Vinyl

My dad has a massive collection of vinyl.

I remember discovering this collection in our basement when I was 11. We just moved into another new house and I was hanging out, pre-friends, with nothing to do and I stumbled upon about 3,000 records. I eventually figured out how to play these "records" and spent hours and hours in our basement playing Elton John (Goodbye Yellow Brick Road"), the Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Who, Bread, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, The Beatles (he owns every single Beatles record ever made and several singles) The Rolling Stones, Billy Joel (same thing as The Beatles, the man owns. every. thing.) The Beach Boys (Pet Sounds, among with several other albums, Pet Sounds is by far their BEST ALBUM), The Eagles (again, owns. every. single. album), Simon and Garfunkel and even Paul Simon solo (Graceland, Still Crazy After all These Years) Chicago, and Crosby, Stills, and Nash (pre and post Young). There were several others but these are the ones I mainly remember.

I was immediately sucked into the world of music. My dad discovered me, late into the evening, hunched over his record player, covered in album covers. I was hooked on music and it only took one day. The White Album had this incredible pic of Paul McCartmey in it. I stole it from my dad and taped it to the wall of my room. I grabbed another one for my binder at school.

I thought he'd be pissed that I uncovered his collection. But he wasn't. He grabbed an album and slid right next to me on the carpet. And we stayed there for what seemed like hours. He said he bought the top ten albums every month from the time he was in high school to now. And he told me stories about each and every album:

"This was my first concert..." he said. He held up Elton John's self-titled debut album.

"I was 22 years old...he came to my college campus."

My dad traveled a lot when I was growing up. He sacrificed time with Andrea and me to make a great life for us, so I typically only saw him on the weekends and on holidays.

A few years later, when I was 15 years old, my dad got tickets to see Crosby, Stills and Nash, with Chicago as the opening act. I wasn't as into Crosby, Stills and Nash, but the look in my dad's eyes when he told me about this concert persuaded me to go. In fact, he didn't give me a choice. I was going.

So, we went. And it rained. There was a serious rain delay and the concert didn't end until 2AM. But guess what? We stayed for the whole thing. The rain soaked all of their electric equipment on stage, and they had to play every song acoustically. And after each CSN song, my dad would say...

"I just need to hear them play one more and then we can go...."

Well, that went on for 3 hours.

I remember everything about that show. I remember the wet seats.  I remember the look on my dad's face when David Crosby started playing. And the roar of the applause after they played "Love the One Your With." You just don't hear concerts like this anymore.

Fast forward another 8 years and we are planning my wedding. Some women toss and turn over what song to pick for their father-daughter dance. For me, this was the easiest decision of the whole process. "Your Song" by Elton John had to be it. Every time I hear that song I am right back in the basement of our house on Willow Lake (my boys live just a few blocks from it now) listening to vinyl with my dad. So, that was our song; that was the dance. It was perfect.

Naturally, after the wedding, came the boys. (Not that kids come from weddings but you get it.) Brody has such an old little soul. When he was 20 months old, and in the beginning throws of his diagnosis, Matt turned on some Crosby, Stills and Nash for him. He was instantly soothed. His teachers at school also noticed that when classic or acoustic/melodies were playing, their therapies were more effective.

Once we realized Brody's intense love for classic rock, Matt brought out The Beatles, and Simon and Garfunkel.  Same reaction. When "Our House," "Love the One Your With," "Mrs. Robinson" and "Cecelia" play in our house, he is transformed from a sometimes frustrated and angry boy into our little hippie...he's our free spirit again. I literally see a shift in his eyes when music is playing. He is back to focusing on what is really important, our world with us.

People, places and vinyl come into our lives for a reason. At age 11, something brought me into the basement, led me to my dad's record collection, and planted me next to that record player. Something made my dad buy those concert tickets. And something gave Brody his love for music, too.  If I wouldn't have found that vinyl, I wouldn't have this connection with Brody. Or the ability to name a song title by hearing the first 3 seconds or first 2 chords (next time you see me, try it...).

I hope our love for music takes off with our kids and I hope one day, we are holding their hands, in the rain, waiting to hear just "one more song" before we leave.

Harley Davidson

Chances are, if you have shared a meal or a beer with me in the last 5 years, you have heard me reference Harley Davidson in just about every conversation. And I promise you, there is good reason for this.

A little history behind the two wheels...when Matt was in high school, he had a crotch rocket. A Kawasaki or Yamaha I believe. He got in a minor accident; he has some road rash to prove it. And since then, he never wanted to spend the time or money to get a new bike. In 2005, we talked about buying a bike but just couldn't make it work with a new baby and all. But Matt took every opportunity to visit a dealer and shop and daydream.

Then Brody was diagnosed with autism, and a bomb went off in our house.

