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The Gift Of Summertime Chaos

June 11, 2013 By
The kids enjoying summer fun

The kids enjoying summer fun

Since entering the ranks of the unemployed two weeks ago, my daily routine has changed dramatically. The idea of abandoning routine altogether is tempting but dangerous. I am forcing myself to wake up at the same time, get dressed in respectable clothes, and do productive stuff. I am keeping more or less the same working hours that I did before, only without the long commute. Being unemployed is surprisingly hard work.

That being said, I am enjoying some flexibility that I didn’t have before. I can go running without getting up at an ungodly hour of the morning. I can wear sweats every day. They’re nice sweats that I’m perfectly comfortable being seen in public in, but they’re clothes that wouldn’t be allowed at my previous place of work. I can turn on the TV when I want to take a break.

Above all, I am making the most of getting time to myself, without coworkers, kids and the husband. Don’t get me wrong, I liked my coworkers, and I love my kids and my husband. But I kind of like myself too, and I’m finally getting to spend more time with myself.

That will be changing very soon, of course. The kids only have two and a half weeks before school lets out for the summer, and at that point, my period of blissful solitude is going to come to an end. I will still keep my working hours as best I can, but I anticipate frequent breaks – both voluntary and involuntary.

The kids generally never have a problem with the transition from school to summer. I try to keep the semblance of a routine in place for them. They get up at more or less the same time each day, they are expected to get dressed instead of lounging around in their PJ’s, and things like mealtimes, snacks and bedtimes remain unchanged. We do plan some activities for them over the summer, but for the most part, their time is their own.

The bigger challenge comes when it’s time to go back to school in the fall. At least, it’s a challenge for George. James takes to the new school year just fine. He is excited about seeing friends who have been away for the summer, and he likes the thrill of being in a new grade.

For George, though, it is very difficult. He doesn’t mind school too much, and going from this school year to the next, he will be in the same room with the same teacher and for the most part, the same kids. But the summer break is long, and by the time it’s over, George has to be reacquainted with the whole school routine. It’s hard for a child with autism who likes to have things just so.

One of our most important summer activities is therefore the back-to-school social story: a personalized book that tells the story of George getting onto a bus and going to school. We read the book with George over and over during the last weeks of the summer break, with the hope that the new school routine won’t come as a complete surprise to him.

And what does the summer mean to me, now that I will have to spend time focusing on the next steps in my professional life? It means additional chaos, for sure. It means that I will have to repeatedly stop what I’m doing to wipe up a spill, mediate a dispute or set up a game in the back yard.

It means that I will be here, with my children. It will be the best summer ever, and I cannot wait.

 

Filed Under: autism, back-to-school, Children, Routines, Summer, Wordcount Blogathon Tagged With: , , , , ,
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10 Things I’ve Learned As An Autism Parent

June 10, 2013 By

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My son George was diagnosed with autism six years ago, almost to the day. Most of what I’ve learned about autism since then has come not from books and websites, but from my own day-to-day life as a special needs parent. Here are some of the more surprising things I have learned over the last six years.

1. I do, in fact, have the patience to be a good special needs mom. No-one would ever have thought so when I was a child. Just ask any of the dolls that I used to have guardianship of.

2. Kids with autism often develop unique problem-solving skills, and I think this is borne from sheer perverse bloody-mindedness. If my kid with autism wants something, my kid with autism will figure out how to get it, in the face of all possible obstacles. Eventually, it becomes more about the principle than about the object. Things like locked doors and passwords are seen by my son as temporary roadblocks, not as actual barriers.

3. Corollary to #2: In my house, there is no such thing as a “safe place to keep stuff.”

4. Hell hath no fury like a child with autism who loses his hat. None of the six identical hats in your closet will do. You’ll just have to turn your house upside down and inside out until you find that hat.

5. If a child with autism gets a urinary tract infection that requires him to provide a urine sample, he will think that he now has to pee in a cup every time. You will have to watch him closely to make sure he doesn’t take any of your coffee mugs or measuring jugs into the bathroom with him.

6. Mr. Potato Head rules forever. We have just started our third jumbo-sized Rubbermaid tub of Mr. Potato Head stuff. When George is 45, he will be in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the biggest collection of Mr. Potato Heads. If he continues with his current trend, he will have about 6000 of them by then.

