Thursday wasn’t okay, it was better than okay: 

 It was awesome. 

We went out to lunch at Panera and he stood in line and he participated and he sat at the table (mostly) and he ate (okay, I fed him) and he smiled.
But the five and a half years before that of trying restaurants wasn’t okay. 

It wasn’t okay when he was a toddler and I was determined he would learn how to eat at a table and I packed toys and treats and sat him in high chairs and apologized to my friends over and over and over while I sweated from embarrassment wondering why we couldn’t even eat lunch out. Ever.

It wasn’t okay learning that he regressed every time we tried a new restaurant. That he would stop talking. Or stop eating. Or writhe on the floor under the table. Or try to escape to another table or the bathroom or out the building or anywhere just to be away.

It wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t okay for a long, long time.

And then it was. 

And I think about all the other times it’s not okay. 

Its not okay that after going out to lunch, after doing SO well, his OCD was so intense he almost couldn’t make it back to the car.

It’s not okay when I’m on the diaper aisle.

It’s not okay when we are leaving the grocery store without our groceries because the screaming was worse than usual.

It’s not okay when I cancel physical therapy because six months later he is still spending the whole half hour biting or fighting with her rather than working on his tasks.

It’s not okay when I have to think about a safety plan. And a bolting plan. Or when I have to eye the nearest exit in case he makes it there first. 

It’s not okay to think we can visit THAT house because it’s too close to the street and he’d die the first time he bolted.

It’s not okay when people ask if he’s in kindergarten and I say “no” and then cut off their next questions with a curt “We withdrew him from his DD class last year. We homeschool.”
It’s not okay when the next answer is either “No. He doesn’t read yet. He doesn’t know his AbCs but we are working on it.”


“I really don’t know. We are just taking it a day at a time.”

It’s not okay that at 5.5 he still struggles just to exist in this world with us.

It’s not okay that he hurts.

It’s not okay that he cries.

It’s not okay that I cry for him.

It’s not okay that his life is hard when I do everything I know to do to make it easier.

But then we try something one more time. Because even if it’s not okay and even if it’s hard we aren’t going to give up.

So we try.

And it works.

And it’s okay.

And all the rest of those things that aren’t okay just kind of fade into the background behind “today was awesome.”

And I know that those things back there may not be okay today and maybe they won’t ever be “okay” but no matter what, he will be okay. And will be okay. And we will be okay.

And that’s awesome.