I am a firm believer that you need to take care of the sanity of your partner. I'm also a big believer in my wedding vows; for better or worse. But saying these vows and experencing the "for better or worse" are two different things. And once that bomb went off in my house, I went numb. I couldn't feel anything...joy, sadness, pain, anything for about 3 months. I was on auto-pilot and did what I had to do to make the best decisions for Brody, without feeling the pain of losing the "idea" of what Brody would become. We made the decison to move across town, to take Destin out of his private school (a school he enjoyed), to send Brody thru a grilling 3 months of therapies, interviews and specialists and tests. We did this all and I felt nothing. My logical side took control.

But Matt wasn't so lucky. Matt got hit with serious collateral damage. And I was forced to sit back and watch my husband ride a roller coaster of fear. I watched him slowly dissolve. And all of this in my living room. We had conversation after conversation about "putting the petty shit aside" because guess what? We're in this and we are staying together, so we're gonna make this work. No matter what. Yes, we had some hard talks. We had to get real, fast.

I won't go into much detail as to what led me to a Harley Davidson store back in 2010, but I will tell you, it was a subconscious trip. I suddenly found myself in the parking lot of a Harley dealership in Kirkwood, drilling the sales guy (who looked like Chibbs from Sons of Anarchy by the way) about the differences between a Sportster and a Road King. I was possessed.

I came home from the trip and sat Matt down for a chat,
"I want you to get a motorcycle. A Harley. And I want to get this bike in the next 24 hours."
He looked at me like I was insane, like I had just asked him to light my hair on fire in the kitchen.

"Thank you," he replied.

That is all that needed to be said. We communicated our thoughts and feelings without having to say a word. I knew in my heart that this bike was meant for something more than a ride from point A to point B. And we'll get to that later.

So, the next day, the NEXT day, we drove to the South County dealership and Matt got his bike. It was a red sportster and it was perfect for his first time back on two wheels. And I loved the fact that now, since we owned a Harley, I could buy any and all Harley apparel! Woohoo! An excuse to wear leather and sequins!? Why not?

I embraced the tacky Harley chick role with open arms and was now obssessed as well. I was hooked.

We have since upgraded to a Road King; one of the HOTTEST bikes I have ever seen in my life. But two wheels, an engine, handle bars, and a leather seat means more to us than just what meets the eye.

It may sound cliche, but when I hear that engine, I feel euphoric joy. I know that when I hear that noise, up close, and can feel the heat of the engine and can smell the leather of Matt's jacket, that the only thing we have in front of us, is each other. We can jump on that bike and it's just the two of us. There is nothing, I mean nothing, more freeing than a motorcycle.
We can book a babysitter, kiss Brody and Destin on the forehead, hop on the bike, and just get the fuck out of town. In fact, we have said these very words to each other and again, that is all we have to say. We both know what it means, but we don't know where we are going.

So the moral to this tale is you need to take care of your partner. Now that doesn't mean you give in to every desire or spend money you don't have, but it does mean you have to listen to your heart. I don't know where we would be today, as a couple, or where Matt would be in his recovery from his collateral damage, if we didn't buy that bike.

The bike saved his life. And it saved Brody. And it saved me.

Some Thoughts from this Special Needs Mom

I take the nice road.
Typically.

However, there are times where my tact takes a back seat and my personality comes thru. Yes, even though I may seem upbeat most of the time, I, like all of us, have a mean streak. I say what I think, but I’m a great tipper. I like being “room mom.” I’ll do anything for a friend (especially if it involves cooking of any kind!). I am a baby freak and LOVE kids. But sometimes I’ll have an experience that brings out the worst in me. Tonight after a long day at work, battling post-stomach flu fatigue, and chasing after my boys (who right now are wrestling as I type) I decided it was time. It’s time to actually put into words what happens that really sets me off when it comes to autism and its perception in society. And what parents have to deal with each day.

Please do not take this list the wrong way. If you have done any of these things, I still love you and know you are a good person. But after the week(s) we’ve had, it’s time to vent. So here we go:

Please try not to stare.

I was in the grocery store about three weeks ago with Brody and Destin. It was time to pick out “a snack for the road” as Destin calls it before a trip out to see Matt’s family. It’s about a 45 minute drive so food is typically a requirement for the haul. We were in the cracker aisle and Des picked his typical Ritz and Brody, seeing Destin grab a snack and not quite understanding he could choose one, too, decided to smack himself in the head. Now this is under control. But from time to time, he does hit himself. We’re working on it. I picked Brody up, hugged him really tight, and gave him a “nuggy” (rubbed his head…a little hard to give him some sensation.) An elderly woman next to us just watched. She watched on as though she was intrigued in an episode of The Walking Dead. Intense. I looked up and did not say anything. But I wanted to ask her if the show was good enough…

“Are you enjoying his performance?” I almost said those words.

This happens to me about once a week and usually on the weekends…at restaurants, the mall, the park. I’d have to say restaurants are the worst. You’re in there a little longer and it’s tough to just get what you need and peace out. You have to sit there and wait for the check. I typically get not only stares of horror in restaurants during one of Brody’s episodes, but also pity. Pity is worse than the stare. Don’t pity the west county mom with a master’s degree, a devoted husband, and supportive parents. Pity the family next to me in the checkout line without any support, who can’t pay for their food, and are scraping to afford a winter coat for their child. Trust me. It’s under control. We don’t need pity.

