Normal

He snuggles up to me in bed. He breathes on me. He wraps his arms around me. He is the most beautiful comforter in the world.

He hits me. He throws toys at my head. He seeks destruction in any form. He is wild.

He calms down. He breathes. He counts. He counts all the time. Sometimes to 20. Sometimes more.

He goes in his room when he can’t stop. When he can’t stop himself. He throws himself against the door. The house shakes. The loudness is both deafening and silent as we move through our routines.

Sudden calm. The walls are still. It is safe. He is safe. He is quiet now. Hugging his daddy. Asking for mommy. Blue eyes wide and searching. A pep in his step. A playful smile.

What just happened? I don’t understand.

Little Boy Lost

That is the last picture of Case. I took it in February of 2013.

I hate this photo.

That little boy went away and never came back. I grieve him every single day.

Sometimes, kids with autism are born and you know early on that they are different.

Sometimes, kids with autism are born and you have no idea there is anything different about them until 18 months or so.

My First Case hit every milestone. Laughed all the time. Knew all his vocabulary words. Pointed at pictures in books and labeled them appropriately. Went out with mommy every single day on so many adventures and never got upset or had meltdowns. We could go anywhere on a whim. And we did. First Case loved going to the marina in Annapolis. Strolling down Dock Street. Watching boats. Going to the science museum and looking at dinosaurs and sitting through planetarium shows with ease. First Case thought it was funny to shrug his shoulders and say "What in the world?" to me whenever I caught him doing something nutty. He once danced to Kelly Clarkson on the beach. The song was "Catch My Breath" and somebody nearby started playing it. He was building a sand castle and just started moving to the rhythm. I bought him an ice cream cone because it was the cutest thing I had ever seen in my life. I thought First Case might end up being a chef because he would eat and seemingly savor absolutely anything. We went out to dinner once a week because Daddy worked at night. He ate hummus and tarragon chicken salad and egg drop soup. He was a breeze.

And then the wind stopped. Everything stopped. The talking. The pointing. The interests. The books. The laughing. The eating. The dancing.

And I called Anne Arundel County and asked them to send a developmental specialist to the house to evaluate him. I thought he might have a delay. A very large woman who spoke way too loudly and took up all the space in our apartment spent about 30 minutes with First Case and asked him to do various things with blocks and toys and little contraptions she had brought. When she was done, she asked Matt and I to wait in another room while she did paperwork.

When we came out, she was sitting on our couch. And she started crying and said, "Unfortunately, your son appears to be on the autism spectrum."

And I called and complained to her supervisor and anyone in Anne Arundel County who would listen to me because she had no right to cry. That was my job. And she had no right to tell me Case was autistic. Because deep down inside I already knew that.

I have met two versions of my son. I miss the first one. I miss him every single day. He was the sun. Yellow and bright with a smile that split your heart right open because it was so joyful.

My second Case still has that smile. It hides behind a cloud more than it should. But when it comes out ... I think those moments are the ones that just reach inside me and grab every organ and squeeze them and make my chest tight and everything stop for a moment because nothing means more to me than seeing him genuinely happy. Knowing he can be. Praying we can keep him that way.

I wonder sometimes what First Case would be doing these days. Would he be in first grade with a little bit of homework every night and karate classes on Wednesdays? Would he watch movies on Netflix with his family on Friday nights and tell me about his day if I asked? What would his bedroom look like? He can't have anything in his room presently because he throws objects when he's angry. He has a bed and two bean bag chairs with no pictures on the walls because he throws those, too. There's not even a lamp. Would First Case have picked out football bedding or Lightning McQueen posters for his walls? Would he have an art desk or a drum set in the corner? Does he know what he wants to be when he grows up?

God gave us the Real Case for a reason. I smile just writing that because I know it to be true. But I don't know why I had to meet First Case. I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't even know he was leaving.

Old Ladies

Luckily for you all I'm gonna keep this one short and even a little sweet.

It's Christmas time, and it's snowing like it's supposed to snow with pretty flakes and no shoveling involved.

The kids are in a good mood and we're hanging out around my mom's beautiful Christmas decorations. I included some pictures with this post, but I really can't do her home justice.

You know how some people are really good at Rubik's cubes, and some people can bake 38 layer cakes with rose petals and glitter and calligraphy, while others are really talented at murder? My mom is the absolute best home decorator that isn't on TLC or HGTV or ID (the only channel she watches). She makes every room she touches a genuine joy to be in. And this time of year is her Super Bowl.

So this is the warmth I'm feeling as I settle onto the living room floor to enjoy the first ever board game I have attempted with my children.

