that have comprised the past two years.

The "truth" is that we always have a choice as to how we will respond to, and feel about, what we experience in life.  People tell me that I am "strong"; that they are in awe of the recovery that I have made.  The truth is that I am no stronger than any other person.  I did what I had to in order to survive and be a mother and a wife to the people who needed me most.  That being said, I definitely experienced dark times.  No one stares death in the face and walks away unscathed.  And while I believe that it was natural and necessary to grieve the loss of something I once had - an unmarred arm with a beautiful tattoo of my Nana - there was nothing to be gained from wallowing in self-pity and anger.

Anything Is Possible

My experience made me sit up and take a long, hard look at my life.  I kept asking myself, "If this had been it, how do you feel about, or what do you have to show for, the life that you lived?"  And the truth is that I wasn't very happy with the answers.

We get but one life.  It's such a simple fact and one that I took for granted until now.  I am finally chasing my dream and pursuing my love of writing.  I applied for, and was recently accepted into, a Master's program.  And at the ago of 40 I just completed my first 1/2 marathon.

So today marks my two-year anniversary.  Today I remember what "pain" truly is -  I think that's inevitable.  But I also remember the first time my kids were able to come and visit me in the ICU - it was Hallowe'en night.  I remember the first Tim Horton's coffee that I was allowed to drink and that was brought to me by my dad.  I remember the husband who sat by my side every day while I healed.  And I remember the friends and work colleagues and strangers who sent up a multitude of prayers on my behalf.

Today I remember that I survived!

God bless.  

Thanksgiving Prayer

Dear Lord,

Take my hand and show me the way.
Hear my prayers
And shoulder my burdens.
No matter the struggles I face,
Knowing that you are by my side
Fills me with strength and a renewed determination.
Use me in your service to
Love, accept, and give of myself unconditionally.

To You go the praise and the glory.
Amen.

With Growth Comes Awareness

No matter how you feel about it as a parent, the day is going to come when your young child “discovers” his or her genitals.  I grew up in a home where the understanding was you do not touch yourself, period!  My husband says that there was no “understanding” in his home - they just didn't talk about it, period!  It was surprising then that both my husband and I agreed that it was “natural” for the kids to touch themselves and that we were not going to reprimand them for doing so.  They just needed to follow two simple rules:  1. any touching needed to be done in the privacy of their own bedrooms, and 2. when they were finished they needed to wash their hands!

This sudden awareness of our kids’ gave rise to conversation about the terminology my husband and I would use when speaking to them about their body parts.  We agreed to use the anatomically correct terms.  That being said, both kids knew that boys had penises and girls had vaginas.  Imagine my surprise then when my five year old son, who was cuddling with me on the comfy chair, pointed to his penis and asked, “Is this your junk?”

Your “junk”?  It wasn’t that I was shocked or appalled – I thought it was hilarious.  I was surprised, however, because I had never heard him use that term.  While I admit that on occasion my kids have heard some pretty colorful language in our home, penises and “junk” did not get mentioned in the same sentence.  So I quickly deduced that this was a term he had picked up on the school playground or from the neighborhood kids.

“Some boys might call it their “junk”,” I said, “but that’s not what you call it.  It’s your penis.  And remember that you do not need to be talking about it with, or showing it to, anyone outside of this home!”

Were we getting ready to go somewhere?  I don’t know.  But shortly after that exchange my son was stripping out of his pajamas to change into other clothes.  That would have been fine except that suddenly he was naked, spread eagle on his back on my comfy chair, rolling his “junk” around in his hand!

“That is not appropriate!” I shrieked in my “outside voice”.  “No one in this family wants to see that.  Close your legs and get your clothes on!”

But the fascination of being able to roll his testicles around was just too much for him to ignore.

“Is this hair?” he asked as he craned his neck around his raging erection to see the baby-fine, barely-visible blonde hairs on his scrotum.

“Yes it’s hair,” I answered.  The same baby-fine, barely-visible blonde hair that was atop your precious head when I squeezed it out of my vagina!  Of course I didn’t say that!  But I did finish with, “Now get your clothes on and go wash your hands!”

Why was this so difficult?  We had two simple rules:  1. Touch yourself, play with yourself – whatever!  But do it in the privacy of your own bedroom and 2. Wash your hands when you’re finished!  And why was I the one having this conversation with my son when his father was sitting just feet away at the kitchen table, head buried behind a magazine disguising his laughter as a coughing-fit?  Thankfully it did not take long before my son finally had his clothes on and things were back under control.

But then I heard my five-year-old son say as he walked over to the kitchen table, “Dad, I have hair on my junk.”

Dear Lord, give a mommy strength!  I had to leave the room.  There was nothing that could have stopped the laughter that erupted from my throat once I was safely behind a closed door.  But here’s the “truth”:  Children grow and change and there is no stopping that.  Growth and change begets discovery.  As parents we always have a choice as to how we will respond to, or handle, that new-found awareness.  My husband and I chose to respond in a manner that did not berate, chastise or humiliate our kids, and in a manner that gave them knowledge and understanding. 

So until the next revelation that my son or daughter inevitably comes out with, this mommy will continue to tell it like it is – junk, hair and all! 

A Letter To My Daughter

Hey Baby,

It’s mommy.  This letter is to you, and about you, but I have no intention of your ever reading these words.  More than anything I want you to know how much I love you and how proud I am of you every single day for both your smallest accomplishments and your greatest achievements.  I am, and will always be, your biggest cheerleader in this life and wherever possible I will protect you from the ugliness and the cruelties that will inevitably come your way. 

