Ghosts

I see them everywhere. Forever etched into my mind as adolescents, it is a bit of a shock when I see them in their adult form. Full-fledged grown-ups, just like me.

The woman behind me in line at the grocery store, an old friend from middle school. The friendship ended badly, over something petty that I no longer remember. We both avert our eyes, not wanting to call attention to the painful details of our shared past.

The gas station attendant who fixed my car, a boy mercilessly bullied throughout his teenage years. A speech impediment continues to plague him. I wonder if memories of being on the receiving end of countless wedgies in the boys' bathroom continue to haunt him. I thank him for his help and quickly leave.

The woman manning a craft table at our hometown fall festival, former arch rival from elementary school. I turn the other way and all but sprint in the opposite direction. A nasty child surely grown into a nasty adult, someone I do not care to associate with.

I see them everywhere. And I know they see me too. Yet, we say nothing. Maybe someday we will outgrow those old hurts and find the courage to start anew.

The Banker

Words like financial crisis, bailout, money, billions, trillions, and dollars flow throughout our house these days, the drone of the TV an undercurrent. An empty piggy bank lay on Annie's floor. Its contents, a crumpled dollar bill and an assortment of coins, sit on her nightstand. The mention of a quick trip to the convenience store for milk causes her to spring into action. "Don't worry, Dad," she reassures. "If you need some money you can use mine."

My sweet, generous little girl.

A Fabulous Day

The beginning of September marked a major milestone in Kate's educational career: the beginning of kindergarten. All summer long I harbored a great deal of anxiety over this transition. She would be leaving the safe haven that was preschool, the magical place that transformed her from a screaming, dysregulated toddler into the delightful child she is today. It was the place where everyone knew her, students and teachers alike. It was the place she loved.

So it was with great trepidation that I put her on the bus that first day and bid her farewell. For the 2 1/2 hours that she was gone I paced back and forth, waiting for the phone to ring telling me I needed to pick her up immediately. Surely she would be overwhelmed by the bus ride and the large building and the new teacher and the 19 new classmates. I was confident this kindergarten thing was a recipe for disaster.


So it was with great surprise at dismissal time that I was greeted by a smiling Kate coupled with an enthusiastic thumbs up from the teacher. "A fabulous day!" the teacher gushed. No time for elaboration, Kate was quickly deposited into the car and off we drove, leaving a million unanswered questions swirling around my head. A fabulous day? What did she mean? A fabulous day for a kid with issues? Or a fabulous day just like any kid might have? A fabulous day as in she didn't throw herself on the ground and scream? Or a fabulous day as in she talked to the other kids and played with them? A fabulous day as in she blended in with the rest of the class, the autism indiscernible?

I looked in the rear view mirror to gauge Kate's reaction to all of the newness. It was the smile that silenced all of my questions. She is happy and that is all that matters. A fabulous day indeed.

Gypsies

Summer is our season. Combine a husband's flexible work schedule with a serious case of wanderlust and the result is endless summer fun all while living out of suitcases. Our travels took us to the beach with my husband's family, to Disney World to visit a dear friend, then to another beach with my family.


Traveling with 3 young children is a challenge. Add autism, a whining preschooler who insists she lost the ability to walk, and a newly-minted toddler whose sole purpose in life is to destroy everything in his path to the mix and it is downright exhausting. My husband and I often joke that we don't go on vacation but merely pack up the contents of our house and live somewhere else for a few weeks. Exhausting, yes. But totally worth it.

Old memories were relived, new memories made. Kate splashing in the ocean, riding the waves on her little boogie board like a pro, jumping into the pool and swimming under the water. Annie laughing with her cousins, singing songs from High School Musical at the top of her lungs, riding a roller coaster for the first time. Little Fella playing in the sand, taking his first steps, eyes wide while taking in the sights and sounds of Disney World. These are the things that I will remember.

Now all I need to do is lose the 5 pounds I gained from pigging out, give my liver time to repair from the alcohol consumption, catch up on some sleep, and dig myself out from under mountains of laundry. Then I think I will need a vacation.

A New Goal

Running has been going fabulously well. So well, in fact, that it's become somewhat of an addiction. I just can't stop. Over the course of April and May I ran 4 5K races and improved my time by nearly 5 minutes from the first race to the most recent. And I am hungry to shave off even more time.

