An Opinion on April

April brings to mind all sorts of things. Easter, sometimes a really late spring break, showers to bring May flowers...

And Autism Awareness Month.

The second of April is World Autism Awareness Day, and there's a big push to LIGHT IT UP BLUE! and stuff. Will I wear blue? Nope. For starters, I'm not sure I own anything blue that I can wear to work and not break dress code because *gasp* did you see she's wearing a T-SHIRT?!?!?

Yeah, I work there. I'm fighting every fiber of my being to not go on a diatribe about how productive I would be in yoga pants and a t-shirt, but they tell me I'm not the boss and I don't get to make those decisions, so no t-shirts for me. It's so sad.

Anyway, Autism Awareness. I really struggle with this. I guess it's because when I hear the word "awareness", I feel like it's a synonym of "LOOK OUT! AUTISM ON THE LOOSE!" like you'll see biker awareness when it starts to get nicer out, because motorcycles and bicycles are ON THE LOOSE on the roads.

I guess I also get a little miffed because when you Google (it blows my mind that Google is a verb) "Autism Awareness", do you know what comes up first? Would it be a link to NAMI or Mayo Clinic or Vanderbilt or Children's Mercy? Nope. Autism Speaks. And do you know just how you can help "Light It Up Blue"? Donate. To Autism Speaks. Reason number two I won't wear blue. Not with a fox or in a box, either.

*Disclaimer: I am very aware (pun not intended) of the importance of research. However, as the mother of a child who is on the severe end of the spectrum, I know how hard life is NOW. For those who have gone before us, and who will come after us, research is necessary, but so is support.*

Donate. Not to a "scholarship" so a kiddo can go to a sensory-friendly camp in the summer, or so a family doesn't have to foot a huge medical bill, or can get a therapy dog, or respite care, or to make their home more sensory-friendly. Not to give families/adults assistance in therapies that are not covered by insurance companies. Not to offer to come over so that a frazzled parent can have some adult interaction. And maybe some wine with a friendly face. Or a nap. Oh....naps and wine. Mmmm.

Donate to Autism Speaks. Light up a building blue. Give money to an entity where you have no idea if it's going to help a child, adult, or a family who lives with Autism and the challenges it brings.

It bugs me.

Obvs.

Their website boasts 28,602 actions have been taken to shine a light on Autism! Don't get me wrong, that's fantastic. But let me offer a different perspective.

Autism isn't a new thing. It's not. And I can't help but feel like Autism Speaks (and there's more like them, they're just the big dog on the porch) is in the light while Autism and those who live with it and their loved ones are shadowed. Personally, I don't want a spotlight on my child. "LOOK! THERE'S AUTISM!" To think that in this day and age he will still be referred to as the autistic kid, rather than Quinn, really lights a fire under my ass. He is Quinn first. He happens to be Autistic. Just like he happens to have blue eyes and sandy hair. Just like he happens to have a birthmark on his leg in the shape of Australia. It is part of him, but it certainly does not define him.

In April, I challenge those who are unfamiliar with Autism to learn. If you don't know what a trusted resource is, ask. Autism isn't contagious. Well, I'm pretty sure it's not.

Do take advantage of events like the Candlelight Vigil for Autistic Children who Lost their Lives After Wandering. Ask questions. Spend some time with a family and watch the absolute joy radiate from their child(ren) just like it does from yours.

Don't just become aware, find a place of acceptance. Because really, that's all these kids and adults and families want. At least me and mine do.

Let's talk about Ex, Baby

I have been dreading today for a while now. Why would I be dreading a beautiful Spring Saturday, is what most would probably ask. Well, today I had to take Shortpants to meet his dad for a day-long visit. When I found out they were for sure going to be here, I looked a lot like this guy:

You have cat to be kitten me right meow.

Ex is married. I like her a lot more than I tolerate him. You see, our marriage ended less than smoothly, and while I will be civil - wait, I'm actually quite nice, I'm still angry. And hurt. And all ragey against the machiney sometimes. But his wife has shown me that she is level-headed, and I think we have connected as moms. 

