There Are No Guarantees in Life

This has become a sort of motto of mine. It’s a strange one maybe, and one that I think some people might find dire, but in my situation, it’s been the key to me moving forward. And bear with me because it’s a concept that can sound kind of depressing, but I promise you it’s something that’s helped me.

Kieran mentioned in yesterday’s post about how having a child with special needs forced you to let go of that dream you had for them when you held them in your arms at birth.

That’s so very true. It’s a grief that’s hard to talk about. Hard to define. The loss of your child’s future. Of who you thought they would be.

I remember the moment I had to start letting go of the future I imagined for my son. We’d just finished his final autism evaluation. I’d been through it with my oldest and they’d said ‘developmental delay’. But I remember knowing, even as I dug in and denied it, that wasn’t what they were going to say to me after Danger Boy’s eval.

He hadn’t looked at them through the whole process. Hadn’t played with any of the toys. I remember letting them out the door and watching the therapists drive away. And then I sat on the floor with my two year old boy and held him while I cried. And cried and cried. Nobody saw that. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone (and now I’ve told everyone! hi!).

All I could think of was: He won’t be able to have the job I thought he’d have. Will he get married? Will he have children? Will he be happy? Will he ever look at me? Will he talk?

I don’t know the answer to all of those questions yet. Yes, he looks at me. He talks quite a lot now at five, but other questions? I don’t know the answers to them.

Then a couple of years ago a man I’d been friends with in high school developed a mental illness. His marriage fell apart. He lost his job.

And I remember thinking: you never would have known that’s what the future had in store for him.

Yes, that’s a little depressing, but I turned that over and I looked at my son. My son who I worry about so very much. Who I’m afraid won’t have that future I envision, that future that is, in my mind, the perfect future, and I realize nobody has a guarantee.

A more positive spin on that is that I didn’t know I’d be a romance writer. Not in the least! I didn’t imagine falling in love and marrying at nineteen. I know for a fact it’s not what my parents thought I would do. But I did, and for me, it was the perfect future. But it’s not the one they imagined. And it’s okay.

I look at my son, or at people going through the store with their typically developed children and I get angry sometimes. At the world. At that adorable child who points and says ‘mama look!’ because my son can’t. And I mourn the future again.

Then I remind myself that I have to take it a day at a time. Even if my son were a typical child, (whatever that means) I wouldn’t really know his future. And I don’t know it now. And that’s okay. I’m free to love him today, I can hold him, he’s here with me. He hasn’t ‘lost’ anything, and neither have I.

He’s meant for something great, I believe that with all of my heart. And that greatness may not lie in a future that *I* would consider perfect. But that doesn’t mean it’s not perfect for him.

Saying goodbye to the those future dreams is hard. But they’re an illusion. The child that I have now is real, and that’s where my focus needs to be.

There are no guarantees. But there is today. Today I can hold my son. Today I can kiss him. Today he might say a new word. And if I let the future fall away, I can truly enjoy those moments.

What One Mother Has Learned About Grief and Loss

This month at Peanut Butter on the Keyboard, we’re talking about moms and loss and the grief that comes with it. But that’s not a bad thing or a sad thing.

It’s ironic, really, that talking about loss and grief can actually be uplifting. After reading Ellie’s poignant posts about her miscarriages, I felt so inspired. I want to be a coffee bean like Ellie. How can I give? How can I change the world through what I’ve learned? And same with Robyn’s post on having polycystic ovarian syndrome…she’s created such a good life in spite of her infertility. She’s an awesome mom, and she won’t let any sense of loss or grief deny her the joy she finds in her family.

As I was contemplating my own journey as a mom who’s experienced loss, I sat and tried to hold it close so I could write about it easier. But I’m having a hard time doing that…reliving the intensity of the anguish of expectations that didn’t come true. And I’m kind of glad. I’ve experienced a ton of loss as a mom–and terrible, wretched grief about it. But I’m at a new place. And it’s a place with a lot less fear because I already know the ending. That’s the beauty of becoming an older mom, I suppose. I already know that whatever happens to my children and to me as their mother, the love is there. It won’t die. It will be stronger than ever. Good will win.