I wasn’t born to be a mom

I have no business being a mother.
It’s something I think about a lot. I keep coming back to that: I don’t know how to be a mom.
I wasn’t “born to be a mom” like so many of my friends.
It’s not in my makeup, not who I am. 
So I figured I may as well, on the holiday I feel least deserving of praise, make myself a list. 
And I did.
1. I don’t know what to do with a child for more than 20 minutes at a time. You’re almost six years old. That’s a lot of 20-minute sections. But I can’t do it. It’s like I have an internal timer. You can have my complete, undivided attention for 19.5 minutes and then I WILL look at my phone or go pee or start cleaning up or change the cat litter or sneak into my closet to eat a piece of the Halloween candy from last year that I made you sacrifice to the Great Pumpkin.
2. I made you sacrifice all but 5 pcs of your Halloween candy to the Great pumpkin. For your health.
3. And then I ate it.
4. I keep fruit and nuts in my bedroom so when you wake up before I do I don’t have to get out of bed to feed you.
5. I told you that eating apples in bed for breakfast is kind of like a mini birthday. And that only special kids get breakfast in bed.
6. Sometimes I yell at you. I’ve tried the rubber band thing and the five ring thing. I still yell.
7. I yell.
8. I get really freaked out by poop. If you move even an inch while I wipe your bottom I’m probably gonna scream.
9. I scream.
10. I give you the vaccum and let you do outer space experiments by sucking spiders into the vortex.
11. I don’t kill my own spiders.
12. I told you spiders are poisonous.
13. Even the tiny ones. 
14. I hand you whatever I can find in the car to keep you busy. I don’t care about the mess. Here’s an ice scraper and a cup holder-shaped box of Kleenex. A sun visor. Three packs of gum. Anything. Here kid, go crazy.
15. I rarely clean up messes right away. I save them up. So I can have my own version of the Olympics every weekend. Like the “oh crap it’s filthy and if DHS comes I’m totally losing my parental rights so hurryyyyyyy. Fasterrrrrrrrr.”
16. I have pulled up your comforter and laid you down on top of it rather than changing your sheets. I only change bedtime sheets if there’s pee. Or vomit. Or poop. Anything else has to wait for morning.
17.  I take pictures of you in your underwear. And diapers. And on the toilet. You have zero privacy.
18. I take pictures of you sleeping. I’m like the stalker that wouldn’t quit.
19. I let you do dangerous things because I think you should have adventures.
20. I let you do dangerous things because I believe you should learn from your own mistakes.
21. I let you do dangerous things because I’m checking Facebook. 
22. Or the blog. 
23. Or thinking about how mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell.
24. Or I freak out because you’re doing something dangerous.  (Which means poison or knives, basically. Or anything in my room.)
25. I told you that if you eat boogers you would get germs and get sick. Now every time you pick a booger you think you’re going to die.
26. I haven’t figured out how to convince you that you won’t die without also endorsing eating boogers. So I told you to hurry and eat fruit and drink water to wash the germs out of your mouth.
27. I manipulate you into eating fruit and drinking water.
28. I use this as a way to get rid of the extra fruit I overbuy. Because I inevitably buy pears and apples. From SAMs. On the same day.
29. I put my cauliflower on your plate. Every time. I mean, I have good intentions. But I can’t cauliflower.
30. I tell you that you’re too tired for another story.
31. If you cry then I use it as proof you’re tired. Which may actually be correct. Or not.
32. I know the ingredients in play d’oh. Because I’ve checked it after you ate it. And saw “non-toxic.” So I still give you play d’oh. And you sill eat it.
33. I told you that on rainy days you’re not allowed to be loud. 
34. I may have told you it said that in the bible. You don’t understand coveting asses yet anyway. Rainy day quiet should totally have been there instead.
35. Sometimes I hear you in the morning and I cover my head with the covers because I just can’t “mom” or “adult.” 
“Hiding Momma” is one of your favorite “games.”
36. When you were a baby, sometimes I would nurse you just to keep you still so I could close my eyes for a minute. That’s right. I manipulated you with my boobs. So I could sleep.
37. Once, when you were a baby and I was changing your diaper, I started talking to someone and you rolled off onto the floor. 
38. When you were a baby and you’d be awake every two hours, I used to recite my favorite movie lines to you because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And I was tired. So your founding neuronal synapses were triggered by scripts from Underworld and Lord of the Rings and You’ve Got Mail and Sense and Sensibility. Which explains a lot, actually.
39.  When you were a baby, the very first time I ever cut your finger nails, I cut your finger. You bled. You screamed. I did that. I still think of it EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. I cut your nails.
40. There are so many mess ups I can’t list them all.
41. I’ve messed up every day since you were born.
42. I’ve messed up in every way I possibly could since you were born.
43. Sometimes I mess up in the same way over and over for awhile before I figure out I’m messing up.
44. I often feel overwhelmed by being your mom.
45. I often feel overwhelmed by you. 
46. I’ve apologized to you almost every day of your life.
47. Every single day since you were born, I’ve been aware of my imperfections as a human. Of my selfishness. Of my laziness. And every day since you were born I’ve changed something about myself. Because I love you. I love you more than myself. And I want to be your mom and I want to be the kind of mom you will be proud of and look up to and love, not just because I’m your mom, but because I’m the mom you would choose.
You see, I wasn’t supposed to be a mom.
48. I’m not made of mom-stuff. 
49. I’m a mess up of a single mom who just happens to love you so much that I can’t even imagine all the ways I don’t deserve to raise you.
50. I wasn’t born to be a mom. You are making me into a mom. 
And I let you teach me every day how to be because without you, I have no idea. 
And every one of those lessons are cherished.
And with every flaw I find in myself I cherish your flaws even more.
The more I understand myself, the more I understand you.
And that journey is kind of turning me into the best mom ever.
So… Thanks.
And happy Mothers Day, Sweetie.
I love you.


