This Side of Invisible

He heaved between sobs, opening the car door and vomiting right there in the car line. I prayed that no one had noticed. “Okay, okay,” I soothed him, patting his back. “It’s okay. Put your seat belt back on, we’ll go home.” He was so hysterical that my words didn’t, couldn’t penetrate. He cried into his hands, rocking back and forth. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” he cried. I pulled out of the car line and into the parking lot. “Mommy, I want breakfast,” a little voice peeped from backseat. “You said breakfast after Buddy go to school.” “I know,” I said, getting out of the car and walking around to Buddy’s side. I opened the door to buckle him in and he kicked at me. “NO!” he screamed. “No. No. No.” He thrashed in his seat trying to keep me from forcing him out of the car. His small fist makes contact with my cheek. “Buddy. Buddy. Buddy! Stop!” I yelled. Sniffles and sobs started in the back seat. “Buddy in trouble,” Thing 2 cried. “I hungry,” Thing 1 whined. And the ...

I heard those dreaded words today. "I'm afraid that most likely your child doesn't qualify for services anymore." I paused afraid that if I responded too soon I'd yell or cry. I asked a few clarifying questions, blinking back tears of panic. I held my own for nearly the entire conversation. And then the therapist said, "You should be so proud, Mom. He's made so much progress." Then, I cried. The truth is he has made so much progress. The truth is I am very proud of him. Still, the truth is I hate hearing those words. Every time a specialist says to me that one of my children "no longer qualifies" for services, bile-like panic rises in my chest. "But he still has such anger issues," I said. And, "His impulsiveness gets in his way on a daily basis," I added. Doesn't she know? Can't she see the things I see? "I did tell you that he pulled a knife on his brother last week, didn't I?" Somehow she h...

It’s that time of year again. STAAR is here. We’ve had a lot of complaining, questioning, and even some crying at our house this week. Let me let you in on a little secret, teachers don’t like it either. And, like you, we pray that someday legislation will do away with state-mandated testing. But that day isn’t today, so here’s what I hope my children (and my students) will learn from taking the STAAR test. These state-mandated tests aren’t everything, but I want you to do your best. I promise you can learn a great many things through this experience if you do. #1. I hope you learn that you can do hard things. These tests are hard y’all! And regardless of the outcome, you do it; you tackle the monstrous challenge again and again and again.  You forge through figurative language, fraction problems, and facts. Armed with only a pencil, you slay the dragon every year. Multiple times. You’re a knight, a ninja, a new-aged rock star! And don’t you forget it! Mom and dad are proud o...

When I was pregnant with my first, I read several books, like What To Expect when You're Expecting , and the like.  I'd been babysitting since I was 10 and had taken care of countless infants.  I thought I'd had most things figured out.  Of course, like most new mothers, I was wrong in this assumption. There was a time, shortly after my son was born, where every evening when my husband came home from work, I would hand him the baby, and promptly lock myself in the bathroom, where I'd wallow in a hot bath, crying myself dry.  I'd lay there weeping in the tub, leaking from my eyes and my swollen breast as my  baby boy cried out in the hall and my husband asked through the too-thin door how long I'd be and if I could come out soon as the baby was hungry... again. That kid nursed every hour on the hour, for at least 40 minutes. Every day. For nearly a month. And I wondered how it was that my life had come to this: I was nothing more than a dairy cow.  Plu...

There is verse of scripture that reads:   " for the  Spirit  speaketh the  truth  and lieth not. Wherefore, it speaketh of things as they really  are , and of things as they really will be; wherefore, these things are manifested unto us  plainly , for the salvation of our souls. " ( Jacob 4:13 )  And this morning as I lounged in my bed, refusing to get out from under my down comforter, there was a bit of truth running around in my head.  A touch of something as it really is that has been nagging at me and, finally, I was able to give it a name. Romance. Wait.  What? That's right, I'm talking about romance.  Can the Spirit teach us about such things?  Certainly. You see, I posted this to facebook two nights ago:   "Writing poetry by firelight. My world is rather romantic. Or it would be if boys weren't having a bionicle war at my feet,  the laundry from winter ice storm adventures wasn't piling up ...