In the long, long run, good always wins. I think that’s the most profound thing a person can learn, and I learned it through my experience as a mother.

I think back on the last 21 years—that’s how long I’ve had my son with mild Asperger’s Syndrome–and it’s been a real odyssey. I was afraid Nighthawk (that’s what I call him on this forum) would be ostracized as a child and a teen. Well, sometimes he was. I was afraid he’d be depressed about that. Yep—occasionally, he was! And I was afraid he’d be lonely, confused, and scared. Well, gosh darn it, he certainly was all three, many times.

The grief you feel as a mom to see your child hurting is excruciating, and I hid the depth of mine from everyone for so many years. What else can you do but move past all the incidents of hurt? You have to keep going. But I remember one particularly bad time when we were visiting friends in Spain. It was our last night there. Nighthawk was a teenager and his American cousin, a boy the same age as Nighthawk, was quietly invited over to a Spanish girl’s house—probably for a romantic goodbye–and Nighthawk was not, although he was her friend, too. He was visibly upset, both sad and angry. Usually, you hide when you’re hurt, especially in front of people you don’t know well, but Nighthawk didn’t. My brother took him aside and tried to explain to him the concept of being a “wingman:” yes, guys stick together, but if a special girl one of them likes enters the picture, the other guy understands and gladly steps back.

I tried to intervene, too, but there’s only so much a mom can do. It’s really up to your child to figure it out for himself. So while I watched Nighthawk try to process what had happened, I got through the rest of the awkward dinner with our Spanish friends with dignity and good cheer. I was a guest in this country, and I owed them that.

Even as I went back to my hotel with my sister, who was my roomie, I acted as if the hurt hadn’t happened. I pretended along with her that it was a beautiful night in a charming town in Spain. How often would experiences like this come along? She thought it was a kindness to me to forget the incident at dinner, so we tried for normalcy back at the room, laughing and talking, happy to be two sisters having a European adventure.

But I couldn’t sleep. I remember sitting up in bed and saying something like this to her: “What happened to Nighthawk was so painful to watch. And I’m tired of everyone just acting as if everything’s okay around me for the sake of moving on. My grief is real. I’ve been pretending for 17 years that I’m okay. But I’m not. And I’m scared that the hurt will never stop, for him or for me. I wonder how we’ll endure.”

That moment was a turning point for me. My despair, my sadness, all had its roots in being afraid. I wasn’t sure that I could handle the truth.

But here is that truth: my son wears his heart on his sleeve. He doesn’t have the instinctive social filter he needs to protect himself. He’s not sophisticated and never will be. He’s smart, though, and through a lot of practice, he can learn to navigate the world. He’s come such a long way already—he’s a junior in college now, he speaks several languages, he has friends and a part-time job. Embittered people sometimes use his vulnerability to entertain themselves. The kind ones are wonderful—helpful, friendly, and loving. But Nighthawk won’t always be around kind people. Perhaps more than the average Joe, he may get hurt, over and over, for the rest of his life.

This is not what I wanted for my boy when I birthed him.

When you’re low—truly low—you have two choices: to actually embrace what scares you or to hide from it. If you choose the former, you choose to live. If you choose the latter, you die inside.

And when you choose to live your truth, the big miracle is that strength and peace just come. In abundance! Some people call it grace. Some call it God. All I know is that since that night in Spain, I am living wholly. And those fears I faced—aloud in the presence of my sister—lost their power.

Those damned expectations I had the day I held Nighthawk in my arms for the first time as a newborn baby…well, they were phantom dreams that held me back from living my real life. They kept me from seeing vividly, every day, that I can celebrate the fact that my son is living his truth with courage, humor, and compassion. He’s a walking testament to the power of love and what it can do in a person’s life.

So this is why I’m in a new place. Sure, I know bad things can happen to Nighthawk, to me, to my family, my friends, and to the world. But I’ve experienced utter despair. I have used that power in me—whatever you want to call it–to stare down the fear, to somehow turn myself, despite all odds—like a rusty, stripped screw–from denial to reality.