I refuse to hide Brody or leave him at home when running errands. He needs the stimulation and 90% of the time, he’s good to go. But like all kids, they have their moments. And Brody becomes a spectacle. No one will ask or make a comment. I’d actually prefer that reaction than just a blank stare like we’re a TV show or sideshow act at a circus. I’d love to hear, “Do you need help?” That would be amazing. I would probably deny it, but I’d still appreciate the friendliness.

Please don’t ask “do you think my child has autism?”

The truth is…I have no idea. I am in no way qualified to answer this question.

I just know that when Brody was 18 months, he stopped talking. He developed a skill, and then lost this skill. And after 2 neurologists, 4 autism screenings and about 100 hours of therapy, it was determined that he has autism. So, a 10 minute meeting on the playground will tell me nothing about a child’s development. If you think your child has a disorder, see a neurologist. I have an amazing one and can help you with locating one. But I cannot and will not diagnose your baby.

I also get asked a ton of questions about my age, my pregnancy, my eating habits. The truth is, Brody does not have autism because I took Nyquil while I was pregnant, or was training for marathon when he was conceived, or because I taught English classes in my third trimester. He does not have autism because I made his baby food from scratch and spaced out his vaccines. He does not have autism because he was the second child or because he is severely cute. He was born with autism and was predisposed to develop in this way. So, please don’t ask for the intimate details about my pregnancy. My close friends and family know this information already. And never ask me to diagnose your child. I am not a doctor.

Make blanket statements like “Autistic kids have no personality.”

Have you met Brody?

If you have, you know this is definitely not true. Brody is autistic, but he is still 5 years old. He loves hugs. He is obsessed with the movie “Up.” He will try anything and has no fear. He loves everyone and has never met a stranger. When you see him, hug and kiss him; he’ll love you forever. And he is gorgeous. He has an incurable sweet tooth and gives the best high fives…as long as you ask for a “big five.” So, this statement is not only untrue, but wildly inappropriate.

Autistic kids have personalities. You just have to be patient enough for them to bring you into their world. It’s like to trying to see the hidden picture in one of those kaleidoscope posters….you have to stare at it for 30 seconds before you see the lion or duck or cloud or whatever. But if you walk away too soon, you’ll miss it.

Autistic kids are “in their own little world.”

This is a true statement. And let me explain what this actually means.

Imagine you are floating in air. And when you come down from floating, you feel a memory foam mattress. Then all of the sudden, out of nowhere, you feel a warm sensation over your body. Now imagine a relaxing massage from head to toe, with angelic spa music. Then, as abruptly as it started, this world is taken from you. You are lying in a street and it’s pouring down rain and you’re naked.

Sometimes Brody will take me into his world, and I don’t want to leave. It’s safe. Warm. Quiet. Loving. Soft. It is a world I share with him. I see why he wants to stay there. Our world can be sharp, cold, loud, painful and chaotic. I know when Brody has left his world, because he will hold on to me real tight and his heart will race. Sometimes his entrance into our world is joyful. He’ll speak a word (which is amazing) or sing, or dance to a song. But sometimes his entrance his harsh. He’ll let out the most painful sob when he realizes where he is. And we hold him and love him. We look into his eyes, hold his hands, and try to help him thru whatever he is feeling.

Matt, Destin and I only want Brody to experience love when he enters our world, so he comes to visit more often.

So yes, Brody is in his own little world. And he may never come out of it. And that’s ok. But when he is ready, the three of us will be here with open arms ready for him. And every now and then, Matt and I chase after him to bring him to join us on earth.

Every now and then, genuinely ask, “How are you doing?”

This is a question that we seldom ask each other, as human beings. It seems so simple. I’ve noticed this with my other mom friends, too. We just don’t ask each other this question. Are we scared of the response? Maybe. I think as moms we are scared to death to admit we are afraid or worried. We’d much rather admit that we have gained a few pounds than admit we feel like we are failing as parents. That is a tougher pill to swallow. It’s tough to admit that parenting is really fucking hard. And that no one told us that your kid might wet the bed for a few years, or take an extra year or two to potty train. But it happens. This thought has taken years to materialize for me, but the quality of your parenting is not decided by the cleanliness of your house or the car you drive. Your healthy children are gauge enough. Are they happy? Do they have what they need? Are they loved? Then go to bed happier tonight. And I will remind myself of this, too so I can finally breathe easier.

So, in closing, after reading this today, please do not be afraid to share the joys of your child(ren) with me or with Matt. We love children, we love hearing about the amazing things they do. We love celebrating first steps and first words and first days of school. I think it’s incredible that your children are healthy and happy. My kids are, too.

Parenting is really hard for everyone. It doesn’t matter if your child has special needs or not. We all have a screaming kid on our hip and a beer in our hand, some of us more than others. It’s time for parents to get together and realize it’s not a race or a contest.