It was a dreary English January morning, the sky was an oppressive grey and cold, wet mist enveloped everything. The kids had mad cabin fever and my husband was deployed to an unnamable location.  We were nearing the end of a trying Christmas holiday--everyone had had strep, which, when you have a child with Asperger's and the doctor wants a throat culture means you've just gone to Hell and Back; Thing 1 had climbed atop a radiator and pulled it off the wall, dumping gallon upon gallon of boiling black water onto the office floor; it was our first holiday without Daddy, you get the picture--and I was pushing aside my guilt and instead allowing myself to revel in excitement that the kids would soon be going back to school. And then, red gatorade. My arch nemesis. I hate red drinks.  Whoever invented them... is not my favorite person. An entire 20 oz bottle of red gatorade spilled on my  my landlord's carpet!  In the middle of the living room.  No furniture ...

Seriously. Mean Girls, making life miserable for girls and women everywhere since... forever! I remember every encounter I had with means girls growing up; from salt in my hair at a slumber party, to rejection on the playground, to the taunts in PE freshman year, and all the name calling in the halls and whispered rumors behind hands, it was all ridiculously petty, and unfortunately it was also more hurtful than I could have imagined.   It shouldn't hurt.  It shouldn't matter what so-and-so thinks of me.  At least, that's what I used to tell myself.  But the fact is that it did.  A lot.  As if every girl doesn't have enough of a struggle trying to find her value in a world of such conflicting expectations--be sexy, but don't be a whore; be educated, but don't be a know-it-all; be a good mother, but make sure you can rule the board room too; make the best treats, soccer mom, and while you're at it, get that second degree too; speak up for what yo...

There are those in the world that caution against looking back.  And I see the wisdom in that counsel... usually.  I understand that dwelling on the past hinders your movement forward.  But here's the thing, these last few days, I've learned the beauty and the value of letting yourself look back. This last weekend was General Conference for our church.  Basically, it's a televised conference (from Salt Lake City) in which our church leaders speak to us.  For those of us fortunate enough to live in areas where we have access to cable, satellite or the internet, it usually means we get to have 10 hours of church in our pajamas :)  For me, this weekend, it meant two days straight of having everyone home and 10 hours of trying to get kids to stay quiet.  It was a glorious, albeit long, weekend. Conference was great.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining in the least about that.  And my kids were great and I love them, sometimes it's actual...

As harvest season is finally upon us--can I tell you how excited I am for cooler weather?--my thoughts have turned back to last fall as we harvested our own garden. Last year was the first year that we were able to have a garden.  My husband and I went from being college students to a military family and are now back to college students, therefore we have always lived in rentals or base housing, none of which allowed us to toil in the dirt.  This past summer, however, we were fortunate to live in a house where a raised bed was already in the backyard.  So it was that last May (late in the season in Texas, I came to find out), the kids and I set about preparing the soil with the help of my green-thumbed mother-in-law. It was thrilling, the dirt beneath our fingernails, the unearthed worms, the pleasure of a dark black, de-weeded bed ready for planting.  The kids were hard to contain at Lowe's as we picked out the plants for our garden.  Tomatoes, strawberries...

Please don't let anyone tell you that children on the Autistic Spectrum are incapable of empathy.  Ever. While it is true that some of their behavior would indicate that they are unable to get into others' heads and understand their pain and sorrow, their frustration and upsets, it simply isn't so.  It's been my experience that these are some of the most sensitive souls, feeling to the 'N'th degree what the rest of us feel.  It is this over-feeling that often blocks from view another's version of the story.  But that doesn't mean they are incapable of doing so. My beautifully ASDed boy reaches out in all the right moments. When we were alone and my husband was in basic training and I had my first miscarriage, Big Brother was only 10 months old.  And as I sat crying on the couch, wondering how my dear husband was going to take the news from his commander, my sweet son used his newfound skills to walk over to me and wipe my tears away.  He buried his...