You have Autism Spectrum Disorder.  You know this.  I have explained it to you in the simplest way I can.  You know that how your mind thinks and how your body acts is sometimes different from those around you.  Although your Autism makes you different, you must always remember and believe that you are never less!

You are getting to be such a big girl – 8 already!  And as you get older I see that you are more in tuned to the actions of others towards you, and the comments said to you, because of your Autism.  I listen calmly while you recount how those girls told you that you couldn’t play with them when you asked.  And I try not to react when you tell me how that older boy at school was mean to you and told you that you had a disease.  While you cry and try to piece together your fragmented thoughts so that you can give voice to them, I do my best to comfort you.  I do my very best to make you believe that you are beautiful – inside and out - and perfect just the way you are.  It is not you that has the disease, it is them.  They are sick with ignorance and unkindness.

What you don’t know is that long after I have dried your tears and done my best to calm your spirit, I sit alone on the front porch or lean against a door frame and cry.  I sob, actually, until the tears are sliding off of my chin and I think that it is possible to feel my heart breaking.  The pain I feel for the indignities you suffer on a daily basis, and will have to endure for the rest of your life, cuts me to the core.  And there are days when overwhelming sadness threatens to engulf me and I’m not certain if I’ll be able to put up a brave enough front for you not to notice.  But this part of me you’ll never see.  The part of me that hurts for you, cries for you, is enraged for you - that part of me I will keep hidden from you.  I have to be your protector and your stronghold, your soft pillow to land on.  I have to be your mother.

What I also can’t tell you is that having Autism is not a life I would ever have chosen for you.  Do you remember a couple of years ago when I was so sick and in the hospital?  At the time there was the possibility that I might have lost my arm to disease.  On more than one occasion I have said that I would have given my arm if it would have meant that you did not have to live with Autism.  But we don’t get to make those choices in this life and so while my pain was temporary, yours is ongoing.

And it’s not just kids who do not understand your differences and who can be so cruel with their words and actions, it’s adults as well.  You will never know about the pediatrician who told me to prepare myself that you might never go to high school and who called you “retarded”.  You will never know about the school teacher who described to me the experience of having a child with Autism as “thinking you were going to Paris and winding up in Holland”.  You will never know about the woman on the playground who said that I should “better police you” because you were having difficulty waiting your turn in line for the monkey bars.  You will never know because it’s me who takes every slap across the face, every punch to the gut, every stab to the soul.  I am your mother and I endure that pain so that you do not have to.  But God it hurts.  It hurts so badly.

And I know that I’m not supposed to give voice to these hideous feelings and thoughts.  At least that’s what society would tell you.  But they are my ‘truth’.  And if I don’t stick my fingers down my throat and purge all of this ugliness I’m afraid that it will breed and multiply and destroy me.  And I can’t allow that to happen because you need me – will most likely always need me.

I wish that I could pick you up and smother you in love and wrap you in self-acceptance and strength and courage and whisk you far away to a place where no one could ever hurt you.  But that is not reality.  The reality is that life will not always be easy for you.  And although there will be some walks that you will have to take alone, remember that when you have finished I will always be waiting for you with opened arms. 

Autism is a part of you and a part of me.  But it is all of you – body, spirit and soul – that is the very best part of my life!  Until the day that I draw my final breath I promise to raise awareness and understanding for your daily challenges, and fight for your acceptance and inclusion.  And while you will never read these words, know that putting them on paper was something that I had to do.

I love you.

Mommy

Sometimes Autism Makes My Heart Hurt

Every mommy needs to laugh, even when there’s nothing to laugh about!  And even when a mommy needs to cry, she can always find the strength and courage to carry on.  That is this mommy’s motto and I believe every one of those words with a deeper and stronger conviction each time I type them.  Certain mommee-truths make me laugh out loud, even when I have to reach deep to find the funny.  There are those mommee-truths, however, that claw at my heart strings and bring me to tears. 

The other day I watched my daughter play on the monkey bars after school with her peers.  Inevitably there was an incident.  I say ‘inevitably’ because no matter how hard I will my daughter’s autism to not interfere in her social interactions with others, it almost always does.  I listened anxiously as one crying child recounted how my daughter, who was sitting atop the monkey bars, had placed her hand over this child’s as she had tried to swing through, preventing her from moving.  Seconds later a tap on my shoulder alerted me to another crying child who was recounting the same information to her mother.  In that moment my heart was aching – breaking in fact.  The ‘truth’ is that sometimes autism makes my heart hurt.   

I have said it before and I will say again that my daughter is beautiful in the way that matters most – on the inside.  She is kind and compassionate with an infectious smile that lights up a room.  Her feelings for her younger brother aside, there is not a mean bone in her body and wanting to intentionally hurt another child would never occur to her.  And yet autism is always there; always her underlying current and interfering in her social interactions. My child has spent countless hours in countless therapy groups being taught what is socially acceptable and unacceptable and learning how to play – concepts that are inherent and come naturally for neuro-typical children.  But the autism is ever-present. And so her impulse-control guides her, preventing her from recalling what the socially appropriate thing to do in a specific situation is.  So she covers the hand of a child trying to cross the monkey bars and prevents them from swinging through.  And what can I do but watch the scene unfold, saddened in the realization that this is my child’s life; a life that I would never have chosen for her. 