And each day, I remind myself that the power that turned me is there. I call it Love. It’s truth and grace and God…it’s all that’s left in us when we think we’re empty. So in a way, I’m glad I’ve been reduced. I’m glad I know pain. I’m blessed to be the mother of Nighthawk, and I wouldn’t change a single bit of our path. To be fully alive, you have to be where you are. Not settling—no, indeed, we must fight hard sometimes to make things right—but having faith that truth will lead us to the place of peace and power inside us that allows us not only to survive but thrive.

That’s all I have to offer the world. That’s me being a coffee bean. I hope I’ve brought you hope—the way Ellie and Robyn have brought me hope. We’re meant to share it.

Every mom has had to witness her child’s pain. We tend to make it our own, don’t we? And every mother deals with expectations that didn’t come true. I’d love to know how you handle yours, if you’re willing to share. XOXO

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Hi, I’m Kieran. My family loves music and anything that makes us laugh out loud. Along with Chuck, my husband of 23 years, I try to teach our kids that we have to actively choose happiness–and if I accomplish nothing else as a mom but pass that one lesson along to them, then I think I’ve done my job.

My oldest guy, Nighthawk, was diagnosed in kindergarten with Asperger’s syndrome, and now he’s a junior in college; his sister Indie Girl, who’s younger by 16 months, is a college sophomore; and my youngest, Dragon, is in ninth grade. For our family, it’s about managing your weaknesses and wringing everything you can get out of your strengths. And along the way, finding joy.

www.kierankramerbooks.com

My Family Doesn’t Look Like Your Family

Or hey, maybe it does! But it doesn’t look like everyone’s. It’s not normal. But then, what is normal, right?

This idea of normal and the fact that I don’t seem to fit into it, used to bother me a little bit. I mean, I didn’t think it did, but…what other people thought was more of a concern than it should be.

January 1st marks the beginning of a new chapter in my family. My husband is quitting his job. I’m going to be the primary earner. Well…basically the sole earner.

We reached the point a few months ago where we saw this coming. The fact of the matter is, it makes sense for us. With two jobs, our schedule is insane. Neither of us are ever caught up, we never see each other. One of us is always working. A nanny or babysitter, while not simple for anyone, is especially complicated for us because we have one boy with autism and one with ADHD. And of the two jobs, mine is the better job.

So, we came to this point. And as we were discussing it, what other people might thing came up. Heck, there were people who offered opinions. People who were concerned my husband wouldn’t feel valuable. That we wouldn’t be portraying a good family model for our kids.

That kind of stuff is a little demoralizing, and yeah, you start to question your decisions.

And then we both kind of went: Wait…WHAT?

Our situation is not everyone else’s situation. No one else has to deal with our schedule, no one else has our kids. We’ve been blessed, I think exceedingly so, with the things we have. And one of those blessings is my career.

There came a point when I realized, I think part of the reason life is so insane, part of the reason we we’re keeping it this way, is for the sake of other people. That makes…no sense.

My family is mine. They are different. Our situation is different. But truly, isn’t everyone’s?

Ultimately the happiness and health of your family is SO MUCH MORE IMPORTANT than looking normal (whatever that is).

I know it’s hard for some people to understand. I know I’ll feel the need to justify the fact that my husband is a stay at home dad. I know sometimes people will make me feel like I’m not doing ‘my job’ and he’s not doing his. But hey, don’t people do that no matter what you do?

I can’t express how much freedom I’ve found over the past month or two just embracing the fact that my family isn’t normal. My family is the Yates family. We only have to look like us. We only have to function for us.

I mean, for heaven’s sake, we’re a bi-racial couple with three kids, two with special needs, my husband was raised on a school bus and I’m a romance writer. We never had much hope of looking normal, but we have every hope of being happy.

And that’s all that matters.

So, this is my battle cry, for you and for everyone: Be happy. Don’t worry about what anyone else things. Make your family work for you.

I’m really looking forward to this next phase of our adventure. Our family doesn’t look like everyone else’s family, but it looks pretty perfect to me.