Sometimes I don’t realize just how important something is to me until he accomplishes it, and then the flood overtakes me.

I was a hyperlexic toddler. I learned words and how to read, but I didn’t really have to be “taught.” I just understood. And the more I understood the faster I learned. And the more I read.

My father bought me a Grey’s Anatomy for my 10th birthday as a joke – or not – because I’d read all the books in his 100 classics collection and needed something new to read.

I’m surrounded by stacks and stacks and stacks of books.

Fiction, non-fiction, educational, medical, poetry.

And in the irony of the parent-child dynamic that is “us” My Boy doesn’t understand letters and even worse, he doesn’t CARE about them.

Words are often meaningless.

Arbitrary beyond the inherent arbitrary nature of words.

They are vague, unknown things. Letters are pointless. Writing torture.

He hasn’t mastered singing “ABC’s” yet, although sometimes to please me he will try.

I think of all the parents who wish their children were athletes or ballerinas or musicians or liked Thai food – just because they do.

I think how we parents want our kiddos to share the pieces of us that we cherish most.

And how disappointed we are when it doesn’t happen.

And we autism parents often, in an even deeper way, have disappointments about the things our kiddos can’t or won’t do and – the hardest – may never do.

And that’s where I am with reading.

I am prepping myself that not only may he not enjoy or want to read, he might not be able to.

And if he does learn to read one day (yes, he’s still young) then it may be a challenge for him. Too hard to enjoy. Too hard to come easily.

These pieces of his brain that he just can’t quite seem to access may be so tightly locked up that reading a book may be years away.

And then I face the reality that he becomes not just different from me, but my opposite.

In one of the ways I most identify as a part of who I am as a person.

And it’s hard.

And most of the time my thoughts skip around these ideas like rocks on a summer lake until today Grandma and a surprise bribe and a new letter game and a calm day and a hop and a wink brews up the perfect storm – and he does the activity.

And the hopes and fears pour out of me so fast it’s as if I’m standing in the middle of a flood.

A flood of resistant behavior and dyslexia and dysgraphia and visual discrimination and visual tracking and fine motor and motivation and comprehension and auditory processing and phonemic and phonetic awareness.

I know I’m not going to drown in it.

I know the flood isn’t going to take me down.

But I’d be lying if I said that feeling the water rise didn’t make me panic.

Oh, the days when joy triggers fear.

Aren’t they something.






Pic of my Boy’s stamp activity. 
All caps completed.

Which is 26 direct tasks.

Which is pretty much surreal.

And amazing.

And terrifying.


And no, it isn’t just about me.

Or him.

It’s about us.

And doing this together.

And Grandma. Because she’s the one he did it for 😉

In Search of a Comfortable Barcalounger

I have been putting this post off for weeks. I’ve told myself that I have writer’s block, that I’m too busy, that life, you guys.

Really, I am just hiding out. From myself and from you and from this blinking cursor who knows that I won’t write another thing until and unless this comes first.

Deep breath.

Today, I am meeting an estates and trusts lawyer. In 33 minutes, I will put on some nicer shoes, hopefully remember some earrings, and get in my car to meet my parents at the office of their lawyer and discuss my son’s future.

Today, a man I have never met will ask me, “Do you think your son will be able to manage his assets when he reaches age 18?”

I will look at this man, a stranger until today, and say, “No. I don’t think so.”