Not too long ago I read a passage from the book 1001 Great Ideas for Teaching & Raising Children with Autism or Asperger’s by Ellen Notbohm and Veronica Zysk so profound that it completely changed the way I view my daughter’s behaviours.  The authors said simply “Don’t ask why”.  They said that in most instances a child with autism does not understand why they do the things they do.  The behaviours may stem from sensory issues (i.e. it feels good to her) or there may be something about the situation that is reinforcing the behaviour.  The pressure that the child feels to respond to the ‘why did you or didn’t you’ questions can cause them to make excuses or blame others.  I know this.  I KNOW THIS and yet I still stood there on the playground and asked my daughter why she would prevent the other children from swinging across the bars.  She couldn’t tell me why.  Of course she couldn’t!  And so inevitably she became angry, she started to cry, and she started verbalizing random thoughts completely out of context.  On the walk home I reflected on how badly I had handled the situation and what a disservice I had done to my daughter whose daily struggles I cannot even begin to comprehend.  Although still not the right approach, I asked her what had fueled her actions.  “My mind told me to do it,” she said.  And so it is that sometimes autism makes my heart hurt.

This is but one of many incidents (although minor) that my daughter, and our family, has had to weather due to special needs.  Does she enjoy it?  Does our family enjoy it?  The truth is NO.  But I would walk through fire for my child and I will always be there to guide and help her, to raise awareness and understanding for the daily challenges that she faces and to advocate for her acceptance and inclusion.

Later that evening after my daughter had long forgotten about the day’s events, she asked if she could play at the park across the street from our home.  Long after all of the other children had left the park and the street lights had come on, I watched my daughter swing peacefully back and forth across the monkey bars.  They are her "thing" and it is in this place that she is strong and takes comfort. 

So yes, sometimes autism makes my heart hurt.  More times than not, however, there is no room for hurt.  There is no room at all because my heart is filled with pride for, and bursting at the seams with love for, a beautiful little girl who calls me mom!

Find Out What Makes a Courteous Pooper

There are a very few things that happen behind closed doors in this mommy’s home.  Sadly using the washroom is not one of them.  Even before kids my husband and I were prone to leaving the washroom door ajar.  It was never an issue, however.  We were respectful of each other’s privacy and knew when to stay away.

Then along came children.  Although the number of persons within our home changed, sadly my husband and I’s habits did not.  Even when in use the washroom door continued to remain ajar.  As all parents can attest to, little eyes and little ears see and hear everything no matter how cautious or discreet you try to be. 

That being said, the kids soon realized that when dad took a poop it stunk.  And when dad pooped he let it sit in the toilet until the stench permeated the air around him and wafted out into and down the hall.  The kids also realized that this habit of dad’s drove mommy crazy.  And although mommy nicely asked him to flush the toilet, daddy’s answer was always NO.  NO because he didn’t like that the water splashed up and sprayed his bum.

When the kids started copying me and telling daddy to flush, I admit that I found it amusing.  The day my son started mimicking my washroom behavior, however, I admit that I was a little taken aback.

“My tummy hurts,” my son said one day.

There’s usually two things that cause that to happen and so I asked him if he needed to either a) fart or b) poop.

“No,” he replied to both options.

There wasn’t much else I could do.  So I suggested that if his tummy was still hurting perhaps he should lay down and rest.  Shortly, thereafter, I noticed that my son had left the couch and gone to the washroom.

Out the open door I heard him call, “Mom I know why my tummy hurt.  I had to poop and then I had to fart.” 

Wonderful news!  I was hopeful that all of that lower-body activity would soon alleviate his pains.

“And mom,” my son shouted again, “I’m following what you do.  I poop then I flush the toilet and then I try and poop again.”

Well you could have picked the mommy up off of the floor!  Why I was surprised that he was aware of my washroom habits I’m not sure.  But in the end it really didn’t matter, as he had just provided me with the laugh that I desperately needed.  And the truth be told, my son’s future roommates, co-workers, partners, spouses etc. will always have his mommy to thank for why he’s such a courteous pooper.

Happy flushing!

How my Son Sees His Father

It was one of those rare mornings where the kids were enjoying each other’s company and wanting to play together.  I was downstairs making breakfast, thoroughly enjoying listening to their chatter and laughter. 

I was on my way back upstairs when my son called down, “Mom, B’s name is now Olivia.  Her parents died and she’s come to live with our family.  And I’m Ben Bishop.”

My daughter rarely engaged in imaginary play, so while the part about “Olivia’s” parents dying was a bit morbid for my liking I didn’t say a thing.  And, I thought, it was no surprise that my son had chosen to be one of his favorite NHL goalies.  It was all good!

“What’s your name going to be?” my son asked as I entered his room.

Personally I liked the sound of ‘mom’ but apparently the kids did not.  “Jen,” I said spontaneously.  Everyone liked a ‘Jen’, right?

The kids got up and continued to move through their morning routine.  I checked on them again once they were in the washroom brushing their teeth.

“So remember,” my son reiterated, “she’s Olivia.” And he pointed to my daughter.  “I’m Ben Bishop, you’re Jen and dad is God.”      

What?!  Did he just say that dad was God?!  I – mom – do everything for everyone within our home and he called his father (who was not even present) God!  Unbelievable!  But as I always say, as parents we always have a choice as to how we respond to the things our children say and do.  And we always have a choice as to what ‘truth’ we glean from their words and actions.  So this mommy chose to remain silent and smiled inwardly. 

The ‘truth’ was that my son had put his father on a pedestal.  He looked up to him and worshiped him.  He believed that the sun rose and set with his daddy.  My son asked where his father was as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning, and the last face he saw at night before falling asleep was usually his.  They enjoyed a father-son bond that I prayed would never be broken.  So if in my son’s imaginary world he chose to call his dad ‘God’ that was okay by me as I knew he wouldn't always feel that way.  