But now, I have to get off this blog and make a peanut butter sandwich. For an eight year who needs to get back to bed.

Perfect Dads

Perfect Dads

This week, I started reading additional blogs about autism in children. I came across one article, “How to be a Good Friend to Mothers of Special Needs kids.” I unearthed many, many articles about moms and other female roles in a child’s life. However, I did not come across any articles about Special Needs Dads. I’m sure they exist, they are just not as publicized or readily available as a “Mommy” article.

I wonder if Dads all sit around while at a bar and talk about freezing meals for the week or parent-teacher conferences….or the party invitations they personalized for their kid’s birthday. I wonder if the one dad who bleaches the bathroom makes all of the other dads feel like crap because they don’t have the time. I’ve never heard these talks, but hey, I’m not around 100% of the time. What do these dads talk about anyway?

I believe the pressure for a dad to be “perfect” is hidden from us. The pressure or expectation is still there, but it is not publicized. I always assumed that dads just didn’t have that feeling of “not being good enough” or being “inferior.”

Well, I was wrong.

Recently, my husband, dad of two, new student, full-time sales manager, house fixer-upper and resident biker, decided to take on a new challenge. Cub Scout Master. It’s not exactly new, but no one (NO ONE) volunteered to be Cub Scout Master during the last meeting in May. Matt did this last year as well. During the meeting, all of the other dads just looked at Matt and waited for him to raise his hand again…and you know what? He did.

“No one else wants to do it…maybe it’s because they are so much older than us?” He had a good point. We are the freakishly young parents at our kids’ school. Everyone, EVERYONE is at least 6 years older than us. Maybe we are expected; because we are under 40, we should be able to take on more activities…we must have more energy because we are 33 and 34? Right?

So now Matt is Cub Scout Master, again. And is taking night classes. Oh, and I teach at night, too.

We have 2 free nights a week now. That’s it. And when Matt emailed these parents that we had to meet on Mondays or Fridays, the fit hit the shan.

“Bobby Jo has Tae Kwon Doe, baseball, Chinese lessons, art class and soccer this year. Can you move it to Wednesday at 7PM?” That was one response…this was then followed by about 8 other identical responses. So, like any “perfect dad” Matt tried to accommodate all of the requests.

“If everyone quits, I will look BAD. What will the other parents think?” Matt said, while cooking up his next protein shake the other night…(yes, he is also dieting right now.). And there you have it.

“What will the other parents think?” I thought only moms cared about that crap. But no, dads do, too.

I reminded Matt that he is volunteering his time and they need to work around his schedule.

“But a mom emailed me tonight and said her little boy wants to join the den. And her son…her son has autism, Cassie. I CANNOT LET THIS MOM DOWN. This mom is the whole reason why I am doing this. I will make it work. ”

Wow, and there it is again. That pressure to be a good dad. And he did make it work.

He eventually found a workable schedule and I offered to fill in when I needed to. After Destin’s birthday party and the chaos that took place that day, I have no idea how he handles 10 little boys. It was like a human-tribal ceremony…complete with fart noises and conversations about butts…and a cake eating contest. Complete and utter chaos.

I have no idea how he does it.

So, the moral to the story is…we all have pressure to be good parents. It’s there. For us, with Brody especially, we both feel like we have this pressure to be perfect saints. And we’re not. We’re a mom and a dad. And we’re taking it one minute at a time. And if that means boy scouts has to meet on Monday night, then so be it.

Tattoos Hurt.

Tattoos hurt.

Anyone who says they don’t, is lying.

I got my first tattoo when I was 18. I got it because I could. I used a credit card to pay for it and gritted my teeth for the thirty minutes it took for the guy to ink jackpot cherries on my left cheek (not the one on my face).
There’s something about getting a tattoo. It’s invigorating. It makes you feel dangerous. Tough. I also felt like for the first time in those 18 years, I was in control of my decisions. And if I wanted a tattoo, I could get one. As long as I had a working credit card, I could make it happen. I was rebellious. I remember showing off my new ink at a party that same night (yes, the one on the left cheek) and loving people’s reactions…

“You’re crazy! Did it hurt?”

I felt sexy and cool. And very tough. I didn’t get another tattoo for almost 14 years. After the boys were born, I thought about getting another one, but I didn’t know what I wanted and wasn’t anxious to go thru the pain again, either.

But something happened to me when Brody was diagnosed with autism. I felt this overwhelming stress and pressure, similar to that pressure you feel a couple weeks before giving birth or closing on a home. This…restlessness. I used to cut my hair when I was stressed, but that wasn’t going to do the trick. I had to do something more permanent. I longed for that rebellion and sense of control. So my mind returned to the tattoo. I felt so out of control about everything else, it was time to take the reigns, if even for 30 minutes.

On Super Bowl Sunday, while Matt watched the game and the kids fell asleep, I drove to Iron Age. I told Matt I was “just going to look.” Yeah right. He knew exactly what I was going to do.

