"Vacation"

I hung up the phone and raced off to pick my daughter up from school, excited with my news.  As she jumped in the car I announced to her that I was taking all the kids to Colorado for two whole weeks.  She burst into tears.  She begged and pleaded to be left home.  It is pretty bad when your nine year old would rather stay in school rather than go on a trip with her family.  My daughter isn't crazy, she has just been on one too many of our 'vacations'.  She has finally caught on.  Our 'vacations' are kind of like those timeshare deals where you get a wonderful deal on a trip with the catch that you must attend their 90 minute meeting where they rope you into selling your soul.  Our deals are a little different.  The meeting is really some new therapy or treatment for our autistic son.  For example, this upcoming 'vacation' is a bargain costing only $4000 dollars.  With this low price my son will receive two half hour sensory treatments every day for twelve straight days.  Throughout our time there, it is suggested that we not fill our day with many other activities.  A huge bonus is, like most therapies, his unwanted behaviors are expected to escalate before they get better.  That is all part of the wonderful package.  Bottom line, two weeks confined to one small hotel room, no sightseeing, no sleep, and lots of screaming, hitting, and poop smearing.  Now tell me, what child wouldn't jump at the chance to come on that dream vacation.  Nevertheless, my daughter will be staying home with daddy this time.  This means my mother will be the lucky volunteer to come along for the ride this time.  This will be her first experience, and I may not have fully explained the situation.  Sorry Mom, it is too late for you to back out now.

Spring Cleaning

The walls in my house are closing in on us.  We recently got new carpet in the bedrooms and I swear the measurements didn't add up right.  Our rooms are definitely two square feet smaller than when we moved in.  I know we would never have bought a house with so little living area, so that is the only explanation.  Then again, maybe our 'junk' is multiplying.  It is not safe to walk through my house.  I feel like I am dancing as I move down the hallway.  Any misstep could result in injury from the hundreds of small choking hazard toys strewn about.  Where did they all come from?  I think the neighborhood kids must be dumping all their unwanted toys in our house.  I usually keep up with the clutter but it looks like I have let things go a bit.  I was recently sick, but since that was almost a month ago my excuse is getting a little weak.  We were living in Mississippi when Hurricane Katrina hit the gulf coast.  For a couple of weeks during our evacuation we weren't sure if we had lost everything.  I must admit that for a moment I was disappointed to find out that all our personal belongings were safe.  That was about five years ago though.  We would have had plenty of time to fill our house again.  It looks like it is time for spring cleaning.  Then again, there is always next year.

Wasteful

I found a wonderful surprise in my bathroom as I went in to get ready for bed.  There before me was a winter wonderland.  The floor was completely covered in at least fifty tampons.  Apparently my two oldest sons had not gone right to bed like I thought.  I had to laugh for a moment, but then I realized what this meant.  A midnight run to Walmart.  The economy being what it is, I try to do my part by not being wasteful.  I had been rationing out my feminine supplies, and the sight before me was supposed to last through the next month as well.  I grew up with a very thrifty mother who taught us not to waste anything.  She got a little excited every time our house got TP-ed.  Free toilet paper for a month!  I couldn't bring myself to go to that extreme.  I nearly cried at the wastefulness of it all.  I vowed never to leave my personal items laying out again.  My memory must not be great, because the very next day my daughter came running up to me, excited to show off her new spelling skills.  I listened carefully as she spelled out K-O-T-E-X and T-A-M-P-O-N-S.  Either she came across my stash or the teachers are getting more creative with their spelling lists these days.

Sleep is a luxury, not a right

I am ripped from a deep sleep by the pain that shoots through my head.  My two year old son is ripping my hair out of my head.  He has been restless much of the night.  I can't put him in his own bed because his screaming will wake his brother who has school in the morning.  I roll over, but before I have the chance to lose my patience I see my little boy's face in the dim light.  My toddler's fingers have intertwined in my hair as he sucks his thumb for comfort.  I can't help but kiss his chubby little cheeks.  He shifts from my touch.  Suddenly his face is pressed against mine as he now uses my head as a pillow.  I don't want to move him since this is the first time he has been comfortable all night, but there is no way I can sleep this way.  I slide his body over and roll onto my side where I see my four year old creepily staring at me in the dark as he stands next to my bed.  How long has he been there?  He sulks back toward his bedroom after I regretfully tell him there is no room in our bed for him tonight.  I know I probably shouldn't let my kids sleep in our bed, because no one gets great sleep, but my four year old is getting more and more independent by the day.  How much longer will he allow his parents to cuddle with him?  Then I hear the screeching sounds coming from the other room that can only mean that my six year old is awake.  I look at the clock; 4:33 am.  I untangle my hair from my toddler's hand and crawl out of bed to tell him to go back to sleep.  I find him hiding in a cardboard box on top of his bunk bed.  Where he got the box, I have no idea.  He is laughing hysterically at some personal joke.  How long has he been awake?  I stand there listening to his laughter for a few minutes before returning to bed.  Somehow the lack of sleep doesn't seem so bad some times.