Another ‘truth’, however, was that a man’s ego only needed so much stroking!  So up until now that story was known to only three persons.  And I've decided it's okay that daddy continue to believe he’s God (but only in the bedroom), so long as he remembers that this mommy will always be the Queen Bee!    

Mischieviously Obtained Video

Were it not for sheer necessity my darling children would never have accompanied me to a recent physio therapy appointment.  But the kids were out of school, my husband was working and all of my reliable babysitters were busy being teenagers.  I simply had no choice.

Like any good mother would I devised a plan; a well thought-out attempt at making the outing as painless as possible.  I knew that three things needed to happen before anyone left the house:  1. the kids needed to eat 2. the kids needed to use the washroom and 3. two iPads needed to be fully charged and ready to go.  More importantly, though, I needed the kids to be clear on my expectations of their behavior.

Once we were packed into the truck and on our way, I reiterated how important this appointment was.  I told the kids that I would find a place for them to sit; a place where they could watch me and play on their iPads. I also stressed that they needed to be quiet and respectful of the other clients who would also be there receiving treatments.  It really was the best-laid plan.

Upon arrival at our destination I located my treatment coordinator who said that the kids were more than welcomed to hang out while I worked through my exercises.  So I set the kids up on a workout bench in plain view of me, handed them their electronic devices and stated my expectations AGAIN.  And then I headed for the treadmill.

I only had to put in 10 minutes.  Every 30 seconds, though, I found myself turning around to check that the kids were alright.  And two minutes was all it took for the kids to start ...

“Mom, we’re thirsty.”

“No you’re not,” I said calmly over one shoulder, “you had plenty to drink at home before we left.  If you’re still thirsty your water bottle is beside you.”

“Mom, we’re hungry.”

“No you’re not,” I said, this time in more of a sing-song voice, “you just ate at home before we left.  If you’re still hungry there’s snacks in the bag beside you.”

“Mom, we’re bored.”

Good Lord!  Was this really happening?  And in front of a room full of strangers?  Of course it was!

 

“You’re not bored,” I managed through clenched teeth, “you have your iPads.”

I felt it in my bones – this would be the longest one hour physio session ever! I managed to finish my time on the treadmill and then it was over to the weights.  And just like that it seemed as though the kids had settled in.  When I next turned around to check on them my daughter was holding up her iPad smiling at me and my son’s attention was focused on the man with the prosthetic leg.

I was crouched down adjusting the weights when from behind me I heard someone say, “Excuse me, but your daughter …”

I stood up and looked into the eyes of a woman I knew only as ‘Donna’.  I’d seen her around a few times.  Having heard her speak to others I knew that she was a professional wrestler of sorts.  Her ring name was ‘Donna-Do-You-Wanna?’  Her neatly braided rat’s tail hung mid-way down her back, her body was adorned with tattoos and piercings, and when she smiled I saw teeth the color of my first morning pee.

What could Donna possibly have to say to me about my daughter?  Was she going to say how pretty she was, or that she looked just like me – comments we had heard repeatedly since we’d entered the facility?  No.  Instead what she said was, “Excuse me, but your daughter is videotaping me with her iPad while I’m exercising and it’s really creeping me out.”

Okay – not what I had expected.  It quickly dawned on me, though, that when my daughter had been holding up her iPad and smiling it had not been because of me.  Instead it had been because she was filming!

“Oh that,” I responded casually, “she does that all of the time for her dad.  She’s only supposed to tape the attractive ones, though.  Obviously she made a mistake.  We’ll be sure and delete that immediately.”

Now, do you believe that that is what this mommy really said?  Well, I did not!  Although later that evening when I recounted the incident to my husband, that’s what he said I should have said!

The wisdom that comes with age, and hours of therapy, had taught me that how I responded to my child’s actions was far more important than how I responded to Donna’s reaction and words.  Once-upon-a-time this mommy would have responded out of anger and embarrassment.  I would have fallen over myself to apologize to this stranger and undoubtedly reprimanded my child harshly in a very public forum.  But to what end?  To appease someone who was a stranger to me and in so doing crush my child’s spirit?

“I’m sorry my child’s actions upset you,” was all I said.  “Although her intent was harmless we’ll delete that video immediately.”

On the ride home later that morning I addressed the inappropriateness of using our iPads to tape people we do not know.  And although I would never have given voice to my thoughts, the idea did cross this mommy’s mind that there were far worse ways a girl could make a living than selling mischievously obtained video!

Just sayin’ …

Traveling Troubles

For this mommy travelling with her two young children in a vehicle over any sort of distance ranks right up there with teeth extractions and pap smears.  It is both unwelcomed and uncomfortable!  Short of having strapped the kids to the roof, I have done everything within my power to make a long drive as pain-free as possible for all parties involved.  

Both iPads are fully charged and strategically placed within the vehicle to ensure easy access at all times.  Snacks and drinks are prepared and packed, as are coloring books and crayons, books for reading, playing cards and action figures.  Neck pillows, blankets and stuffies await each child on their seat should they desire comfort and warmth.  Child-friendly music is piped through the rear speakers and, on more than one occasion, this mommy has extended an arm out behind her to hold the hand of a child in the backseat who would not have stopped crying otherwise.  I have done it all and still it is never enough!  And it is never very long into any of our journeys before the murmurings from the backseat begin to make their way up to the front.