I sat with Darren, the tattoo guy, and he drew up the boys’ names for me. One scripted, cursive name for each wrist. Black ink. And about 30 minutes later, they were done. I loved them. I texted the images to Matt immediately, He texted back,

“They’re beautiful.”

Six months later, I started feeling that restlessness again. But really, another tattoo? I heard they are addictive, but hadn’t experienced the reality of that compulsiveness until now. Brody is starting kindergarten, and we had some serious ups and downs this summer. I was upset that Brody was not in “normal kindergarten.” I was angry. Sad. All of those feelings I was embarrassed to admit, and that need, that drive to take control was strong, over powering. It was time for more ink, or it was time for a pixie cut.

It was a random Monday night. I found myself on Delmar again. My usual tattoo artist, the one who drew up the last two tattoos, was slammed and he couldn’t fit me in until next week. But that just wouldn’t do, I had to get this done, pronto. I remembered watching that Dave Navarro tattoo “reality” show on A/E and one of the guys on the show worked at Enigma, this place just a couple blocks away. I walked in and surprisingly, they weren’t too busy.

“What do you want to get?” This large, Duck Dynasty look alike at the front desk greeted me as I walked in the door. He was covered from head to toe in ink. He was painted. Fitting, right? Just what you’d expect from a receptionist at a tattoo shop. I explained what I wanted, and that I really wanted to do this. Tonight.

“Travis will do it,” he said, as he walked into the back room.

I sat in the waiting area and chatted with the girl next to me and two other guys who worked there. They were “apprentices” at the shop. I spent about 15 minutes talking to this one guy, Dom, about the portrait tattoos of his goddaughter on his thigh.

Travis came out and he asked if I had any other tattoos, I reluctantly told him about the cherries. “Where are they?” He asked, right in the lobby.
I replied, “Well, they are uhhhh…..”

“On your ass? Sounds about right…really the ass is the most painful spot. Where do you want this one?” He sounded like a doctor asking me about what medications I was taking.

We talked about what I wanted. He showed me a couple of designs. As he walked out and into his “office” to draw it up, I sat and sweated on the couch in the lobby area. Here I was again, more tattoos. But I couldn’t help it. Let’s be honest, it was this or alcohol. That was my state of mind.

Travis came back and showed me the drawing. I told him it was time to roll. We walked over to his “office” area and we small talked as he prepped equipment. The tattoo was going on my left side, right on my rib cage. He did a couple test lines. And it hurt. Bad. Ouch.

“Girl, you have got to be still,” he was coaching me like the dads in Lamaze class. The pain was pretty shocking. I asked if he was used to people crying.

“Sometimes…you’re doing fine. Breathe. You've given birth, this should be nothing!”

After the first 15 minutes, I was fine. I hit my stride. In fact, several other clients and artists came over and watched him work on the tattoo. What I found the most impressive, is the openness I felt with this person as he finished the work. I told him all about Brody, about my marriage of 10 years, about my other tattoos. He thought “More Than Words” was the perfect tribute for my little boy. He showed me the several tattoos he had for his son.

“So when did you get the wrist tattoos?” He asked, in the middle of the letter “H” and “N.”

“In January,” I said. He stopped the needle, turned to me and said,

“Girl, you need to slow down on your next one.”

Really? I thought. The guy with seven neck tattoos and a huge tattoo of a Cherokee Indian on his thigh is telling me to slow down? Who does he think he is? But maybe he had a point. I shouldn’t have to submit myself to pain to feel in control. Feeling in control is not about ink, it’s about your life. Tattoos are not only control for me, but a tough factor. I feel like if I can take a tattoo, or several tattoos, than I can take anything. That if a teacher or another parent sees my tattoos, they’ll think, “She’s one tough bitch, we better not mess with her kids.”

Being tough is important to me. I am going to have to fight for my son. It’s time to get tough. And tough, that is how I found myself lying on my back on a table, getting tattooed, for the sixth time. I was tough. Towards the end of the tattoo, other artists started to wander over to Travis. Again they asked questions about the significance of “More Than Words.” It felt good to talk about it again, even with complete strangers.

At the end of the session, I stood up and looked in the mirror. My tattoo was big and bad-ass. I felt that same rush of rebellion, control and toughness. I lifted my tank top, and stood in front of the mirror in his “office,”

“It’s perfect.”

Travis walked me to the lobby and I paid my bill. I felt exhausted, elated, and sore. They gave me me instructions on how to care for my tattoo. I explained again that this “wasn’t my first rodeo.” I shook Travis’s hand, and told him I would be back.

“You better wait. Slow down. It’ll be alright.”

Sometimes words from strangers are just what you need. It will be alright. And I don’t need a tattoo or five of them to show people I can fight for Brody. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it, to show it.

I have to admit though, I’m thinking about that next tattoo. I know I’ll wake up one day and crave that sense of control. And I’ll make my usual trip to the tattoo studio, and prove I’m tough. Just one more time.

High School Reunion

High school reunions, frankly, give me heebie-jeebies.