Now that I completed my goal of running a 5K, it is time to tackle something bigger. A 10K. It's not that the 3.1 miles have become too easy. It's just that I need to set a new goal, to move forward, to challenge myself, to continue growing.

Tonight's Plans

To celebrate our first night of summer vacation we will be, in Annie's words, s'moring. What is s'moring, you ask?

The Dictionary of Preschool Language Quirks defines s'moring as "cooking marshmallows on the fire and get it on the stick then you hold it with 2 hands then you put it on a chocolate graham cracker sandwich".

After s'moring this evening I shall engage in beering.

beering- v. relaxing by the fire, sipping a cold beer, celebrating the start of summer

Wishing you all a wonderful summer!

Coming Home

Last night marked my return to the running world. Butterflies danced around my stomach with the thought of running again after a near 3 year hiatus. Any thoughts of self-doubt quickly dissapated the moment I laced up my too-new-looking shoes. Slipping into those shoes was like being enveloped in the familiar embrace of an old friend.

The class consisted of a diverse bunch ranging from non-runners to those who had a marathon or two under their belt. Most of us, though, were runners who, for various reasons, had fallen out of touch with running. The class was an opportunity to become reacquainted with the sport, a promise of new beginnings. Once a runner, always a runner.

My feet hit the pavement, surprisingly quick and light. I found my pace, lulled into a zone by the rhythmic cadence of my steps and breathing. 2 breaths in, 2 breaths out.

I can. Do this.
I can. Do this.
I can. Do this.

It was, in a word, exhilarating. Like coming home. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I was not running away from the demons that were chasing me, desperately trying to escape. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was running toward something.

Quarantine

You do not want to come within a 5-mile radius of my house. It's not pretty, folks. Right now my best friend is a bottle of Lysol that I have obsessively sprayed on virtually every surface in this place in hopes that the vapors will kill off any stray viruses that might have seeped into my body after being vomited on 4 times between 3 children. It's only a matter of time before one of us big people joins the others. Wish us luck.

Snow Day

I watch her from my position in the front door. She is a pile of pink punctuating the white blanket covering the ground. She lay motionless, on her back, eyes turned toward the heavens, arms and legs splayed from her body in neat 45 degree angles. She maintains her position for a minute or so before standing up to inspect her handiwork. Pleased with her creation, she dances several steps to the side and flops down again. This routine continues, unchanged. Eventually she spies me, waves, and calls out, "I makedid 25 snow angels!" Sure enough, 25 small body prints lined the yard, side-by-side. 25 snow angels created by my little angel.

A Goal

I have been out of sorts lately, adrift. My days are filled with the rather mundane tasks of motherhood. Shuttling the kids to and from school, endless piles of laundry and dishes, cooking, wiping up crumbs, picking up toys, sitting in the waiting room at the dance studio. I am bored. I am restless. I pick up a book or a magazine, only to put it down again. I tackle a project around the house, only to stop in the middle, leaving it incomplete. Unfinished. I am treading water, going nowhere. Each day I am simply marking time, just trying to make it through the day without drowning.

This is no way to live a full, rich life. I need goals, things to accomplish. On my calendar is the date May 24th circled in red. It is the date I will run my first 5K. It is a goal, something that I will inch closer and closer to one baby step at a time. We all need goals. Something to set our sight on. Something to keep us moving. Something to give us strength.

Watch Your Mouth

Thoroughly frustrated with our ongoing bathroom struggles I vented to Gonzo, "I am so tired of wiping that five year old A-S-S!"


From the next room comes a tiny monotone voice, "Five year old A-S-S. Five year old A-S-S. Five year old A-S-S."


Moral of the story: Be careful what you say, or spell, in the presence of an echolalic child.

A Little Reminder

The plume of thick, dark smoke rising on the horizon matched my mood that morning. Dark. It had been yet another rough start to the day. Little Fella screamed from his high chair while scattering Cherrios onto the already crumb-laden kitchen floor. Crunch. Annie incessantly whined that she was still hungry. Her requests for fruit snacks, gum, peanut butter on a plate, crackers, goldfish, a popsicle were met with an increasingly louder, "I said no." Amidst the cacophony Kate stole into the playroom to engage in repetitive play with her "kids", a random assortment of 22 small dolls that must be lined up and put away according to her own stringent standards. Any deviation from her particular routine is not allowed and will result in a full-blown tantrum.