“Are we still in Canada?  Do we have to go on the highway?  I don’t like to go on the highway?  How long until we get there?  How many cut-offs until we get there?  I’m hungry.  I’m thirsty.   I don’t like what you packed for a snack.  I have to pee.  No, make that poop – I have to poop.  I’m bored.  Why can’t I get YouTube in the truck?  I’m hot.  I’m cold.  I don’t want to go to sleep.  She undid my seatbelt!  He pinched me!  Are we still in Canada?”

So this mommy has taken to singing!  When it all just gets to be too much – when I’m ready to open the door and throw myself into traffic – I sing.  My husband - a self-proclaimed horrendous singer who swore he would never sing to, or in front of, his kids – accompanies.  Usually I let loose with a series of operatic ‘AHHHHHHHHHs’, which is my way of summoning a higher power to help keep me from losing my mind.  Other times I belt out my best version of The Wheels on the Bus.  That “baby music” drives the kids b-a-n-a-n-a-s.  On occasion the kids and I would agree on a song to sing together; a song that made the miles pass by more quickly and more pleasantly.

My family was recently on our way home from cottage-country.  On a good day that trek took a minimum of four hours.  As anticipated we were not far into the drive when the murmurings from the backseat began to make their way up to the front.  It was time to sing!  Within no time the kids and I had decided on Down by the Bay.  We all agreed it was a catchy little tune, had a good beat and was easy to dance to.  Not only was Raffi’s song a good-kid-memory for me, it had an educational component; aiding my four-year-old son to learn rhyming sounds and words.  Moving in a clockwise direction around the vehicle, it was my turn to rhyme the first verse. 

“Down by the bay where the watermelons grow,” … and as the kids’ voices faded into the background I finished with my favorite “have you ever seen a bear combing his hair?”

Next up was my daughter.  In between giggles she finished her verse with “have you ever seen a goose kissing a moose?”  No surprise there.  Everything with her as-of-late revolved around kissing.

And then it was my son’s turn.  Born full of pee and vinegar, I knew that he would throw down a rhyme as unique as himself.  “Have you ever seen nuts on butts?” he belted out at the top of his lungs.  “Down by the bay.”

I don’t know if it was the heat.  Perhaps it was having lived and breathed my children for the past 24-7.  Or maybe I just needed to get out more!  Whatever it was, it made me laugh.  And the more I laughed so did everyone else.  Nuts on butts – I thought that was hysterical!

When everyone but me had stopped laughing my son asked, “What?  Nuts to butts.  It rhymes, doesn’t it?”

I was quick to answer, wanting to assure him that I was not laughing at him.  “Yes my son, it rhymes.”

Well, what more can this mommy say except that she will neither confirm nor deny that she has ever seen, heard, or felt nuts on her butt!  But as I always say, truth is funnier than fiction so you can never be too sure … Down by the Bay!

ACCEPTANCE

Late one afternoon in the summer of 2013 my husband and I sat anxiously awaiting the results of a series of psychological tests that our six-year-old daughter, Bronwyn, had taken during the previous weeks.  Until that point in time our experience with the medical community had been less than ideal.  No one, thus far, had been able to provide us with a satisfactory explanation for our daughter’s cognitive, developmental, and social delays.  We simply wanted an answer; a definitive reason ‘why’?  Neither one of us, however, was prepared for when the psychologist said simply, “Bronwyn has Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).”

All I remember about the rest of that meeting is that I held my husband’s hand a little too tightly and tried a little too fiercely not to blink, lest the tears spill over.  During the drive home I struggled to accept that a professional had just formally diagnosed my child as having special needs.  In so little time so much had changed – Bronwyn had ASD.  And yet nothing had changed – Bronwyn would only ever know what she and all children are deserving of – acceptance.

It has always been my belief that ‘knowledge is power’ and so I took to the internet in search of help. I was determined to learn all that I could about ASD to ensure that my child be given every opportunity to live her best possible life.  I was fortunate enough to find a group of phenomenal women – all of whom were mothers of children with ASD.  Although I was scared and apprehensive I willed myself to attend one of their weekly meetings.  And the truth of the matter is that I cried throughout that entire first meeting.  Yes, I felt sad and yes, I felt extremely overwhelmed.  I realized, however, that I was not alone.  In each and every one of those extraordinary women I found encouragement and support, compassion and understanding.  I felt reassured knowing that I would never again have to walk the journey alone.  That group of women showed Bronwyn and I what I had promised myself she would only ever know in this lifetime – acceptance.  Acceptance for the amazing girl that she was.

What I learned about ASD is that it effects all whom it touches differently.  That is why persons with ASD are referred to as being ‘on the ‘spectrum’.  Each persons’ symptoms and severity, thereof, differ.  Sometimes the difference is mild, other times vast.  Although persons with ASD are regarded as ‘different’ from what is defined as neurotypical, they are not less and should only ever know acceptance.

Bronwyn understands that ASD causes her brain and body to sometimes think and act differently than other people’s brains and bodies.  As she matures she may come to understand that, in more technical terms, ASD impairs her neurological development, her social interactions, and her verbal and non-verbal communication.  That time is not now.  Now is the time for Bronwyn to know, as should all children, acceptance for who she is. 

