A New Course

The 10K race was held at a local park, the scenic course winding its way around the lake like a ribbon. Back in the early days of autism this park, for me, was both a blessing and a curse. Situated halfway between my house and a friend's, the park was the perfect meeting place for an impromptu play date. Our late afternoon get-togethers served as a respite, time out of the house, away from the endless parade of therapists. Connecting with my friend punctuated those dark days with the tiniest speck of light. As much as I treasured our time together, those play dates stung. Watching my friend's children and Annie laugh and play with one another painfully highlighted Kate's deficits, leaving me defeated, without hope.

The first half of the race was a trip down memory lane of sorts, each landmark awakening a scene from a lifetime ago. The playground where Kate spun in endless circles, alone. The swing set where she threw herself to the ground, enraged that Annie occupied the swing on the right side instead of the left. The path where she bolted away from us, screaming at the top of her lungs. The spot at the edge of the lake where we threw rocks, Kate wading in the frigid water, oblivious. And finally, the bridge Kate attempted to scale only to be pulled to safety in the nick of time.

As I crossed the bridge I picked up my pace, leaving those memories behind. I rounded the bend into an area of the park I had never seen before. My legs burned as I made my way through this uncharted territory. With no memories attached to this path, I couldn't help but feel that we are on a new course, an opportunity for new memories, for new beginnings.

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.

Where Babies Come From

Annie: Hey, Dad. Do you remember when you comed to the hospital and picked me out?

Dad: eyes twinkling with amusement I sure do.

Annie: very serious Yeah and you picked me instead of the other babies because I was the best one there and you liked me the best.

Dad: That's right, honey.

As you can see we have yet to have THE TALK. I wonder how much longer we can get away with her version of the facts of life.

Wiipulsive

The young twentysomething strode confidently through the crowd, a single word emblazoned across her chest.

Wiitarded

An obvious play on the R-word.

An internet search revealed the following:

Found on this site: "This funny t-shirt is meant to be worn with humor in mind. We all know that video gamer who just needs to express their inner self. Enjoy the lighter side of life just a little bit more in style and comfort."

And here: "Do you play with your wii all day? Wii do too! That's why we're wiitarded! Get this shirt today. Made of 100% cotton this tee will stand up to the most rigorous sitting down. Own this t-shirt and show everyone that you really are wiitarded."

And still another: "We are Wii-Tarded. That means we love our wiis to the point of being crazy. Let the gamer in you out and be wiitarded. This humorous spoof on the Nintendo wii will have the humor flowing at your next wii-kend party."

I don't know about you, but I fail to see the humor.

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.

The Inexplicable

Each morning we walk past the row of stately sycamores, their trunks adorned with yellow ribbons. And each morning she turns to me and asks me the same question in her squeaky little voice, Mommy, why are there yellow ribbons on those trees?


My answer is always simple, always the same. They are for the men and women in the military, I tell her. They are for our troops who are fighting in a war very far from home. It means that we are thinking about them and praying they are safe.

And each time she utters, Oh, feigning understanding, but the question still lingers in her eyes. She clearly does not, nor will not, understand my explanation, no matter how simple. Words such as military, troops, and war are just not in her 4 year-old vocabulary.

This week we learned of the tragic loss of Vicki's son, Evan, who touched many lives. And although as adults we have the words in our vocabulary, the loss of a child is beyond comprehension. My thoughts and prayers go out to Vicki and her family. I wish peace and comfort to all.

Information about services for Evan can be found here.