7. A child with autism can become the household’s unofficial tech support person from the time he or she is three. That was the age at which George literally elbowed me out of the way with an impatient click of his tongue, in order to effortlessly fix the DVD player that I had been struggling with for forty minutes.

8. Having a child with autism is like having a living, breathing GPS that knows the location of every single Tim Hortons coffee shop in a 75-mile radius.

9. Boys with autism are, above and beyond all else, boys. A couple of weeks ago, my almost non-verbal child said to me, “I spy with my little eye something that’s a white bra.” He then lifted up my shirt to peek at my bra and ran away giggling.

10. It is possible for a nine-year-old boy to sit on a can of apple juice.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Humour, Things I've Learned, Wordcount Blogathon Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Brotherly Love

June 9, 2013 By

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Last week, George lost his footing while trying to climb a tree, and he had a nasty fall. There was no lasting damage, but there were some scary-looking cuts and scrapes. That night, George had a hard time sleeping, probably because he was aching all over and couldn’t find a comfortable position to lie in.

We decided to keep him home from school the next day. He was a little shaken and we felt that he needed time to recover, and a cut on his back was looking kind of angry. While James was puttering around getting ready for school, George was lying on the couch looking a little the worse for wear.

James, who had been present when George had fallen, was deeply concerned. He fussed around his brother, covering him with a blanket, making sure the TV was tuned to George’s favourite channel, and bringing him some of his Mr. Potato Heads to play with.

It was really very sweet, watching James take care of his brother with such obvious love and care. Being the sibling of a child with autism must be so hard at times, and I know that George sometimes drives James around the bend. But James’ compassion for George never wavers.

When we went to the grocery store yesterday, George started melting down. Although grocery store meltdowns are far less common than they used to be, they are harder to control. George is a tall-for-his-age nine-year old, and it’s not as easy to physically contain him as it was when he was, say, five. My husband and I were debating whether one of us would have to take him out of the store, but then James saved the day by letting George play with his Leap Pad.

This was just the distraction that George needed, and from that point he quite happily walked around the store with us while we got what we needed to get.

All James had to say about this was, “The only thing that makes me happy is if George is happy.”

And that, it would seem, is what brotherhood is all about.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Brothers, Meltdown, Siblings, Wordcount Blogathon Tagged With: , , , ,
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On Running

June 6, 2013 By
With Running Room founder John Stanton, right after one of my autism runs

With Running Room founder John Stanton, right after one of my autism runs

My friend Phaedra posted some running reflections on her blog today. She ended her post with the question: “What has running brought to your life?”

I started to draft a reply on her blog, but it started to get kind of wordy, so I decided to just make a blog post of my own on the topic.

The first time I start running seriously, I was a 26-year-old couch potato with a 30-a-day smoking habit. I didn’t really care for the idea of exercise very much, but I wanted to quit smoking, and instinct told me that in order to accomplish that, I would have to fix other aspects of my lifestyle.

So I cut back on the caffeine, traded junk food for healthy home-cooked meals, and started to run shuffle along at a snail’s pace. A few months later, I smoked my last cigarette and my shuffling started to look like actual running. To my surprise, I discovered that I actually liked it. My dad, a former elite athlete who had long suspected that there was a runner lurking somewhere within me, merely said, “Told you so.”

During that time in my life, running was much more than just a means to quit smoking. I badly needed some self-affirmation back then. I had no self-esteem to speak of. I felt completely worthless, and when I started running, I realized that I had found something I could actually do. I didn’t claim to be particularly good at it, but I wasn’t looking for something to be good at. I was merely looking for something that I could do without failing.

The combination of stopping smoking and starting running allowed me to start feeling as if there was some validity to my existence.

The second time I started to run, I was a 39-year-old mother of two and I hadn’t touched a pair of running shoes in over six years. Some aspects of my life were very similar to the way they had been the first time round. Although I was no longer a smoker, my lifestyle had become sedentary, and once again, I was grappling with severe depression.

This time round, it was the idea of running for a cause that gave me the kick in the pants that I needed. The Geneva Centre for Autism had decided to enter a team in the charity challenge of a major Toronto running event, and they were looking for parents to participate. And somewhere deep inside me, underneath all of the layers of depression that were crippling me, a flame was lit. I registered for the half-marathon there and then, without giving myself time to think about it.