I wonder if this man…

View original post 338 more words

Autism Awareness: Both of Us

TRIGGER WARNING: Autistic meltdowns and hurting hearts.


We are still recovering from a level orange fit on Wednesday.

I wouldn’t call it a meltdown because he was responding to me, but he was still out of control. Manic. Painfully aggressive.

And it makes me think a lot about all of this autism awareness.

Because there are many beautiful things about My Boy.

No more or less beautiful, I believe, than any other mother sees in a beloved child.

But the hardest part for me about having this blog is finding the balance.

How much do we idolize the beauty?

Deny the painful?

When mothers speak about being overwhelmed or traumatized or sick over their children, they are so often attacked.


As if their emotions and experiences are invalid.

As if they should always and ever be relishing that their child is autistic.

Here’s a truth for you:  You cannot tell another person what to feel when they experience emotional pain.

We shout from the rooftops everyday to accept our children and embrace their differences and respect their feelings.

And mothers who are doing that very thing are unable to discuss THEIR differences or THEIR feelings and be treated with respect.

It’s a double standard.

It’s hypocrisy.

It needs to stop.

You don’t know what I should or should not feel.

You don’t know what I should or should not think.

I should be able to voice my fears.

I should be able to voice my sadness.

I should be able to be just as respected as my child.

I watch my child thrash.

And hit.

And claw.

And bite.

And bang his head until he has bruises and scratches.

I listen to him scream.

I see his tears and his gut wrenching and heartbreaking meltdowns.

I battle with the gray area between tantrums and meltdowns and struggle with where the lines cross of what he knows and what he can control.

I advocate for him.

I cry for him.

Do I love him unconditionally? Absolutely!

But to say that I am not allowed to wish he had been given an easier life would, in my opinion, render me cold and heartless.

He is a child. And he suffers.

Whatever gifts he has do not lessen the pain that he feels.

Whatever brilliance is in him does not lessen his anxiety.

There is nothing that I can do to give him a pain free childhood.

Do not tell me not to wish I could.

Tell me that these moments that rip apart my heart and soul can be healed by the beauty of the quiet times.

Tell me that the miracle he is can soothe the anger in my core that he must suffer.

Tell me that I am strong enough to wish and hope and pray for the happy times and that all that energy will get me through the bad ones.

Tell me that the things we do have, communication and affection and love, will make up for the things we don’t, peace and confidence and easy days.

Tell me that it’s okay to not embrace the pain.

But to keep embracing him.

Tell me that I may not always feel the way I feel today. About Autism. About myself. About our journey.

Guide us if you can.

Tell me that even if you don’t understand, 

You’ll accept me anyway.

You’ll accept him anyway.

You’ll accept us.

Because he and I?

We are a package deal.






Screenshots of a poorly shot video taken while trying to keep My Boy calm enough to get him somewhere safe. 

And no, it isn’t fun. And yes, it’s important.


It Isn’t Your Fault: Thoughts on Disability and Social Responsibility

You’re absolutely right.

It isn’t your fault.

It isn’t your fault that My Boy is autistic. Or that his autism requires intervention to improve.

It isn’t your fault that he didn’t intuitively learn to speak. Or that sign and A/AC and speech therapy and language therapy haven’t corrected his language deficits enough for him to be understood by other 5 year olds.

It isn’t your fault that he lacks self-care skills. Or that he requires Occupational Therapy for toileting and feeding and listening and drawing and dressing and just freaking playing with toys the way that the other kids somehow “instinctively” know how to do.

It isn’t your fault that he lacks muscle strength. Or that he has the “typical” autism physique of skinny, weak arms and legs and that walking long distances is completely beyond him.

It isn’t your fault that he is awkward. Or that he requires physical therapy to learn to keep his balance walking a line or going up stairs or holding a toy in each hand or even sitting in a chair without falling over.