My daughter is absolutely beautiful in the way that matters most - on the inside.  Her smile is infectious and she is kind and compassionate.  Although Bronwyn has all of these remarkable qualities, ASD interferes in her social interactions with others.  Interpreting social cues and non-verbal communication are daily challenges for her, and expressing her thoughts clearly and understandably can be difficult.  As her mother I have cried many tears on Bronwyn’s behalf.  I have stood at a distance and watched proudly as she has tried so hard to put into practice the many skills that she has been taught at her therapy groups.  I have watched her attempt to make friends, to engage peers in conversation and to sustain play with them.  And I have also watched heartbrokenly as those same peers have ignored her, run away from her, and laughed at her.  In spite of how those children have treated her, though, Bronwyn’s beautiful spirit soars.  Even more incredible is that she harbors no ill-will towards those children.  Bronwyn has only ever shown them what they, like her, are deserving of – acceptance.

This past winter my daughter played Novice Girls hockey.  Her position was right-wing and throughout the season that never changed.  The coaching staff understood that in order for Bronwyn to thrive within that environment familiarity, consistency and routine were essential for her.  Before each practice and game my family would ask Bronwyn what it was she was supposed to do once she got on the ice.  By the season’s end she had learned that she needed to ‘skate hard’ and ‘chase the puck’; two simple concepts.  During her time as a Wilmot Wolverine Bronwyn’s teammates showed her patience, kindness and respect.  They only ever showed Bronwyn what she and all children are deserving of – acceptance. 

The concept of “acceptance” (not to be confused with “approval”) has been at the forefront of most of my life.  In my late teens I made a decision that my family would not accept.  Having been on the other side of scathing rejection myself, I vowed that should I ever become a mother there were very few choices my child could make that I would not accept.  I naively believed that the question of “acceptance” would arise when my children were older.  I had thought that it would concern issues such as who they would love, what political party they would support or what religious faith they would join.  

I never imagined that the question of “acceptance” would present itself to me in the form of a beautiful little girl with special needs.

Not once have I questioned whether to accept my daughter for who she is.  As mothers I do not even believe that that is a choice that we are even given.  You just do.  I desperately wanted a child and I loved Bronwyn from the moment I realized that she was growing inside of me.  The fact that she was born with Autism Spectrum Disorder did not change that.  I am her mother.  She is my child.  And until the day that I draw my final breath, I will strive to ensure that in Bronwyn’s lifetime she only ever know what it is that she and all children are deserving of – acceptance!  

The Mom Quilt Project

As wonderful as motherhood is, it can be extremely challenging.  When I started blogging my motivation was to share my personal 'truths' about motherhood - good and bad - and where ever possible help others find the humor within their family lives.  The 'truth', however, is that sometimes there is no humor to be found.

In my quest to share my 'truths' with others, I came across an opportunity to support, uplift and encourage other women and mothers. There was a call for submissions from a remarkable group of women for articles concerning motherhood; articles that would allow mommys like myself to share their personal stories, and in so doing help other women and mothers who are not in a position to help themselves.

Over 60 women and bloggers were chosen as contributing authors to share their stories about motherhood in an E-book entitled 'The Mom Quilt'.   I am honored to have been one of them. My story - Acceptance - is a glimpse into the life of my beautiful daughter who lives with Autism Spectrum Disorder. 

During my life there have been several instances where the kindness, strength and support of other women - some of whom were strangers to me - is what helped me through when I was unable to help myself.  In sharing my family's story, I wanted to 'pay it forward'; to support and uplift women and help them see that even in the face of adversity and challenge, we can always find hope and beauty.

100% of the proceeds from the sale of this E-book will go towards building a water well for those women, mothers, and children in Kenya who call Mercy House home. This is a chance for us to help those mothers, and mothers-to-be, in circumstances beyond their control.  

Please take this opportunity to help those who are not in a position to help themselves.

Click here to buy this E-book

Why You Should Keep Things to Yourself

My son's little school friend was over having a play date.  In true boy-fashion they had torn the house apart.  They had run up the stairs, and down the stairs; under the stairs and around the stairs.  At some point one of them had taken a break to use the washroom.  I hadn't thought anything of it until the next day when my son mentioned it.  It was then that I remembered having seen both boys head in the general direction of the washroom at the same time.

"Mom?"

"Yes Brennen?"

"When Mattie was here for our play date we went pee together."

I wasn't surprised; I had figured as much.  I didn't see any reason to make a big fuss over it so I said, "That's fine Brennen, but next time take turns using the washroom."

A few more seconds passed and again I heard, "Mom?"

"Yes Brennen?"

"My penis is bigger than Mattie's."

What can this mommy say but that her son has confidence!  But seriously, how was I supposed to keep a straight face and respond to that?

"You shouldn't look at other people's penises," was all I could manage.  "And I hope you didn't tell Mattie that yours was bigger."  

Better to let my son believe that size didn't matter!  That sort of 'truth' could wreck havoc on a boy's self-esteem for years to come.

"Now,” I chuckled softly, “go tell your father."

Boobies

My sweet boy and I were having a “moment”. We lay snuggled together on the couch; his head nestled against my chest and my chin resting atop his head.

"Mommy," he said, "your boobies are like jubies."

I knew that he was referencing my favorite candies – Jujubes – but what could he possibly think my breasts had in common with them?

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because,” he said, “they're soft and squishy."

Soft and squishy?! I’ll have you know, kid, that I used to have a set! They were big and round and solid. Okay, okay – maybe that was just when they were full of milk, which of course was for your benefit. But they were firm! And little do you know, but the thanks I got for birthing and nursing you was that my “boobies” would now take first prize in categories designated Looks Most Like Grapes With the Centers Sucked Out and Looks Most Like Plastic Baggies Full of Pudding!

But of course that entire diatribe took place inside of this mommy’s head and my son never heard a word of it. I just chuckled softly to myself and took a minute to think about what it was I did want my son to hear.