Six months later, I stood at the half-marathon finish line with a finisher’s medal around my neck. I had gone the distance, all 21.1km of it, and every inch of it had been for my son. It was an intensely emotional experience and the tears flowed unchecked.

Since then, I have run six more half-marathons and a number of races of other distances. One half-marathon each year is dedicated to my son and other children with autism, as I fund-raise and strive to make my small contribution to the autism community.

Once again, running has been a salvation for me, a form of self-affirmation, and a way for me to feel truly alive. When my running is going well, I feel as if I have it in me to get through any challenge and achieve any goal I want.

And when it’s going badly, all I have to do is think of my son. If he can live his entire life, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, with the challenges of autism, then I can run for a couple of hours to make the world a better place for him.

 

 

Filed Under: autism, Depression, running, Running for Autism, Wordcount Blogathon Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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7 Hotel-Stay Survival Tips For Autism Families

June 4, 2013 By

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There used to be a time when the idea of a “relaxing weekend away” would give me the horrors. I tended to be vehemently opposed to going anywhere, because for me, these trips were anything but relaxing. Humans in general are creatures of habit. Humans with autism are gods of habit. I used to dread taking my son George out of his regular habitat. There were always so many logistics to worry about, like safety, making sure I brought enough stuff to maintain a semblance of familiarity, and dealing with the inevitable disruptions to routine. I was more exhausted after the “relaxing weekend away” than I had been to begin with.

Now I am immensely grateful for those stressful weekends and vacations of days gone by. I have, through the process of living and learning, reached a point where weekends away with the family can be truly enjoyable for everyone, even for the child with autism. Even for me.

Here are a few pearls of wisdom that I have picked up over the years:

1. Book your hotel as far ahead of time as you can, just so you will know where you are staying. Then print off pictures of the hotel and make a social story for your child. Most hotels have an abundance of pictures online, and many will gladly email you pictures if you tell then what you need them for.

2. Pack things that are familiar to your child. Toys and books that your child likes are essential, but consider other items as well. Maybe he likes to go to sleep with the same pillow every night, or perhaps he has a cup or a plate that he is attached to. If your child has DVD’s that he likes to watch, bring them along, but also bring a device that you can play them on.

3. When you get to the hotel, tell the manager about your child’s disability. If the hotel staff are aware, most of them will go out of their way to take extra special care of your family during your stay. During our recent stay in Niagara Falls, the hotel manager arranged to have a special lock installed high up on the door to ensure that our son would not wander out into the hallways.

4. Many kids with autism are computer geeks. Find out about Internet access in your hotel room. A surprising number of hotels charge extra per device per day, and the charges can rack up really quickly. If you ask, you might be able to get complimentary Internet access, and your child will be able to access the online videos and games that he is used to.

5. Allow your child to explore the hotel room. Yes, it can be annoying to have a kid walking around turning the lights on and off, fiddling with the curtains and running water into the bathtub. But your child is in a new environment, and he needs the exploration to create some familiarity.

6. Realistically, you will be doing many things differently to the way you do them at home, but maintain whatever semblance of routine that is possible. If you do at least some of the same things at the same times, your child will feel more secure.

7. Accept that some things may not go as planned. Even in familiar settings, life with a child with autism can be unpredictable. There could well be difficult moments during your vacation, no matter how much you prepare yourself and your child. Instead of planning out a detailed itinerary for your trip, try a day-to-day approach to give yourself the flexibility to change direction if you need to.

Do you have any tips for staying in hotels with special needs children? Please add them in the comments!

(Photo credit: LVLights. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: autism, Hotel, Routines, Weekend Away, Wordcount Blogathon Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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An Unexpected Treasure

May 21, 2013 By

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While I’m waiting impatiently for my coffee machine to work its magic, my son suddenly appears by my side.

“Little pig, little pig, let me in!” he says.

I know the drill. I’ve done this enough times. “Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!” I reply.

“Then I’ll HUFF! And I’ll PUFF! And I’ll BLOW your house in!”

He draws in an enormous lungful of air and then blows mightily in my direction, while I pretend to fall backwards from the force of wind.