It isn’t your fault that 1 in 5 families are crying out for help when their babies don’t walk or talk or learn the way those Expecting books said that they should.

It isn’t your fault that the numbers are probably higher but because of social resistance and insurance and coverage and services and testing and finances there are children who won’t be diagnosed until they are long past the golden “Early Intervention” years that so many of us cling to.

It isn’t your fault that your children are being forced into classrooms with ours. Or that your children will have to grow up with fewer and fewer and fewer neurotypical friends because the numbers of autism are rising and it looks like we are on our way to taking over the playgrounds.

It isn’t your fault that your children are staring down a 1:3 possibility of having a child on the spectrum.

It isn’t your fault that by the time that they do our kids will be aging out of services.

It isn’t your fault that I won’t have made millions and millions of dollars to support my child after he ages out. Or that part of the reason is because I spent all those years at speech therapy and occupational therapy and physical therapy and behavioral therapy and IEP meetings and advocacy boards and doctor appointments and evaluations and Carter’s for those dang footie pj’s he insisted on wearing 24/7 for 3 years or the diaper aisle of Wal-Mart crying over the cost of the big kids overnights and inserts and then smiling when I found cloth diapers that could replace those inserts and then frowning thinking about how I was going to be washing diapers again and I had always thought diapers were a baby phase.

It isn’t your fault that I live here in the same country as you.

Or that one day I will die.

And my currently-a-half-orphan child will not have anyone left who could possibly love and care and advocate and fight for him 24-7-365.

Because I’m it.

And the rest of the country is too busy standing on your soapboxes saying “It isn’t my fault.”

And you’re right.

It isn’t.

It’s no one’s fault.

We were all dropped here on this planet or sprouted on this planet or left on the planet when the mothership left or whatever it is you believe.

We’re all here.


It’s not my fault and it’s not your fault.

And it sure as hell isn’t My Boy’s fault.

You’re right.

Until you say it isn’t your responsibility.

And that my friend, is where you’re wrong.

Because one of the things that also isn’t your fault is that we all live here together and somewhere at some point we are all responsible to each other.

Our words and our actions and the way that we live.

We all bear the burden of each other’s existence.

Because we all exist here together.

We all need each other. We all rely on each other.

We all have to face things that aren’t our fault.

And we all have a responsibility to do it.

And a responsibility to be a part of this society.

And yes, responsibility is a hard thing.

And no, it isn’t your fault.


Autism Awarenesss: The Hard Days

Yesterday was perfect.

I took him to the zoo.

We didn’t have one meltdown.

He is learning to feed himself.

He only bolted while playing on the playground so, all things considered, totally manageable.

He tried to make friends.

He interacted with his surroundings.

He played appropriately at the sandbox in the dinosaur exhibit.

It couldn’t have been more perfect.

More calm.

More beautiful.

We’ve had so few of these outings over the past few years that sometimes I forget, or rather I don’t think about in clear, vibrant ways, that he is disabled.

Yeah, that word so many people don’t like: “Disabled.”

“Lacking in an ability.”

And let me be very clear, My Boy is the Shiz.

But there are things he can’t do.

And I know it.

But I also forget quite often what it’s like to stand him next to a group of children and “compare.”

And yeah, I think it’s an important thing to do.

I need a plan for him. I need to know how far we have come. How far we have left to go.

I need to know goals and what works and what doesn’t.

I need to see so I know.

I saw him running and flapping and doing his “scarecrow dance” onto the playground shouting “my friends are all here” and I watched to see if his simple joy was enough to make friends.

And I saw him playing along with the 3 years olds, mostly able to follow their lead.

And I watched them gang up to hit and kick him.

Was it his size? That he was so much bigger?

Was it that they couldn’t understand his speech or his behaviors?

I saw.

But I didn’t know what it was that I saw.

And then I saw him leave the toddlers, whose games and dances he understood, and I saw him approach the bigger kids his own age.

And I saw them decide to take him out, too.