"Well," I replied, ""soft and squishy" was a small price to pay for the gift of you.”  

Amen.

How to Get Paid

There’s this “game” that my husband and five-year-old son play. I think it must be a testosterone-fueled initiation of sorts for boys as I watched my two younger brothers play the same “game” throughout my adolescence. Simply explained two males want the same object (i.e. the last slice of pizza, the remote control, all of dad’s loose change on his nightstand) and then proceed to beat on one another to prevent the other from getting said object. Of course my husband suffers far more abuse than my son ever does and nine times out of ten my son ends up with the prized possession.  

Now hold that thought and cut to this mommy and her kids packed into their truck and headed to a play-date. As it was still quite early in the morning it was no surprise to the kids to find us in the local coffee shop drive-thru. And is almost always the case, I had no cash on me. I was rummaging through my wallet trying to put together the required buck ninety for a large coffee with cream, all the while muttering about how daddy has all of the money and mommy never has any.

From behind me I heard my son say, “If you just lay on daddy you can take his money.”

Out of the mouth of babes I tell you! Of course I knew that Brennen was referencing the “game” that he played with his father, and was suggesting that I hold him down to take the loose change from his nightstand.  That fact, however, did not stop me from laughing at the simple truth of his pronouncement.

“My son,” I said as I rolled up to the drive-thru window, “you are wise beyond your years. When I lay on top of your dad I do get to take his money.”

What more can this mommy say except that it pays when daddy gets laid!

Those Things That Stick Up

My daughter's hockey team was set to compete in an 'away' tournament, which meant that my family would be spending the weekend in a hotel. The kids were jacked!

It was the night before the tournament and I had started packing everyone's things. I was working on the toiletries when my young son wondered into my bathroom. Of course he wanted to help. I watched as he grabbed a handful of Always pads from beneath my sink and threw them into the bag that I was assembling.

"Here mom," Brennen said cheerfully, "you'll need these."

"Thanks bud,” I grimaced, “but I don't need those."

The next thing I heard was, "Here mom, you'll need these too."

I turned cautiously towards my son and found him holding my razor, shaving cream, and waxing products. I was beginning to think that my son had spent too much time with me in the washroom.

"Thanks bud," I muttered again, "but I don't need those."

Apparently my not needing those things did not matter, as Brennen stuffed his treasures into the now bulging toiletry bag. He was so happy to help that I couldn't bear the thought of his thinking that I didn't want him too. So I stomped down my objections and decided that he could pack whatever he liked. I would simply unpack and repack later when he was asleep.

"Where are the things that stick up?" Brennen asked suddenly.

Stick up? I had no idea what he was talking about. “I don't know what that is, Brennen."

"Yes you dooooo know. The things that stick up!"

My son's frustration was evident, and my patience was wearing thin. Clearly I needed to come at this from a different angle.

"What does it look like, Brennen? What do you use it for?"

"You know mommy - the things that stick up your ba-jyna!"

Lord, what is a mommy to do?

Let this mommy answer her own question. She needs to start locking the bathroom door behind her – that’s what!

Truth is funnier than fiction I tell you. Truth is funnier than fiction!

Poop in the Sink

It was Sunday night and the end of a great weekend was fast approaching. My family and I had spent the day visiting with friends and the time had now come to say good-bye. The boys had spent the majority of their day in the basement playing hockey, so everyone was helping to gather up all of the gear and move it to the front door. During the process our little friend Sammy passed me as he was exiting the downstairs washroom.

“What’s brown in your sink?” he asked.

Brown in my sink? I had no idea. Rust stains? The more I thought about it, though, that didn’t make sense. We had a water softener and the house was still new-ish.

As soon as I could I checked out the situation. I am not sure what I had expected to find when I pushed open the door, but it surely was not what I found – poop in the sink!

Soft, brown poop was smeared around the sink basin and had plugged up the drain. Right away I made the assumption that this had been done by my daughter, who at times liked to “play” with unconventional substances. The next assumption I made was that Cinderella – that’s me – was going to have to clean this mess up. Really, there are no words!

Parenting 101 states that you should never humiliate your children in front of others – or at least that’s what this mommy says. So I closed the door behind me and casually announced that should anyone need to use the washroom before leaving they could just head upstairs. Although more than one questioning glance was sent my way, I just smiled and then quickly helped our friends to, and out, the door.

With our company gone I thought how best to handle the situation. If I was correct and it was my daughter that I needed to speak with, asking her why there was poop in the sink would not be the right approach. So I asked her to join me in the washroom, and then I simply pointed and began with, “Did you do this?”

“Yes,” came her response.

“What were you doing?”

“I wanted to conduct a science experiment!” And the tone of her voice said that she felt that was pretty obvious.

I wish there were a manual telling parents how to respond in situations such as finding poop in the washroom sink.  But there isn’t. Once-upon-a-time this mommy would have reacted in anger. I would have yelled unkind words and undoubtedly crushed my child’s spirit. But to what end? So this time I chose humor.

“Well my girl,” I said matter-of-factly, “if you were trying to conduct a science experiment then you certainly earned yourself top marks for originality. In the future, however, I would advise that you rethink your choice of materials.”

What more can this mommy say except that poop happens!

A Boy's Confidence

"Mommy," my young said blurted out while watching TreeHouse, "my penis is HUGE; it's all the way down to my knees!"

What can I say? My son is confident! But seriously, as a mother how do you respond to that? This mommy chose humor, of course!