This is a funny statement as I have never been to a reunion before, but I imagine it would be hell.

When I think of the person I was in high school: self-centered, attention-craved, over-involved, 115 lbs of complete self-righteousness, I just want to hide. Let alone, do I want to subject my sweet husband to my former boyfriends (or whatever they were) and cliques? Nah, no way. So, I have opted out of the high school reunion.

Instead of one big event or high school reunion,  I had a series of small reunions. One with Meghan Jones at an amazing Lebanese restaurant in New York City. One with Adam Young at Chesterfield Mall, and Dustin Welbourne another time. These were great little meetings and it was fun to catch up and swap crazy stories about our lives. Dustin has some sweet fashion sense now...and Adam has a beautiful family...adorable.

The reunion with Meghan was especially wonderful...I am so proud of her. We had not spoken for 3 years, not for any reason... just life craziness, and we picked up right where we left off like no time had passed. We screamed like freaks when we saw each other and hugged for at least 20 minutes...in a bar...in front of a lot of people. It was a major Jerry Macguire moment (but happier). Sounds sappy? Because it was! It was great. I wish she lived closer so I could see her face every day.

I remember meeting Lindsay Maheu when I was 14.

We were freshmen in high school and she and I hit it off in an instant. We both had tons of energy and smart-mouths, saracastic humor. And it didn't hurt that she had a fabulous wardrobe. We were both quirky and goofy; we made a good team. I remember hysterically laughing to the point of tears with her in her bedroom about boys, stupid school, Homecoming,  her brother, her crazy parents, my crazy parents, my hair cut, Mr. Chazen, everything.

But over time, we just grew apart, as friends do. She made the Poms squad, which was awesome because she was and is a beautiful dancer. I started running track/cross country, and I was in just about every school play I had the time to audition for...a woman obssessed with theater. So, we just...separated. Like a gradual divorce.

Three years ago, I came across her on Facebook. I friended her, and we got together, with our boys (yes, she has 2 boys, too!) about a week later. And just like with Meghan, we picked up where we left off. And we both had no idea why we stopped being friends in the first place. We decided that was stupid and
ta-da...friends again.

A few months after we started hanging out, Lindsay announced, bravely I might add, that Clark, her oldest was diagnosed with autism as well. This was right after Brody was diagnosed. It was a like a set of dominoes. So, we did what most girlfriends do when faced with challenges with their kids...

We drank wine. A lot of it.

Then of course (after all of the wine) Lindsay got pregnant with baby Margot (a baby girl!!!!) and we postponed the booze and nights out for a bit.

About 3 weeks ago, we met up at the Shaved Duck for a much-needed night out together (you must try this place...the food is incredible and the beer selection...wooo baby! Best dark beer in town). We sat at the bar and ordered junk food like honey and walnut cured bacon and jalapeno shrimp and grits. We chatted it up with all of the bar regulars and Lindsay conveniently knew all of the bartenders...every.single.one of them.

We vented about our insane children and she gushed about her baby girl...we laughed like cackling witches and drank waaaayyyyyy too much beer. In fact, at one point, I told the bartender I needed a bottled water and he handed me a Bud Select. Yep.

We also be-friended a dude named Keenan who was moving to St. Louis from New York City with his young family...a 12 month old and another baby on the way. We gave him daycare advice, baby food recipes and oh, Lindsay gave him all of the numbers for her OG/GYN. It was hysterical. The guy had no idea what/who hit him!

We closed the place down.

The night finally ended with Lindsay doing shots, and I agreed to sign up for more life insurance (she is our insurance agent as well). I would have joined her in the whiskey shots, but I am strictly a beer girl.

Who would have thought that we would re-connect so quickly? At 14, we had no idea that our lives would be so bonded...20 years or so later. That our little boys would share the same challenges and we would share the same gifts.

At the end of the night, I dropped Lindsay off at her classy/chic home next to Tower Grove Park.
She opened my car door, and drunkily (but genuinely) said...

"I am so glad we re-connected..."

I am, too...and who knows what the future holds for our boys. I do know, that Lindsay and I will go through it together. She's my partner in crime, again. And who can ask for more than that?

Oh, and we are going to the next High School Reunion. Armed with our husbands and a flask.

We're Hippies.

This week was nuts. We got a cat, started working from home
and Destin had his first big public hissy fit.

We were at Wal-mart picking out flowers for the front
yard and Destin started asking to "pick out a toy."
I told the kid he got a new video game yesterday and
it just wasn't the time. He said he "didn't love me anymore
and wanted to be sent away." Ouch. This went on thru the checkout
line.

Now, I never flipped out or spanked him (spanking is usually
something I do privately if ever. Public spanking is
humiliating for you as the parent and the child. That is my
Soapbox on spanking in public places) but I was hurt.
Instead of screaming I told him our morning plans
were history. No park as planned and we are going home.

He eventually apologized.

So, I got to thinking about my parenting style.

Pre-autism parenting is different from post autism parenting. My expectations
have changed. I am more accepting. More into spreading
love and closeness and embracing a free spirit...wait...
one second here...