We were running late that morning, and I quickly morphed into the wild-eyed, crazed Mean Mommy. "Hurry up! Put those away! We're going to be late, " Mean Mommy barked.

"Put kids to bed first," she responded firmly.


"Just leave them! Why do you have to put them back? Let's go!" Mean Mommy ranted, not understanding her insatiable desire for these nonfunctional, quirky routines.


Giving her a few extra moments, I loaded the other 2 into the car. However, the routine was still not complete when I returned. Not having any more time to spare, Mean Mommy picked her up and carried her kicking and screaming to the car, kids strewn about on the floor.


It was an ugly car ride that morning. Kate, red-faced with tears streaming down her cheeks, screamed at the top of her lungs, drowning out Little Fella's cries. Annie alternated between whining and sucking her thumb. My insides shook, and I cursed under my breath.


Halfway through our 20 minute journey, the plume of smoke began to dissapate, and the screaming and crying subsided. As I rounded the bend in the winding rural road, traffic came to a screeching halt. Police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance barricaded the road. A single vehicle wrapped itself around a tree, fully engulfed in flames. The driver, extricated from the car just moments before it was too late.


The accident required me to turn my car around and find a new, albeit longer, route to school. During the drive I had a little extra time to think. Had Kate not played with her toys, had we not argued, had we not been running late, we might very well have been involved in that accident. The little annoyances that, at the time, I thought were going to ruin my day, were nothing compared to what the driver of that car endured, were nothing compared to what could have happened to us. Life can change in the blink of an eye. Let us celebrate the many blessings in our lives, today and every single day. Let us not take these things for granted. Ever.

Wordless Wednesday

What being couch-ridden for a whole week with a 103 degree fever and ear infection will do to your hair.

A Walk Toward Hope

Below is something I wrote over a year ago. I had planned to submit it in hopes that it would be included in this book. I chickened out. So now I am sharing it with all of you.

I will never forget the first time I heard the word autism and Kate spoken together in the same sentence. Those life-altering words were a punch in the gut, changing nothing, everything. Gone were the frilly fantasies of a childhood filled with giggling little girlfriends staying up all night at a sleep-over. Gone were the dreams of an all-star athlete, award-winning scholar, and class president. Such hopes and dreams were replaced with an exhausting array of therapies and appointments, support group meetings, behavior modification that never seemed to work, and a small mountain of paperwork stamped with the word autism, as if sealing the fate of life ahead.

When Kate was a baby, she could light up a room. Her musical laugh announced her arrival as her twinkling blue eyes scanned the room, eager to explore the marvels of the world. She was a charming baby who could captivate anyone with those eyes and that sweet smile. Kate sparkled and exuded life.

Then came what we thought were the terrible two’s. Tantrums, screaming at people, throwing herself on the ground, rigid routines, quirky obsessions. By age two-and-a-half it appeared that Kate’s terrible two’s had lasted longer than expected, and we decided to seek help.

Around the time of the diagnosis, my husband’s sister asked if Kate would participate in her wedding as the flower girl. Although I knew that Kate bouncing down the aisle in a quiet church in front of a few hundred family members in a fluffy dress and new shoes was a recipe for disaster, I accepted the invitation as my way of trying to hold onto a tiny shred of a typical childhood.

Over the next few months, flower girl practice consumed me. Each Sunday we drove a half hour to attend Mass at the church where the wedding would take place. During church we fed Kate an endless supply of praise and goodies for sitting quietly. After Mass we practiced walking, not bouncing, down the aisle. We took pictures of the church and wrote a social story about being a flower girl. That story became a bedtime favorite. We paraded around our house in the fancy dress and stiff new shoes, laughing at the tappity-tap sound they made on the kitchen floor.

The day of the wedding arrived with my stomach churning in anticipation. Would all of our practice finally pay off, or was my sister-in-law’s perfect day going to be ruined? Part of me just wanted to grab Kate, poofy dress and all, throw her in the car and drive away from everything and everybody.

Moments before it was time to begin the processional Kate was sprawled out on the floor, a mound of white tulle and curls. Rolling a toy car across the floor, back and forth, she clearly did not wish to be disturbed. Each attempt to get her to stand up was met with an increasingly louder scream that showed her displeasure.