"Don't tell your father," I whispered conspiratorially in my son's ear, "he'll want to know your secret." And just as I knew he would, my son jumped up off of the couch and ran towards the stairs.

I stood in the kitchen listening to his little feet climb as fast as they could. And I burst out laughing when I heard him call, "Daaaaddddy, where arrrre you? I have a secret to tell you."

Why I'd Rather Have a 'Flower'

I stared at one of my best mommy-friends over the rim of my non-fat, decaf, caramel latté. The morning's events had been nothing short of horrendous and a sit-down with her was just what I needed.

I didn't want to rant; I'd already done that earlier at home. The fight was now over and sadly I wasn't sure who had won. The kids were still drawing breath when I'd dropped them at school and I had lived to tell the story. Okay I decided on a sigh, it was a tie.

"You look like you’ve been dragged through a donut-hole backwards,” Maggie stated unapologetically as she slid into the booth across from me.  “What did your kids do to you this morning?”

"Thanks for nothing,” I shot back. “And to answer your question it’s not this morning - it’s every morning! My kids have no problem getting up at the crack-of-stupid on a weekend when we have nowhere to be. But try to get them up for school and that’s a whole other story."

"Tell me what happens right now?”

Maggie didn’t realize it but I noted that she had started tapping her finger against those awesome veneers of hers; the tell-tale sign that she was becoming agitated. Perhaps now was not a good time to discuss my inadequacies as a mommy after all. But it was too late.

“What’s your expectation of the kids? Do you have a reward-system in place?”

Expectation? Reward-system? This was clearly another lesson that I, as their mother, had failed to teach them – If you met expectation A, you would earn reward B. A simple concept but not always easy to implement.

"No," I said sheepishly, "I’ve got nothing. I go into the kids' rooms, turn on the lights, open the curtains, and tell them it's time to get up. They know I'm going downstairs to make coffee and that they’ll get a five-minute warning before I'm on my way back up. In those five-minutes my "expectation" is that they get out of bed and do three basic things: go pee, get dressed, and brush their teeth. But that never happens. I go back upstairs and they're still in bed. So now I'm annoyed and yelling that if they don’t get up they're going to be late for school. I stalk to my room, get myself dressed, head back across the hall and guess what? They're still in bed! Now I'm righteously ticked and threatening to take them to school in their pajamas without breakfast. On a good day, all of that combined might motivate them to finally get out of bed!”

Feeling completely deflated I sank back onto the cold vinyl of the booth and took a deep, calming breath.

"Alrighty then," Maggie said slapping her hand on the table, "time to turn this ship around. Clearly this situation is not working for you!"

God I loved that about her. Maggie had been at this mothering-gig a lot longer than me and believed, dare I say it, that it was okay to put a mommy and her happiness first. She set rules and expectations that made her life easier even if her kids didn't like it. And the best part? She felt no guilt! It’s no wonder I aspired to be like my girl Mags.

"I wouldn't even go into their rooms to wake them," Maggie advised. "They need to be doing that for themselves. I sleep-trained my kids with one of those alarm clocks that turns color when it's time for them to get out of bed. If I'm upstairs when they get up I don't even speak to them. I'll give them a visual prompt if they're not staying on task but I don't speak. They know what's expected and if they want to earn that reward they’ll do it.”

Sleep-trained? God I loved that about her, too. Maggie always had a plan; always had a solution to the problem. Me? I had good intentions.

A year prior I'd bought the kids those fancy Discovery clocks for Christmas.  My daughter got the flower and my son got the rocket ship. The “intent” had been that the kids would learn how to tell time, wake up to the alarm, and enjoy the images of the galaxies, peace-signs and such that those clocks projected onto the walls and ceilings. I was sure we had set the time on the clocks and enjoyed the projections, but had we ever tried using the alarm function? I couldn’t remember.

"We don't have clocks that change color, but we do have alarm clocks - a flower for Bronwyn and a rocket ship for Brennen."

"Perfect!" Maggie exclaimed, and then we set about formulating a plan. 

One week later I again stared at one of my best mommy-friends over the rim of my non-fat, decaf, caramel latté. "Well?" Maggie prompted, "How did things work out with the alarm clocks?"

"Alright, I guess. I made a really big, over-the-top production about how great it would be to wake up to their alarm clocks, just like we discussed. I told the kids how big they were getting and that mommy would be so proud of them if they could wake up on their own."

"Sounds great so far."

"Yeah, I thought I was pretty great too. Academy award winning ‘great’," I laughed. "So I let the kids pick the morning that they were going to try out their alarms. I gave them a choice and let them feel like they had some control." I had pulled out every trick the nice social-worker had taught me for this one.

"The kids brought me their clocks and as I was setting the alarm on Brennen's I told him how awesome it was going to be; how his rocket was going to go off in the morning and wake him up. I started setting Bronwyn's alarm and I told her the same. I told her how awesome it was going to be; how her flower … and then I didn't know what to say. Her flower wasn’t going to do anything. It just was."

Suddenly Maggie was laughing uncontrollably. “You’re incredible,” she croaked. “You’ve just unknowingly described for your kids what separates the sexes. Boys have exploding rockets – amazing! Girls have flowers – the end.

Clearly our plan was going to require further thought. Fortunately I had the entire summer vacation to work it out. Shaking my head and laughing uncontrollably myself, I raised my mug and clanked it against Maggie’s.

“I’d rather have a flower anyway,” I whispered conspiratorially. “I like the idea of having something that lasts for more than one go-around and doesn’t require re-fueling!”

The end.