And running, phone in hand and recording, I saw him.

As if his very existence was billboarding him as an outsider.

As bully-fodder.

As if they could smell him.

Or see a flashing light over his head declaring, “I am different. And vulnerable. Come hurt me.”

And their taunting punches and kicks landed softly, as if egging him on, and were met with his blank, thoughtful stare.

He was so present in that confusing, awful moment.

And then when the ring leader decided to go after him for real, with me running full blast toward them in the sand as slow as a dream, I saw My Boy punch that Kid-Bully in the jaw.

And when Kid-Bully stood stunned, I saw My Boy side kick him ninja-style in the hip.

And down Kid-Bully went.

And My Boy stared at him.

A blank, thoughtful stare.


And confused.

And later in the car I answered My Boy’s questions as best I could.

No. You are not allowed to hit.

Well, not hit first.

Yes, if someone hurts you it is okay to fight back.

Yes, you should come get Momma if you can.

No, you are not a villain.

I know it’s confusing.

I’m proud of you for defending yourself.

And I’m heartbroken you had to.


Why is a boy who hasn’t mastered potty training and doesn’t know his ABC’s having to learn how and when to defend himself?


Why is my Boy, who just wanted to make friends, unable to do so in a setting that should be so natural?

Why do I have to hover just to protect him?

I know why.

And it has nothing to do with “Autism Awareness.”

And it has nothing to do with “Autism Acceptance.”

It has nothing to do with special needs or childhood independence.

It has to do with them.

With the highlight-haired and meatball and coleslaw pita sandwich-eaters (ew) and coach diaper baggers standing in line for lunch at the zoo who think it’s okay to laugh and roll their eyes at the awkward teen girl who invaded their perceived “space” as she reached past them to grab a pudding.

It has to do with them.

The moms standing in line for the zoo train wearing their babies.

When their 3 year old points at my 5.5 year old and says “He’s in a baby seat!” And I reply “No, it’s just a stroller.” 

And she ushers her kid around the corner without correction or apology or even a glance to let me know she didn’t know what to say.

Because I know that’s what you told him, isn’t it?

Not considering the needs of others who will need strollers throughout childhood or adulthood, you told him that he didn’t need to ride in a “baby seat” today.

Because trying to foster independence you unwittingly, I presume, taught him that children with other needs are “babies.”

It has to do with them.

The mothers who let their kids mock and bully a child who acts differently and speaks differently.

Because “they’ll work it out on their own” is such a solid parenting plan.

And you could care less who gets hurt.

Until your child gets punched and side-kicked by the autistic boy.

And then you don’t like it, do you?

And then suddenly, in the flurry of emotions I can’t even name and the flailing scenes moving so fast my mind can’t keep up with my eyes, it isn’t about you it’s about us.

And it’s about the fact that I am us and you are them.

It’s about me realizing that raising your level of autism awareness isn’t enough.

Because there will never be enough autism awareness to make you move over so the awkward teenage girl, the only one in the group standing all alone in line, can grab her pudding without being visibly mocked by adults.

There will never be enough autism awareness to teach you that a simple “would you like to sit with us” could have taught others to accept and not reject the teen that was different from yours.

There will never be enough autism awareness to teach you that telling your child “a kid in a stroller isn’t a baby, he’s just a kid” would have made all the difference to the mother pushing the stroller.

Or to the kid in the stroller who understands more than you think, because his stroller doesn’t inhibit his hearing.

There will never be enough autism awareness to teach you that “they’ll figure it out on their own” doesn’t work when one of those kids perseverates on Ninjago.

And he knows the difference between playing and when he is being attacked.

And because we raised your awareness yesterday, didn’t we?

About autism kiddos and side-kicks and the autism Mom that video documents everything.

But it wasn’t enough. Was it?

All that autism awareness.

I know it.

And it hurts.

And it’s sad.

And I know, too that “Autism Awareness” can’t be “Autism Acceptance” until you are willing to be a kind human.