Am I a hippie?

When Destin was born I was so young. And I had no time
or let's be honest, desire to strategize my parenting plan.
When Brody came along, I was focused on balancing
my love between the two boys. And making sure Destin
felt included in this new journey.

Destin was and still is super smart. When he was reading at
3, I was ecstatic and sure he was a future member of Mensa.
I had sky high expectations and he was meeting them with his
intelligence.

Now since Brody's diagnosis, I have felt a strong shift
in my parenting. First, my expectations have changed.
When Destin told me a few years ago that he wanted to be
a NASCAR driver, I was thrilled! He was dead serious.
He was dreaming. So instead of trying to talk him
into Med School, I celebrated his dream with excitement.
And tickets to his first race. The Pre-ASD mom would not have
reacted this way.



With Brody, the word is "acceptance." we accept
Brody for who he is. I remember saying this the minute he was
born. He was born covered head to toe in baby fur!
I took one look and said "we'll take him!!! He is mine!"
And that message has not changed. So parenting with
acceptance tests you. Every day is a new challenge.
Each day I take in the love, the fits, the joy, the terror,
everything. Then I try to make sense of it and make
the best choices possible for the boys.

Here we go again...hippies...good grief.

Moral to the story...love and be grateful for your kids.
Yes, they throw fits and need discipline but really
they do these behaviors because they want to be heard.
Kids will take attention in any form from yelling to loving.

Take it from this hippie, lay the foundation with acceptance
and watch your child take flight.

Now Entering: The Shrink

Before I got married, I thought only crazy people or drug addicts saw Therapists or Counselors. I was pretty judgemental about people who needed help.

"Well, I'll never need therapy. I am fine. FINE.." and "Therapy is for junkies and/or losers."

That was my attitude. But then someone very close to me, a good friend, had to ask for help. She had to reach out before it was too late. Or before she fell off the deep end, literally. And my idea of therapy changed in an instant, it changed with one late night phone call. That "help" saved her life and brought her back to us. And to this day I can laugh with her, talk with her and sit back and watch her amazing new life with her new family..she is living her dreams. How many of us "normal" people can say we "live our dreams" everyday? None of the amazing things in her life would have happened if she didn't ask for help. She wouldn't be here.

So, my opinion changed.

Earlier last year, right around the time of Brody's first IEP meeting, I found myself in that same boat. I had to ask for help. I was to the point where I could not attend IEP or school meetings for Brody without weeping afterwards (or during). I couldn't talk about his diagnosis, without getting emotional. I was angry at parents who had "normal" kids..I wore sunglasses a lot so people wouldn't see me cry at birthday parties and baseball games, and I would think..."Why does their little boy blow out the candles and not my baby?"
I couldn't face it. And I did not want to just pop pills, or start drinking heavily, and not give a shit. I didn't want to check out and disappear.

I wanted to give a shit.

One morning I decided to search online for profiles of Family Therapists.

My criteria:
1.) We needed a guy. Destin and Brody both respond better to male figures...probably because of how awesome their dad is, that is my theory.
2.) Someone who is open-minded and loving to children.
3.) Knowledge of and experience with Autism.
4.) Patient and calm.

I searched for a few hours online and found Bryon. I read his profile, and called him. We spoke for about an hour, sort of like a job interview. He was a Counselor at a local alternative high school for kids with special needs (talk about open-minded). He worked mainly with older kids, ages 14-19. And the majority of them, you guessed it, had spectrum disorders.

He talked about a boy he was working with now, who is 17, and has autism. He said his case is very severe (doesn't speak, not potty trained, etc.), but the trick (if you will) is focusing on the rewards you get from the relationship with kids with special needs. Not what "society" says we should get out of it. He said the relationship he has with this teenager, is one of the most rewarding relationships he has had in his entire life. Powerful. I especially liked the fact that he works with older children with autism...as I am sure you can tell from this post, that is really the heart of my sadness with Brody. It's birthdays...Brody getting older and not knowing what is going to happen to him and his development.

Bryon also explained that when a child is diagnosed with Autism, "the whole family is diagnosed, like an addict. The whole family becomes addicted, too."

He was making some serious sense. And he met all of my criteria. Everything from the calming voice to his expertise in Autism. Bryon was a perfect match.

So, I made an appointment.

At the first appointment, we all went. The whole fam damily. We all sat in his office; we looked a little like "Motley Crue.." but without the hairbands, but just as chaotic. Matt was head-to-toe in Harley apparel and boots, and his huge beard, I was in a dress and heels, Brody in sweats and Destin neat and tidy from head to toe. And we just got to know each other...asked a lot of questions. Bryon and Destin really hit it off, from the get-go. Brody jumped on his lap. It was a win-win.

Matt however, wasn't sold. After the meeting, he asked if he could maybe...not go? He really didn't feel the connection, but would go if I wanted him to.. Matt has already "grieved" for Brody's diagnosis. He did this early. It was fast and accute and intense, but it ended. But I am still not there, yet. My grief is lingering.