Like many kids with autism, my son George has never really been one for stories, but from time to time a story comes along that really captivates him. The Brown Bear, Brown Bear books fell into this category when he was younger, and he still occasionally returns to them. The current flavour of the month, though, is The Three Little Pigs. George takes great pleasure in watching YouTube videos of the story, and quite significantly for a child with autism, he likes to role play some of the scenes.

By coincidence, The Three Little Pigs was the central activity of a training course I attended last week. The course was about Agile project management, and the theory was covered on the first day. Day Two was given over to a practical application of the theory. We were divided into teams and given the task of using Agile project management practices to make a comic book depicting the story of The Three Little Pigs.

The process was fun and interesting, and definitely helped highlight the ideas behind Agile project management.

The end result was pretty much what you’d expect from a group of five IT types, none of whom can draw to save their lives. Let’s just say that none of us will be leaving our day jobs anytime soon.

Since I had played the role of “product owner” during the exercise, and since my team-mates know that I am the mother of young children, I was allowed to keep the comic book we made at the end of the training. When I got home, I put the book on my desk, and George immediately pounced on it.

“The Three Little Pigs!” he said excitedly. And he started paging through the book, reading all of the words out loud in his sweet lyrical voice. When he got to the end, he took the book to his computer, clicked onto a Three Little Pigs YouTube video, and read the book while the video was running. During dinnertime, the book was beside George’s plate on the table. At bedtime, it was taken to his bed and stashed under his pillow.

While George was sleeping, I managed to sneak the book out from under his pillow so that I could reinforce the makeshift binding that was beginning to come apart from overuse. I put the book back where I had found it, and it was there for George in the morning.

George doesn’t care that the pages aren’t all quite the same size, that the pigs look more like cats and that the wolf looks more like a horse. All he sees when he looks at the book is a treasure to be enjoyed over and over again.

The training course did a great deal for me and my professional growth.

It has done a lot more for the happiness of one child.

(Photo credit: fdecomite. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: autism, Comic Book, Stories, The Three Little Pigs Tagged With: , , , , ,
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George And The Silent-E Machine

May 16, 2013 By

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It’s been more than a few days since I last posted here. I could give you all kinds of reasons for this, like lack of sleep, lack of energy and lack of time. Ultimately, the reason for my mini-hiatus can be traced back to one thing: the silent-E machine. Known to most people as the dishwasher.

My son George is the one who started referring to our dishwasher as the silent-E machine. He is a big fan of the Leapfrog movies. If you have young kids and you don’t know about Leapfrog, Google it. The movies are fun and educational, and entirely appropriate for youngsters learning how to read or count. Anyway, one of the movies features the Leapfrog characters in the Letter Factory learning about how silent E’s can change the way a word sounds. The silent E’s are manufactured by a machine called – you guessed it – a silent-E machine.

After George watched this movie several dozen times, he decided that he wanted a silent-E machine of his own. He grabbed one of his fridge magnet E’s and placed it on the dishwasher, and hey presto! We had a silent-E machine.

George is very particular about routine, and part of the essential routine is that the silent-E machine be turned on right around bedtime. Usually, he will quite happily go to bed and drift off to sleep with the silent-E machine running in the background. And this is fine. If he wanders out of bed from time to time to check on the progress of the cycle, I’m OK with that. He likes to make sure that all is well in the world as he knows it.

About a week ago, the silent-E machine started to act up. I started running it only at times when I could keep a constant watch on it. Which meant running it outside of George’s regular schedule. Most autism parents will bear witness to the fact that this is a recipe for disaster. The entire household applecart was severely disrupted, and all of us started getting a lot less sleep.

Then, on Mother’s Day, we reached a point of not being able to use the silent-E machine at all. We had to start lugging dishes up and down the stairs so we could borrow my mother-in-law’s dishwasher, and this meant that her dishwasher was being run at the wrong times.

Oy.

It got ugly. Now George was staying awake more or less through the night, crying about his beloved silent-E machine, and running up and down the stairs at odd times of the night to inspect my mother-in-law’s dishwasher.

I am hoping that it will all be fixed tomorrow. The problem seems to be nothing more serious than a clogged pipe, and I have acquired some chemicals to pour down it.

Wish me luck, friends. It’s been a rough ride.

What happens when normal routines are disrupted in your house? Is there chaos or does everyone go with the flow?