Baby's Birthday

It's that time of the year again; time to look back and reflect on my youngest child's second year of life.  The day is nearly over.  New toys are scattered on the floor.  My kids are lying in bed, not quiet, but not screaming so that's good enough for me.  I have a moment to think back to when my baby joined our family.  He was a bit of a shock for me, an unexpected surprise.  My oldest son had been diagnosed with autism only a year before, and both he and my other son were on a very restrictive diet for their chronic stomach issues.  They could only eat fresh fruits and vegetables (no potatoes), non-processed meat, eggs, and nuts.  They had been on this diet for almost a year, and we had just moved across country.  My stress was quite elevated during this time.  My health was not doing great.  I finally decided to go into the doctor when my dizziness got bad enough that I fell into the wall and hit my head while walking down our hallway.  The doctor called me with my results.  He said I had three issues that could be causing my symptoms.  Low iron levels, hyperthyroidism, and "Congratulations, you're pregnant!"  That was when I burst into tears.  Then I got mad.  I had struggled to get pregnant with all my other kids.  Apparently the key to getting pregnant is high stress, health problems, and protection.  I would like to say that excitement started to creep in over the next few months, but I can't.  I remained quite emotionally detached from the baby and tried to pretend that my belly was simply bloated.  My autistic son was quite aggressive at the time, and I was honestly worried that this baby would never survive.  During my last month of pregnancy my husband got word that he would be leaving for a deployment two days before my due date.  We would have to take the baby early.  I was not thrilled.  I wanted this baby to stay in as long as possible.  It was much safer for him, but since that would not be the case I moved into action.  I would be left with four kids; a six year old, an autistic four year old, a two year old boy (need I say more), and a newborn.  I needed a plan.  My husband put bolts on all the doors (my autistic son was also a bolter at the time), including the outside of the baby's room.  This was to prevent my son from climbing into the crib with the newborn and attacking.  I bought a Sleepywrap, a cloth that tied the baby to my front.  This was a lifesaver.  My baby would spend his first year tucked safely away against my chest.  The big day quickly came.  I was not excited as I went into the delivery room.  The nurse must have picked up on this because she asked me if something was wrong.  It may have been because I was sitting in the farthest corner from the delivery bed when she walked in.  I had my baby naturally.  I refused to take any medication for the pain.  I hate the feeling of the drugs wearing off.  Maybe I was still pretending that it wasn't happening, being ornery to the end.  But then the doctor laid my beautiful little boy in my arms and I was completely in love.  I kissed his tiny head and said, "Sorry I was such a stinker."  It turned out that he was the easiest, most mellow baby in the world.  Today he is two years old and all mellowness is gone.  But he survived his brother.  What more could a mother ask?

Church

Hearing a grunt, I quickly turn and pry my autistic six year old's sticky fingers off the face of the man sitting behind our family.  I quickly apologize and turn back toward the speaker.  At least I think the woman at the podium is speaking.  In all honesty I haven't heard a word spoken in church since my third child was born.  I have decided my sole purpose in attending church is to allow other members of the congregation to exercise sympathy and patience.  For example, the man vigorously rubbing his nose behind us has just learned a valuable lesson; don't be late.  Usually families steer clear of the benches surrounding us, but our chapel fills up rather quickly each Sunday.  I have noticed things changing recently though.  Our section seems to be extra full lately.  It appears that we have been surrounded by large families with small children.  I think the secret is out.  Sitting next to us makes their kids look like angels.  Our congregation has been rather considerate with us.  After three years I have even gotten used to the abundance of sympathy pats as I walk through the hallways between classes.  To fill the void of time, I look across the aisle and see that first time mom, pulling out her bib to protect her daughter's pristine dress as she feeds the toddler cheerios one at a time.  I glance over at my son and see that his pants and shirt are covered with a thin layer of (hopefully) peanut butter.  I swear he was clean when I put his jacket on this morning, but somewhere between the garage door and the church parking lot there must be a secret stash.  I shudder to think of the possibilities.