I see Bryon about 1-3 times a month. Sometimes Destin is with me, sometimes Brody is with me. Sometimes, like yesterday, I go alone. He also has an open call policy. I can call him when I need to, without an appointment. I've done this about 3 times. There will be an incident, and I will need some strategies on how to handle the situation...like an IEP meeting, rough day with Brody/Destin, or even a rough day at work (my old job that is, my new job is amazing).

So, the take-away from this little post today is, ask for help. You can't do it alone. Whether it's addiction, divorce, illness, whatever, you need an objective and calming presence in your life to keep you sane. And to see what is really important. I will find myself in a hard situation and will repeat Bryon's strategies and advice in my head. It helps. Friends are amazing, too and I have learned a lot about why certain people enter or
re-enter your life...that is a story for another post, another time.

Yesterday, I asked Bryon..."So, am I emotionally stable...? Do you have a sane client on your hands?"

"Yes, Cassie...(and he laughed) you are fine. You're mom."

I like that.

Don't Ask Unless You Want the Answer

Brody's last day of preschool ever was July 11th...I could not believe it. His teachers literally became members of our family. I loved all of them and on the last day, Brody gave his teacher a big kiss and a hug. I missed it...but Matt witnessed the whole thing. He said it was incredible. All we really want for Brody is to be accepted. And his teachers really, really loved him. I still keep in touch with them and we have a Ted Drewes date planned, soon.

A big part of this whole transition is...drumroll...kindergarten.

I've observed Brody's new kindergarten twice now, and I am definitely getting used to the idea of him being "school age." However, kindergarten for kids with special needs is quite different than what we experienced with Destin. It's not that it's bad or whatever, it's just...well...different. I can't think of a better word for it.

For example...there is a lead teacher for the class, but then each child has their own Resource Teacher. I requested that Brody have a male teacher...he is a "performer" and definitely shows off for men more than women. We tend to get more out of him if men are involved, or his brother. Funny huh? But it's true.

Next, most of the kids in his class are actually older. There are about 3 other kindergartners in the class and the rest are between 9-11 years old. So, that took some getting used to. At first it really bugged me..."where are the other 5 year olds? Will he be with peers? What is this? Will he get bullied by the big kids?"

It turns out Brody will spend about 20-40% of the week with his "GenEd" class (that is what they call "mainstream") in a typical kindergarten classroom. I also observed that class and it was like walking into the Twilight Zone. Seeing typical kindergarten and then Brody's kindergarten was quite a shock. Not bad, not sad, just again, extremely different.

The second time I came ot observe Brody's class I really got to know his teacher, Maura. She is fabulous. She is extremely energetic, funny, tough, goofy, and frankly, pardon my French here, but

She. knows. her. shit.

I loved watching her with the kids; I think she and Brody will hit it off for sure. She also had a perfect sense of humor...I mean, you really have to when you spend day in and day out with kids with special needs. Some things they do and say, is just extremely funny. I've learned this from being with Brody, you just laugh or cry. I choose to laugh...usually.

While visiting on this one particular day, I spent about an hour in Brody's soon-to-be classroom. I was sitting there in one of the little kiddo chairs and started chatting with one of the Transition Specialists at Parkway, her name is Kristen (she was wonderful, too....and she is in love with Brody. It helps when the resource people genuinely get along with your kid and with you...wow, does it make a difference to have some chemistry). I started asking questions, that in my gut, I knew I shouldn't be asking. But then I heard myself say it out loud...

"So, what's going to happen when Brody is in High School?"

"You want to know?" Kristen asked.

I nodded. But then regretted it.

"Well, they are in a small group or class. They start out learning how to  basic self-care skills, tie their shoes, etc. depending on their ability level. And sometimes we take them out into the community to the grocery store or a restaurant so they can learn how to make change, order from a menu..."

My eyes glazed over and I immeditately had visuals of those busses at Wal-mart and McDonalds, and the groups of special needs individuals with their helpers. They can't speak, and they can hardly walk. And the helpers are holding their hands as they shop the aisles and laugh excitedly in the checkout line. I saw a flash of Brody's face in that group.

Kristen went on..."We also do some job training, like how to use a mop, broom, vaccum..."

Again, that flash of Brody's future. He is wearing a fast food restaurant uniform and sweeping a floor.

I told her she could stop. I had enough.

The visit ended and as I got in my car, I was overwhelmed with thoughts about Brody's future. Sure, we are in kindergarten now, but I am going to blink and he will be 15...is that what we have to look forward to? Making change and using a mop? Is that all?

But really...who are we to say what success in life is? It's up to Brody...and I cannot judge his happiness.

Eventually I came down to earth and realized that...I really should not have asked. I really didn't want the answers yet. I shouldn't have gone there. I don't have to right now. Right now, it is time for kindergarten. It's not time for a learners permit. It's time to get excited about his first year as a "Big Kid."

Love you, Big Boy.
-Mom.