(Photo credit: kevin dooley. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: autism, Dishwasher, Routines Tagged With: , , , ,
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More Than Just A Toy

May 2, 2013 By

It is snowing outside, but it is almost too warm in the speech therapist’s office. None of us really wants to be there. Not me, not George, not even, I suspect, the speech therapist. George – three years old and non-verbal yet defiant – has refused to remove his coat even though he must be getting toasted under all of those layers.

He sits down unwillingly, and I position myself between him and the door to prevent any escape attempts. I settle in to watch what will undoubtedly be yet another fruitless session. We’ve been coming here for almost a month now, and George has not responded to a single thing. His speech is no further along than it was to begin with, and although I like the therapist very much, a part of me is wondering what the point of all of this is.

As usual, George is making niggling whiny noises, not-quite-crying noises, little sniffles and moans that make it abundantly clear that he does not want to be here. He doesn’t care for any of the toys that the therapist is producing out of nowhere, like a magician. He doesn’t care for toys, period, but the therapist patiently insists that it’s just a question of trying until we find the one thing that will work.

As George starts to noisily rock his chair back and forth, I sigh inwardly, but following the therapist’s early instructions, I do not say anything. I am tired. I am sad. I am frustrated. I suddenly find myself having to blink back tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks.

And then… a miracle.

The speech therapist puts Mr. Potato Head down in front of George.

It is love at first sight. Instantly, the rocking stops and the whiny noises are replaced with a stunned silence. I can literally see my child’s eyes filling with wonder. It’s like witnessing a rain shower on a parched desert.

Instinctively, I hold my breath and stay completely still. I just know that something special is happening, and I don’t want to ruin the moment.

George reaches out shyly and touches Mr. Potato Head. Then his entire face – his entire soul – erupts in the biggest, most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

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From that moment, George started making progress at his speech therapy sessions. Thanks to Mr. Potato Head, his vocabulary started to explode. Not only that – he finally had a toy he was interested in playing with. Not staring at, not lining up according to colour, but actually playing with. When friends and family members asked what they should get him for birthdays, we had something we could tell them.

Six years have passed since that day in the speech therapist’s office, but George’s devotion to Mr. Potato Head has never wavered. He collection takes up two large Rubbermaid tubs – and those are just the Potato Heads that are not adorning his desk, his bed, and other flat surfaces at various points throughout the house. He has Mr. Potato Heads, Mrs. Potato Heads, Baby Potato Heads, Darth Tater, Indiana Jones Taters of the Lost Ark. There’s a hockey player Potato Head, a pirate Potato Head, a doctor, a fireman and a sheriff. George has an entire Potato Head community that keeps on growing.

Earlier this week, Mr. Potato Head celebrated his 61st birthday. This is one of the most iconic toys of the 20th Century, right up there with Barbie and Lego.

But to George – and to his grateful mama – Mr. Potato Head will always be more than just a toy.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: autism, Mr. Potato Head, Special Moment, Special Needs, Speech, Speech Delay, Speech Therapy Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Guest Post: You Never Know What Their Quirks Will Become

April 25, 2013 By

Today’s post started life as an email that my friend Jacquie sent to the autism parenting group that we both belong to.

Jacquie is the mom of two boys, aged 8 and 16, who both have special needs.

Her older son, Eric, has autism. He has his challenges, but as you will see in this post, he is finding his way in the world. I will not say any more – I will let you read for yourself.

8-year-old Justin has RAD (reactive attachment disorder), autism and intellectual delay. He is one of those unreasonably good-looking kids who you just know will be making girls swoon as soon as he (and the girls) hit puberty.

And Jacquie? Well, she’s just a fabulous friend and a fantastic mom. I am immensely grateful to her for allowing me to share this story of Eric. To special needs parents like myself, this is really a story of hope.

Without further ado… over to Jacquie.

Eric

Eric

 

When Eric was a baby, the only way you could soothe him was singing.

When Eric was a toddler, he used to stand in the windowsill of his bedroom’s gigantic window and listen to a cassette of kid’s songs sung by kids over and over.  When the tape ended, he would scream until someone came and turned it over and pressed ‘play’ again.  Then he’d scream until we got the hell out of the room.

When Eric was a preschooler, he’d sit in front of Windows Media Player and watch the visualizations you could choose to go along with the music that was playing.  He’s spend hours just watching these graphics move and change with the music.  God forbid you try to distract him.