Until you are willing to practice “Human Awareness” and someday, if you possibly can, “Human Acceptance.”

Even if it’s just to help another mom have less of a hard day.

Even if it’s just so that solitary girl knows that people are aware she is just as deserving as the girls standing in line in groups.

Even if it’s just so you don’t underestimate the strength and the fortitude of that kid with delays as he takes out your son on the playground.

Even if it’s just to stop making everything them VERSUS us and you VERSUS me.

Can we start there?


So that sometime, somewhere, someday the perfect and beautiful day at the zoo will be less of a hard day.

For all of us.




The Zoo Slide

Autism Awareness: “Because I didn’t have a choice.”

Mothers are saying “I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”

Mothers are saying “I had no choice.”

“Because he’s my child.”

“Because she’s my little girl.”

No choice.

And I want to climb onto my kinetic sand-covered and paint-splattered dining table and shout at the top of my lungs, “I had a choice.”

Because I did.

I do.

Every day I have a choice.

When I smile and nod and go with gluten-free banana pancakes and organic Gogurt for breakfast, that is a choice. I am choosing to give him food he likes to eat and what I believe is good for him to eat above what I want to eat. Which is always eggs Benedict.

When I jump off the toilet mid-pee because I hear silence and silence is dangerous, it is a choice. I am choosing to put his safety above my own biological needs.

When I sit on the floor and play Batman, which is really just scripting the action with no beginning, no plot and no ending, I have a choice. I am choosing his joy and his choices in entertainment over my own.

When I follow him into therapy and record his progress and make notes of new tests and referrals and note what I see and how he responds, I have a choice. I am choosing his progress over my time and a bit of my sanity.

When he cries in the night and I know they are night terrors and he won’t recall me comforting him and I get out of bed to go in and hold him anyway, it is a choice. I am choosing to try to comfort him even though he may never understand the sacrifice of sleep and the tears that only a sleep-deprived Momma can shed in the middle of the night holding a child who is neither awake or asleep.

When I put his needs before mine and I sacrifice so much that I feel like my soul has faded to gossamer and my body is worn and my face and eyes are tired and swollen until I look in the mirror and don’t see myself because the face in the mirror is his Momma and nobody else, it’s a choice. I am choosing my son over myself.

When I realize that he needs me, all of me, everyday and that there is no vacation or free time or break because this child that needs me needs every breath that I take until I think I can’t breathe anymore, I have a choice. I am choosing to be what he needs and wants and even the things that nobody thinks I should have to be because I know that the more that I am to him and the more that I do for him the better his life will become.

I will not be a victim of fate and though I did not choose the name of the road we are on I’ll be damned if I don’t choose which path I will take.

I will not let the fact there are things I can’t choose make me feel powerless when faced with the the things that I can.

It’s a choice.

You’re a choice.

Every day, every minute, every second.

And there are mothers who won’t and who don’t and the ones who can’t even if they want.

But I can and I will and I do.

Not because I had no choice or there was no other road.

But because when something matters more than anything else I could ever do, then that is the thing I will choose.

And yesterday, today, and every tomorrow until I’m not needed,

And probably longer than that,

I choose you.


I wish I was the kind of girl who…

Me too ❤

Autism In Our House

I wrote a facebook status that said:

I wish I were the kind of person that could be trusted to wear white jeans.

That got me thinking about the kind of girl I wish I was. We’ll tackle that one first. I wish I were the kind of girl that could be trusted to wear white jeans.I love white jeans. And white t-shirts. And white Oxford shirts. And white slipcovers. And white cabinetry. And…you get the drift. I would love a world where I was bathed in breezy white fabrics, but my reality is I can’t get out of the house without a stain of some sort on my brand new white shirt. Let’s be real, they only ever look good the one time.

I wish I were the kind of girl who could wear bangs.I know it’s dumb but it’s more an issue of im not a…

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