I'm pretty certain this guy nailed how I look most times I think about Shorty's dad. I'M TRYING. Honest.

And when I get mad? I cry. Like a little bitch. AND IT MAKES ME MORE MAD AND THEN I CRY MORE. It really is a vicious cycle. And when I cry do I look like every other normal woman on the planet? Oh hellz naw - I uuuuuuuuuuuugly cry. 

If you took this face:

And put it on this face:

WOW, right?

Plus some red-rimmed eyes and some rivulets of mascara (that is SUPPOSED to be waterproof - thank you SO much, brand name withheld!), that's my ugly cry face.

Aren't you glad you know now? So you can avoid at all costs? Hey, at least I don't snot all over the place. You're welcome.

Oh. I digressed. A scosh. My bad.

Back to today - I had planned a day with one of my oldest friends; some yoga, some coffee, some lunch, some Marshall-ing (Love me some Marshalls deals. I didn't get paid to say that, but I'd sure like some free stuff... *cough*). We also watched Empire Records. HAPPY REX MANNING DAY! (And they say I don't have ADHD. Puh-leeze.)

I tried my best to keep my mind off Shortpants and my mind on fun, and I really did have a good day. And so did he. Even though he was up since 3 last night, napped for maybe 30 minutes in the car, didn't want to get out of the swings (I told him so! *oh no she didunt - YES I JUST DID) - the day went pretty darned well. 

Oh, alright. Time to fess up. See, Shortpants hasn't seen his dad for more than 30 minutes since Thanksgiving 2012, thanks to the Army and (what I like to call) choice. Meaning, he had opportunities to visit and didn't. Water under the bridge. (Or I'll drive myself certifiably loony.) Also meaning - he hasn't had Shorty by himself for more than a few minutes. Since he was born. I was in full-blown Mama Bear mode. This whole week consisted of fighting panic attacks, night sweats, not being able to eat, then eating my weight in Taco Bell. It was ugly.

And today? It went better than I could have imagined. Shortpants has been asleep since about 6:30, which bums me out a little, because with my work schedule I only really get to spend good time with him on the weekends, but we have all day tomorrow.

Am I friends with my ex-husband? Hardly. But I like to consider myself a good person, to do what is really right, and try (it's SO hard) to not make it be about me, but about what's best for Shortpants. And yes, when my boy ran into my arms when I picked him up, I may have done a neener neener neener and made this face: 

Exactly what this French Ken-ig-ut just said!

on the inside, where it belongs. <insert "being a grown-up sucks" whine here>

I can only guess.

This is an example of PECS (Picture Exchange Communication System) for feelings.
PECS is one system (of many) that can provide a way for non-verbal folks to communicate.
Currently, this is not in use in our home, as Shortpants just isn't into it. Can only lead a horse to water... 

You stand in the middle of the room, screaming in a language only you understand. Tears are streaming down your face as you clench your hands into fists, shaking with emotion. Is it rage? Fear? Pain?

I can only guess.

You look at me with an expression that I can only interpret as "HELP ME. FIX THIS. WHY DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I'M SO PLAINLY TELLING YOU?" as the tears continue to fall, your hands continue to be clenched, and you continue to shake and scream and stare.

And I scream on the inside because I don't know what to do. I can only guess. And that guess, being so very important, is rarely correct. One in an infinite amount of possibilities as to what it is that you need different in this very moment. I scream on the inside until my voice disappears, to the heavens, hoping God hears my plea - but I can only guess.

You come to me, wanting comfort, wanting held; and then you remember. You remember that your emotions are directed at me, and it is my fault - whatever it is - and you claw and scratch and fight and bite and slap your way out of my arms and recover the expression that says so much, but I can only guess.

I want nothing more than to know the right answer: to remove guess from this equation that far surpasses my ability to solve for x; to be able to know exactly what you need, in the exact moment you need it, and to be able to provide it to you immediately - that is my wish, my hope, my need.

But I can only guess.