I'm Running for Room Mom. Endorsements Welcomed.

I decided to take today off of work and go to Brody and Destin's Valentine's Day parties at school.
It was a hectic day...I had a zillon errands to run, I still had to get treats for the parties and of course, I wanted everything to be as sweet and cute as possible. I would be meeting Brody's fellow classmates in his gen ed Kindergarten class, not to mention the moms. I tried on about 4 different outfits.

To say I was nervous would be an understatement. I literally had to take deep breaths as I walked down the halls of the elementary school and into Brody's kindergarten class.

I arrived just as the party started, armed with Valentine candies and fruit snacks.

The room was buzzing. All of the kids were sitting in their kiddie chairs, making crafts, cards and jewlry for the big day. It was loud, chaotic, hot...

Brody was sitting with his headphones on (headphones drowned out loud noise and calm him during the day and while in class) and his para-professional was helping him with his crafts. I ran over to his side and kissed him excessively...he returned the smooches (of course). He was covered in icing from the cupcakes and was all a buzz with a sugar rush. We were laughing, stringing beads on pipe cleaners...it was great doing something "normal" with him like making crafts with classmates. He squeaked and made is typical Brody noises. I'm so used to his quirks so I don't even notice his vocal outburts or ticks (like tapping his chin, snapping his fingers, tapping his forehead). He struggled with beading pipe cleaners and holding a pencil, but he tried so hard, like he always does. He got thru one of the crafts but was soon distracted.

In the midst of the loves, crafts and hugs, I got a glance of two other moms who were seated nearby with their children. Now I'm not sure if it's just because I am overly protective of Brody or sensitive to his needs/experiences, or if I'm just an emotional and sensitive person overall, but I saw shock in their eyes. Actual sadness even.

It took my breath away.

I could feel a lump start to form in my throat, but shut it down right there. I didn't want to tear up at my son's party. This was not about him anyway. He was having a blast. But I couldn't shake these "looks..."

Moms can be strange creatures. I can say this because I am one. We really put pressure on each other and I have no idea why; it's a waste of energy. The lead room mom was really something. She was intense and did not acknowledge Brody's existence, nor mine whatsoever, even after I introduced us. She reminded me of "Regina George" in the movie "Mean Girls." But it was worse because she was a mother of another kindergartener. She also ignored the other autistic little boy in the class. It was uncomfortable and very awkward. That little boy's mom did not attend the party, but I wished she would have so we could have buddied up.

I didn't confront her or the other moms. I wanted to. Part of me wanted to start a dialogue with one of them and ask if they had any questions (I've done this in shopping malls and grocery stores when I noticed people are staring)...

One mom at our table actually stared at us, held a gaze for a few moments, then actually moved from her seat to another table in the room. She took her child with her. It was the first time I actually felt like we were being watched in close quarters. I tried to be empathic. Before Brody was diagnosed, well before Brody was born, I also was skiddish around children with special needs. So, I can understand. But that doesn't make it easier to deal with when you're confronted with it straight, no chaser.

As the party went on, the games started. And the first game, a version of hot potato with a teddy bear, was perfect for Brody. He handed off the bear when it was his turn and he seemed to get along with the other little ones.

When he was "out" of the game, one of the little girls said, "Uh Oh Brody's out! Better luck next time, dude!" It was adorable.

Lead room mom, who I started to affectionately call "Queen Bee", continued with the final two games, which frankly weren't age appropriate. None of the kids could actually "do" the games. But whatever...by that time I was concentrating more on getting to know the kids in the class, ignoring the not-so-nice moms and chatting with his para-professional, (who should run for Sainthood by the way).

The party ended with the realization that the treats and Brody's classmate addressed Valentines we brought for the party,  would not be passed out. Apparently, Brody was in speech therapy when Valentines were handed out among the classmates. And there was simply, according to Queen Bee, "not enough time." I explained that I would leave the treats for the class so they could enjoy them later. I was taking my baby home so I could love on him, more...

I was proud of myself for not freaking out or going "crazy mom" on these folks. I really held it together and focused on what mattered, Brody. He was having fun, laughing, smiling, eating treats. He was oblivious to my stress and anxiety about the situation. One of the other moms (one of them) did actually start a conversation with us and asked about Brody's headphones. I explained how they helped him and she was very, very sweet.

Once the clock read 1:45, the party was over. Exactly on time. As I packed up Brody's stuff and put on his coat, I couldn't help but feel relieved that we were headed home.

Brody and I walked, hand in hand, towards the school's exit. He was smiling ear to ear, jumping, laughing. He was so happy...what a love bug. I caught a glimpse of Queen Bee as we left. She ingored us.

I am determined to make this not-so-great experience into a positive. Our IEP Meeting with Brody's teachers is scheduled this week and I'm looking forward to this conversation.

Guess what position I am applying for in Brody's first grade class next year? Yep, that's right.
Room Mom. I think these kids need some Harley Davidson Valentines.

But he doesn't look autistic....

If you've visited my Facebook page or my home for that matter, you'll see dozens (and I mean dozens) of pictures of my boys. I am an extremely proud mommy of her adorable boys. They're precious...I literally tear up when I show their pictures to friends, co-workers, the check-out chick at Dierbergs, everyone.
(This pic to the right is Brody at age 2, right when he was diagnosed...thanks Ryan Pendleton for the awesome pic).

Here is a pic of Destin when he was 5...he is now 8! Again, thanks Ryan!




Since Brody's communication is so limited, we rely on Brody's facial expressions, mannerisms and just his "looks" when we try to converse with him. And as you can see from his pictures....

Brody is goregous. (This pic below is from last year, daddy took it.)



Please don't read this and think, "This chick is just bragging and is conceited about her kid's looks..." that is not the case. He is legitimately a beautiful child and frankly, it's what keeps us going. We can look into Brody's eyes and see everything he is feeling. We see his frustration, joy, pride, sadness, depression...and again as I write this I'm getting teary-eyed.

There are several types of reactions I get from others when I share the news about Brody's diagnosis.
Sometimes people ignore that I even mentioned it...some will say, "Ohhhhh well I heard they are doing so much...." Then therapies will be discussed. I'll also get questions, "What do you think causes it?" But that is a whole other blog post.

One of the reactions I've recently gotten has been, "But he doesn't even look autistic...he's cute."

Here is Brody at 18 months, right when we started speech therapy and his therapist knew, "Something was up..." Does he look autistic? What does that even mean?




Now, I typically just nod and smile when I hear this statement. I realize that it's a difficult conversation. I mean, What on earth do you say???

I'd prefer this statement to, "I'm sorry." That is much worse. What are you sorry for? Look at Brody...he is happy, loved beyond belief and adorable. We're not sorry, don't you be.

I wonder what the "autistic" look is anyway? The majority of autistic children I've met on our journey have looked exactly like me when I was little or like my husband, or anyone else. You really can't tell until some of their behaviors show you the way and shine a light on what is happening.

The truth is, autistic children are exactly, and I mean exactly, like any other child. They get scared, they love Lightning McQueen and ice cream, they love playgrounds and movies, just like your child does. The only difference is, they see, hear and experience everything differently. They are in a foreign country 80% of the time and no one speaks their language. So, they have to adapt by relying on other behaviors like screaming, or signing or my favorite (and Brody's) kissing all.the.time.

So, the next time I hear, "But he doesn't look autistic..." I am again not going to say anything drastic or annoyed. I'm going to stick with my current script and say,

"He looks like Brody."


My fellas...I mean come on....adorable.

Here is Destin again...or Michael J. Fox...really. Handsome.




My kids are my kids. And that's more than enough for this crazy mommy.

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.