Published on the Liahona Project, link here I took my oldest son back-to-school shopping the other day.  It was.... awesome.  sad.  exciting.  funny. inspiring.  surprising.  mama-heartbreaking. Big Brother was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome in 2009, when he was eight years old.  It was years of evaluations and developmental preschools and speech therapists.  Years of teachers bringing their concerns to me and me taking those concerns to doctors and, and, and...  years of misdiagnoses.  It was years of meltdowns and vomiting and aggression and wondering feet, running feet and hearing him say things like "I'm a bad son.  I'm going to let a car hit me," as those feet took him out the front door. And then that moment, that singular sentence, "Your son is on the spectrum," that changed everything, that changed nothing.  That bitter-sweet recognition that he was, in fact, atypical. And we've had years in between that the...

As a mother, the questions, "Am I doing enough?  Am I doing it right?" are always at the forefront of my thoughts.  I think it is for most, if not all, mothers. And we judge ourselves by our children's behavior, both good and bad.  They have a bad day and make bad choices; I am a bad mother.  They have a great day and do something awesome; I'm humbled, knowing I'm doing at least a few things right.  The thing is neither of these statements is true. Not entirely anyway. Children have their own personalities, weaknesses, strengths, likes/dislikes, willpower, triggers, pleasures, pains.  They are each so unique, how could we ever come up with a formula that measures our mothering skills based upon their behavior?  Because, in reality, we have no control over their behavior.   Can we influence it?  Absolutely.  Can we contribute to it?  Definitely.  But can we control it?  Maybe, if we really want to, by coercion, fear, ph...

After I got married and before I had my first child, I worked in a life skills center for disabled adults.  This is Edgar, his was 62 at the time this photo was taken and yes, he has Down's Syndrome.  As an infant in the late 1930's, he was placed in an institution because his disability made him unsafe and put his siblings at risk.   *note: please try and ignore my overly large pregnant-ness in the pic :) I'm not sure I can comprehend, as a mother, sending my child off to an institution.  At least, that's my initial thought.  But if I am honest, and if I were Edgar's mother and the whole world was fear mongering about how dangerously unpredictable he would be and about how taxing it would be, how difficult, how alone I would be, I might have listened too.  During that era, with so little help and compassion in regards to disabilities or mental health challenges, was there really another option for Edgar's mother?  

You ask my kids and they all know what a 'power up' is.  I doubt any kid growing up in our technology age doesn't know.  Of course, I am old school so I still picture Mario punching a brick and getting a coin or a mushroom :) What my children my not know is that real life is full of 'power ups' too, all kinds, in fact, and not all of them good or long lasting.  But there is one, the ultimate Power Up, that you can not only obtain, but create for yourself, any time, any where, whenever you need it, why ever you need it, as often as you need it. Your Power Up: The Power of You!  I know it's sounds a little cheesy, but positive self affirmations can super charge your battery pack.

Published on the Liahona Project, link here Something I always tell my children: "It's not about you.  It's about what you are doing and how that effects those around you."  Of course, that is the lecture they hear when they are doing things wrong, when they are having a negative effect.  You know, to help them see that they can't just behave like monkeys and do whatever they want.  I have been beating my head against the wall the last few weeks trying to figure out why they aren't getting it.  Today, I had an epiphany. The statement is true.  Even how I am delivering it to them, it is true.  I haven't been mean or fierce or fuming.  My voice is usually at least placid, at best loving.  However, the context is wrong.  The emphasis is misplaced.  Trying to change their negative behavior by pointing out their negative behavior isn't fruitful.  Something that started to pull this together for me was a quote from Elder Dieter ...