Shopping

The sun is just starting to lighten the sky and I am getting an early start today. I look over at the little boy whose hand is clasped in mine. He bounces up and down with his uncontrolled movements. He has way too much energy this morning. Looking at him you would never know he was up half the night screaming and thrashing in his bed. The puffy eyes and dragging feet are mine. It was a long night. My lack of energy gets me nearly knocked from my feet as my six year old autistic son yanks on my arm as he splashes the puddles. I am too tired to complain that the lower half of my pants are now soaked. We make our way into the store just as the rain starts to let up. Daegan sits in the cart as I collect the items we need. This early the store is nearly empty. I try to keep the cart rolling down the middle of the aisle. I don't need more men's deodorant or another lint roller or whatever else happens to be at Daegan's eye level and within his reach. I have to remove more items than I put in. Bananas, yes. Men's hair growth, no. Baby wipes, yes; lots and lots of wipes. Tylenol, not on the list, but it might come in handy. Gas cleaner, no. Pregnancy test, let's pray not. I turn around for a split second to put back a can of chili's that apparently Daegan can't live without. My head whips around as his hysterical screaming abruptly stops. He is no longer in the cart. I turn in circles. He is no where to be seen. Leaving the cart, I race around the corner. There he is lying on his back in the middle of the aisle 6. I walk over and start to drag him to his feet. It feels like he has glued himself to the floor. How is it that I cannot lift this forty pound child? The store is getting busier. A young couple turns into our aisle. They hesitate when they see my child unmoving on the ground. They turn away. Apparently they didn't need rice after all. I start to scold Daegan, but I stop. The look on his face is so calm as he stares straight at the ceiling. I look up. What does he see? All I see are bright lights and air vents. My curiosity gets the better of me. I glance in both directions. No shoppers. I join Daegan on the hard, dirty floor. I lie back and look up. The world disappears. I see lights and shadows creating designs across the ceiling. The shelves rise up around us like towering cliffs. Sounds are muffled until all I hear is my own breathing falling in rhythm with the small figure I can sense next to me but cannot see. For a moment I am at peace, until a concerned face leans into my line of sight. "Are you okay, Dear?" A kind elderly woman has happened upon us. I quickly stand up, dragging my son with me. He twists and screams trying to get back to his serene world. Unconvincingly, I tell her we are fine and race back to my cart still sitting in the next aisle over. I make a beeline for the checkout counter. I realize that I am unintentionally annoyed with the old woman for interrupting my solace. It is the same feeling I get when my husband catches me hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub reading a book as I try to get a moments peace. Do closed doors mean nothing anymore?

Disney

What is it about Disney that make us want to torture ourselves with a grueling twelve hour car trip only to arrive at our destination to spend the next five days marathoning throughout every tourist attraction in a 100 mile radius? Add on top of that an autistic child for whom "the happiest place on earth" is more likely "the most horrific place on earth". Disneyland with its massive crowds, flashing lights, loud noises, and darkened rides is my son's worst nightmare. And yet we spent thousands of dollars to, more or less, torture our child. Disney is great about accommodating our specific needs. They provide us with a pass that allows us faster access onto every ride in the park. This is a huge blessing, but I am not sure if it is for our benefit or for the other guests. Imagine having to stand in line for an hour next to a child who is screeching (in a pitch that seems inhumanly possible) with arms and legs flailing uncontrollably, and very possibly soiling himself due to the stress. Yes, you heard me right. Sounds fun, huh. But this last vacation it turned out that the lines were not the most stressful parts of his experience. Almost every ride he went on caused him to scream out over and over, "Want to get off now, want to get off now!" He did enjoy "It's a small world". That ride is an autistic's paradise. The rocking motion of the boat, the bright colors, the spinning dolls, the same song repeated over and over and over and over. It is everything that Daegan loves, all rolled into one fifty minute ride. I swear that ride got longer and longer every time we rode it, however I must admit that seeing Daegan happy for the first time in days caused it to rise to the top of my favorites as well.

Roller Coaster

I watched the car as it dipped and soared past along the track. I couldn't hear the happy shrieks from the passengers. Their noises were covered by the screams that were reverberating throughout the surrounding area and had captivated the attention of hundreds; diverting every eye to me. I stared straight ahead at the roller coaster, allowing the wind created by the fast moving cars, to dry the tears that were forming in my eyes. I couldn't help but compare my life to the ride before me, full of ups and downs and occasional loops. This moment would definitely qualify as a down. Our family vacation had just taken a turn for the worst. My autistic son was freaking out big time. He had seen an attraction he wanted to go on and was not content waiting in the line. He was screaming as only he can scream. The same scream that has gotten him transferred to the back of the school bus in hopes that the aged bus attendant will not lose what is left of her hearing. And now that scream has resulted in the questioning stares shooting at me from all directions as I hold my child down by my legs that are draped over his body as he thrashes around and my hands are held like vices around his wrists. Usually the pressure of my partial body weight is a comfort to my son, but it quickly became apparent that this was not the case on that particular day. I rethink my strategy as I see a man with his hand hovering over his send button on his cell phone, obviously debating on whether or not to make a call. I sweep that six year old boy off his feet and cradle him in my arms. I hold all his limbs in as tightly as I can, which is no easy feat due to his size, and I rock him back and forth as hard as I can while restraining him. His tight muscles begin to relax and I finally breathe a sigh of relief as the screaming subsides and the crowd disperses with their eyes averted. As I sit there frantically rocking, a surprising smile pushes its way to the surface as I envision myself in ten years cradling a sixteen year old boy. Imagine the crowd that will draw.