Charly is meticulously setting up Candy Land as Case observes from a distance. He's not sure what to make of this activity, but the colorful candy road on the game board kind of looks like train tracks, so there is the possibility of participation.

We set up our characters at the start line and start picking cards. Within three minutes Charly is flinging herself across the board for no apparent reason and writhing around like she's been tasered. It appears I overestimated her maturity level.

My mom attempts to garner Charly's interest one last time:

Mom: Charly, do you want to watch me and Mommy play Candy Land so you can see how it works?
Case: (Jumping into the conversation out of the blue) LET'S WATCH TWO OLD LADIES!

I immediately packed up the game and googled "Home Botox."

Luckily, Laney got the brunt of their boredom while I was injecting my forehead with bacteria in the bathroom. I included a couple pictures of the torture she endured, too.

Today was actually pretty tame. But as Christmas draws nearer, I get more and more excited about the endless shit show possibilities.

For now, I'm going to head to bed and light my pine glistening snowflake candle infused with elf blood and reindeer shit. Or whatever this Yankee monstrosity is. But I'll set anything festive on fire this time of year, so I'll let you know how it is.

Here's to Christmas decorations and moms and Yankee Candles and little boys with no filter.

Hope everyone is having a good weekend!

It's the little things...like suppositories

I caught Case in my bedroom yesterday wielding a pair of scissors he had scored from my bathroom. As soon as he saw me enter the room he came running up to me. "Oh, HERE YOU GO!" in a delightful yelly sing-song voice. This response indicated destruction. I inspected my room, not finding anything. But I know. I'll find it eventually.

We go downstairs and find Charly attempting to draw on furniture with markers. She has a compulsion. Markers are her crack. Drawing on expensive furniture is how she inhales. Ethan Allen would be her drug den. Seriously, what is wrong with three year olds? They are terrible, terrible people. Were we all like this when we were three? She spends more time in her room than inmates do in their cells. And she doesn't care. When I told her the Elf on the Shelf was gonna put her on Santa's shit list (not my exact words), she said "No he won't. I'm just gonna whisper in his ear when you're not looking and tell him what to say to Santa."

Just like my children, my morning routine sucks. I'm still up with Laney at night. It's a total fog. I hear her on the monitor, I go in her nursery, I grab something that might be a bottle, might not be, and shove it in her mouth. I wake up in the morning and can't remember if I was in there 1x, 2x, 3x? It's a total blur. So I stumble around and put things  over my head that might be clothes, and paint my eyes with eyeliner or a Sharpie. Whatever I can find in my purse. And so this morning I'm nearing the end of my routine with the last part involving the all-important curling iron. Otherwise I look like a face with a broom behind it. So I hit the "on" button and nothing happens. That's odd. I look at the outlet. It's plugged in. I hit the reset button. Nothing happens. I look down at the cord. Oh. That's what Case was doing with the scissors. It's cut in half. And wouldn't you know -- today's the day I'm supposed to be on TV. Because of course it is. Thank you, Case. It's always something. Always a little thing I'm not expecting. But this goes for all of us, right? Whether we have kids, or don't, whether they're "neurotypical" (that's "normal" in the autism world), or not.

But good news today -- even though it came out of something bad. Case informed his teacher that his "belly hurt" this morning. Not a big deal for most people, but Case has never really communicated when he doesn't feel well. It's so hard getting him to say what hurts, and so frustrating as a parent because all you want to do is make him feel better but you have no idea where to start. So he's developing some communication tools. And he was in fact sick, and he had to come home from school. Which is how I ended up inserting a suppository into his rectum this evening. First time I've ever had that honor. And he insisted on watching Netflix while we did this ("Netflix and Pill). So I've got a blue rubber glove on, and this is all really weird, and I've got him bent over next to the Christmas tree, so that's a nice accessory to this horror show. And Charly is hovering over me trying to watch all this, and she's jumping up and down in a red sparkly dress asking how much this will hurt Case. But he handles it so well. I was expecting some kind of exorcism response. But no. Charly, however, became belligerent after I informed her she could not have a suppository, too. What is wrong with these three year olds?

These little unexpected things make up every day. And they are so damn funny. I get asked all the time how I deal with all this, and I always shudder at that question because I don't want anyone to think that Case has made life hard. Our life is no more difficult than most of yours. Case just made it different. We adapt to him, and it's OK. We all have something, right? We all have big things. And little things. I used to get so unbelievably stressed out by everything. I didn't adapt. I sucked as a mom because I couldn't go with the flow. I wasn't present. I spent all my time thinking about how I could make things better. Now, I celebrate the curling iron cord. I am ecstatic over a suppository situation going well. No more expectations. Just realizations. Does that make sense?