When Eric was in kindergarten, he developed a musical crush on Shania Twain.  I still shudder to think of that year.

When Eric was in grade school, he started to make music using free music programs like garage band.  It was awful.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him he sucked.

When Eric got to high school, he asked for a professional-grade music-editing software suite, so we gave him that for Christmas. Subsequently we began seeing him only for meals and The Big Bang Theory.

When Eric had a little experience with production, he asked for a Mac, which has superior music production capabilities.  He was taking guitar lessons, piano lessons, and music classes at school, so we thought it was probably worth it.  Subsequently we began seeing him only for meals.  There are days’ worth of The Big Bang Theory episodes on the PVR that have never been watched.

When Eric was a week younger than he is right now, a Danish music promoter contacted him and, based on the free content Eric has put out on music sites and on the the contests he has won with his compositions, offered him a 6 month contract.

When Eric was 12 hours younger than he is right now, we signed.  Eric is now represented by a dance music label in Denmark.

His songs will go up for sale on iTunes, Spotify, Juno, and Amazon.  This company will help him design his logo, refine his sound, and establish a presence in the market.

When Eric was a little boy, we mourned the way music took him away from the world.  Now he’s bringing his music to the world.

(Photo used with permission of Jacquie VonHunnius).

Filed Under: autism, Guest Posts, Health Activist Writers Month Challenge, Hope, Jacquie VonHunnius, Music Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,
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A Mom’s Shameful Regret

April 18, 2013 By

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He’s been needling me all day.

It’s a cold, rainy day and I didn’t get any sleep. The weather is too miserable for me to go outside for some invigorating fresh air. I’m trying hard to hide the fact that I’m irritable, and for the most part, I’ve been succeeding.

Just another hour to go…

Just sixty more minutes until I tuck him in, turn the lights out and kiss him goodnight. He’ll sleep well tonight. He usually does when he’s been fussing all day. Irritation and anxiety take a lot of energy out of him.

And there has been a lot of irritation and anxiety today. He’s kept on wanting stuff but not knowing how to ask for it. He’s been frustrated by my failed attempts to understand him. He has been pushing his little brother around, because he just doesn’t know what to do with the frustration. Sheets have been ripped off beds. Toy boxes have been turned upside down. Hampers full of clean, folded laundry have been upended. There’s a new hole in the drywall from a headbanging incident.

I’ve been taking it in my stride, talking in low, calm tones to soothe myself as well as him. Earlier I escaped to the shower for a much-needed ten minutes. I’ve been keeping myself going by taking this difficult day in five-minute chunks, by guiltily counting down the minutes until the kids’ bedtime, by promising myself a relaxing glass of wine as soon as the kids have dropped off to sleep.

They’re in their pyjamas now, and I’m preparing their bedtime cups of milk.

He comes up to me and yells something unintelligible. I sigh inwardly and look at him.

“What did you say?” My question comes out more sharply than I had intended.

He walks over to the door, and opens it for the express purpose of slamming it as hard as he can.

And just like that, I’ve had enough. That one small action has been enough to send me over the edge, to be the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“I’m SICK of this!” I scream, surprising even myself. “Why can’t you just be NORMAL?”

Instantly, I realize what I’ve said and I feel like the worst mother in the world. This is my son, my beautiful boy. He hasn’t been difficult today on purpose. It’s not his fault he has autism, and he hasn’t enjoyed this anxiety-filled day any more than I have. And I have just yelled at him for not being normal.

I’ve done something terrible, I think to myself.

I look at my child, who I absolutely adore, who I have just thrown such dreadfully hurtful words at, and I wish I could have the chance to take it back.

I didn’t mean it. I wouldn’t trade you for anything in the world.

I sink down onto the couch and dissolve into tears. I am full of self-loathing, and every fibre of my being is wondering what damage I have done, and how much I have set back my child’s progress.

As I sit there sobbing, with my face buried in my hands, I feel a small movement next to me. I look up and he is there, looking at me with a combination of confusion and concern.

“Go give Mommy a hug,” he says softly, and wraps his arms around my neck.

And that makes me cry even harder.

(Photo credit: butupa. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: autism, Health Activist Writers Month Challenge, parenting Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , ,
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