The processional began, and Kate showed no signs of any desire to participate. One by one the bridesmaids glided down the aisle. Panicking, I told the ring bearer to walk without the flower girl. It wasn’t going to work.

In one final attempt, I gently picked Kate up and whispered calmly in her ear, "Kate, do you want Mommy to carry you or do you want to walk?" My sweet little flower girl looked into my eyes and said in a slow and halting voice, "Walk with Mommy." As she raised her dimpled, chubby hand toward mine, she gave me a shy smile. I grinned from ear to ear, took her hand in mine, and we began our journey together.

As I floated down the aisle with my beautiful daughter I said two prayers to God. The first was a prayer of thanks for giving us that perfect moment. The second was a prayer of hope that some day, some day, my husband would be given the same gift of walking Kate down the aisle.

That magical afternoon we walked together. We walked toward hope and acceptance. We walked toward the future, together.

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

The purple spiral tunnel slide taunts her, its circular mouth open and inviting, ready to swallow her into twisting and turning darkness. She spends the better part of an hour up there, watching the kids disappear into the long tube, leaving behind only gleeful squeals and laughter. She peers into the slide and sees only the dark. She shouts into the slide and delights at the sound of her voice reverberating through the tunnel. She sticks her head into the opening, quickly withdrawing it, breathless. This dance between paralyzing anxiety and curiosity continues as I climb the structure and make my way toward her. I arrive at the top. She is surprised to see me. Stuffing myself into the small compartment, I spread my legs out into the mouth of the tunnel. She watches as they disappear. I thump my seemingly nonexistent legs against the slide. She smiles with relief. She sits down behind me. I am the engine, she, the caboose. We move ever so slightly into the dark. She panics and grabs the side of the opening. Gently tugging on her free hand, I pull her down into the darkness with me. In that instant before the light goes away, her fear transforms into pure joy. Down, down, down. Together. We emerge into the light. We celebrate. She leaves me at the bottom while she scampers to the top, eager to practice her new accomplishment. And we celebrate each time she reaches the light. Again and again and again.

Surrounded by Affluence

My scratched minivan waits in line every morning in front of Kate's school amid the Lexuses, BMWs, and Hummers, an outcast. I do not mind. It is reliable and accepts the fifty-plus miles I put on it each day without complaint. We are an average, middle-class family. We live in a nice neighborhood, in a nice house that feels a little cramped at times. We do not mind. Luxury vehicles, second homes, exotic vacations, and black tie cocktail parties are foreign to me. I do not mind. We are happy and healthy. That is all we ask for.

One day a letter came home from Kate's school. It explained a wonderful program for preschoolers who are at risk for academic failure due to low income. The program is funded through the state, and children whose families meet the requirements are eligible to attend preschool for free. I read the letter, then tossed it, as it did not pertain to us.

The next day when I pulled up to Kate's school, the office manager flagged me down. "Did you get the letter I sent home yesterday?" she asked cheerfully. "Yes, I did," I answered somewhat quizzically, not fully understanding why she was asking me. "You can send Annie here. For free!" Free? Why would I be able to send her here for free? And then it dawns on me. She thinks we are a low-income family. She thinks we cannot afford to send Annie to preschool. She thinks that my child is destined for failure because we are poor.

Flustered, I stumbled over my answer, "Oh, no, we don't qualify for that program." I failed to mention that Annie is enrolled in a different preschool, one that is around the corner from our house. That we send her there because it's close to home, so she will make friends in the neighborhood. So we can carpool. Because the twenty minute drive each way to Kate's school really sucks, and I won't be able to do it next year once Kate starts kindergarten. That I wanted Annie to attend the same school for two years instead of having to move her next year. That if Kate didn't have an IEP she would have gone to the school close to home. That this is really none of her business. "Oh? You were one of the families we were thinking of. You know, that could use a little help." This time my answer was more firm, "No, we don't meet the criteria. We are doing just fine, but thank you for thinking of us." I drove away, leaving her red-faced and speechless.

I hope she learned a lesson that morning, that it is wrong to make assumptions about people. That driving a minivan does not mean that someone requires financial assisstance. That being surrounded by people who have too much, does not make a person poor. That there are families out there who need help, but we are not one of them.