Yesterday I wrote about my journey, my marathon and how/where I am.  But you know what?  It's not really about me.  This is what it's about. Those sweet faces are the faces of warriors.  They have been through a lot and are still loving, kind, and cheerful 99% of the time.  What about the other 1%, you say?  Funny you should ask. Saturday, I had a 14 year old crying about not being able to go to a school dance... and by crying, I mean, crying.  While I was mopping the kitchen floor and trying to reason with him, my daughter came into the kitchen soaking wet.  My first thought: I just mopped that spot!   My second thought: "Why are you wet?"  She informed me that she was wet from chasing after Big Brother down the street.  And it was raining.  I looked out the window astonished.   Why yes, it is raining , I thought, and when it rains it pours, apparently.

We were at Barnes & Noble for a meet and greet with the boys' new k12 teachers and classmates.  The store was a bit chaotic as kids rushed around doing a scavenger hunt that we came in the middle of and my kids weren't interested in anyway.  I waited in line to talk to their teachers and they snuck off into the childrens' section to peruse the books.  I was happy, I was in my element surrounded by books.  And, I love it when they run off searching for books. We stayed until the open house ended.  We didn't win any door prizes, but I had promised to get them each a book as it was also a book fair for the school.  I had explained to them I would get them each something within reason, which I thought was specific enough.  Any parent of a child with ADD, ADHD, OCD or Autism will tell you, you can never be specific enough.  The boys had their hearts set on Lego Ninjago books.  Which were, admittedly, very cool.  They were also $30 a pie...

I recently saw a post circulating on FB that said something to the effect that Back to the Future had lied to us because we don't have dryers that fold our laundry for us yet.  And while I do have a wish for the future of technology, it doesn't involve laundry that comes out of the dryer folded or dishes that wash themselves.  Let me explain. FB status update, January 27, 2012: T his is why Geoff and I were inspired to get liability insurance: my 3 dear sons just shot up the missionaries car with their bb guns while trying to chase off a skunk that was roaming up and down our street. Driver's window ruined and about 10 bb dings up and down the driver's side from bumper to bumper. Oh, and let's not forget the scratch down the side where someone ran into the car with the ir bike. Did I mention it was a 2012 chevy malibu... a 2012. Go big or go home, we've taught them well. Now, maybe we should invest in shooting lessons and work on their aim? In ...

 I was recently involved in a discussion about ADD and tips for getting yourself back on track when distracted or daydreaming.  And I'm trying not to let it go to my head that the blog author, Josh Weed, picked my comment as one of three from 100+ to mention in his follow-up post.  Who am I kidding?  I'm FAMOUS!  Almost.  I mean, at least some random people from somewhere who don't know me from Eve are seeing my name in print on blog today. p.s. If you are looking for a quick fix of the good stuff, meaning laughter, head over to The Weed .  Josh's humor is very medicinal. If you want, click here to see the original post that I commented on.  And click here to see the follow-up post where I became famous! I was actually feeling like a bit of a fraud posting any comment because I was thinking, 'I'm not ADD and my children aren't either'.  But then after about 2 seconds of contemplating the validity of that statement, I realized that act...

Published on The Liahona Project, link here Being a mother is hard.  It's mentally and emotionally taxing in unimaginable ways.  Having a child with special needs multiplies the difficulties tenfold.  As the mother of multiple children with special needs... there are many, many days when insanity reigns and tears flow like the River Nile. And I wouldn't have life any other way. As I met with a Parent Advocate today to discuss how to approach the school, and what laws I needed to be aware of, and what jargon I needed to be familiar with and what paperwork I should never give them outright (things I will always need my own copies of), I was so appreciative that someone understands how hard I fight for my children.  How much I love them.  How very much I want what is best for them.  My Parent Advocate was my hero today.  She saw me, a simple mother, that is often overlooked and belittled by professionals, both academic and medical, and she understoo...