Some Days I Don’t Want to Talk About It

Danger is almost five now, which means his delays are becoming a lot more obvious. When a two year old won’t answer your questions, you write it off. When a five year old won’t…well…

This is ushering in a new and interesting phase of The Autism Challenge.

I live in a small town, and I love it. People are friendly, they talk to you. Cashiers offer your kids stickers. It’s great. But…

But there’s Danger.

People in line try to talk to him, and he doesn’t talk back. The cashier tried to give him a sticker, and he doesn’t look. They want to know why he’s not potty trained yet when I take him to church (we’re actually making progress on that front!) people stare when he makes his happy noises.

And I have to answer. “He can’t tell you his name.” “Sorry, he probably can’t answer. He has autism.”

I didn’t consider this part of the equation. I’m sort of used to him (except the wandering…that I could do without, but that’s a whole other post…) and when he makes a triumph at home, we all understand it, because we know what he’s working with. We get excited when he points to something and says ‘this!’ because that’s progress and it’s amazing.

The outside world doesn’t understand that as progress for a nearly five year old boy. As the well meaning pastor in the kid’s wing at church said regarding the potty training: I’m sure you’re working on it.

And I wanted to yell at him. I WANT THE CHILD TO LEARN TO SAY WORDS. I WANT HIM TO LOOK ME IN THE EYES. POTTY TRAINING BE DARNED!!

But the outside world only understand how kids are ‘supposed’ to develop. When we go out there, we’re working with a deficit in their eyes. Not like here, where a two word sentence is the best thing ever.

But when we go somewhere, that’s not the case. People don’t see what he can do. They see what he can’t do.

And you get the people who don’t want to believe you when you say he has autism. “Is he a younger sibling? His brother probably talks for him.” (Yeah, well, except his brother had a horrible speech delay and didn’t speak until three…) Or I get looks of wide-eyed sympathy and questions like ‘do you think he’ll ever be able to live on his own?’

Well, gee, I don’t know. He’s five. Does it seem like your five year old can live on his own right now? No, it doesn’t seem like it. But in twenty years? Who knows.

These people are well-meaning. They certainly don’t mean me any harm, but some days…I don’t want to talk about it. And it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to NOT talk about it when I go out with him. I find myself staying home more. I can’t go to play date things because of the wandering…and if I did? Well, we’d still end up talking about it.

I’m aware this post has a certain bit of irony to it, since I’m talking about it. But then…sometimes you HAVE to talk about it. Or at least be honest about the way it affects your life.

I think the hardest part of it is knowing people look at your child and see what he lacks. He’s the most beautiful boy. He doesn’t deserve for people to see what he can’t do. The autism of course helps insulate HIM from those concerns…but not me.

This is a new phase we’re in, one I’ll do doubt get used to. But it’s one I didn’t really anticipate. One where your personal struggles, your life, feels more exposed to everyone you come into contact with.

Have you run into stages like this? With special needs or typical kids? Where you felt like you were, for some reason, more prone to stranger comments?

And on a completely different note…

A blogger friend of mine is supporting Charity:Water this holiday season. Right now, she’s doing a comment drive. People have pledged to donate money, just for your comments! Here are some of the offers:

• Limecello is going to give $300 if they reach 1,000 comments.
• Cecilia Grant will give $1 per comment up to 100 comments
• The Romance Manwill give $50 when we reach 250 comments will match Limecello’s $300 if we get to 1,000 comments!!!
• C2 will give $150 when they reach 500 comments
• Farrah Rochon will give $10 for every 100 comments

So please, go, comment and find out more about Charity:Water and what you can do!

In the Forest

Note: I wrote this blog shortly after being traumatized a bit. I want to post it still because it was a really honest reaction to what I was/am going through, and I want people in similar situations to know, you aren’t alone. But I wanted to add a note to let you all know I’m feeling better now.

This wasn’t the blog post I was going to write. Not even close. In the past month we’ve been on vacation, moved, gotten a dog, I’ve signed with a second publisher been to RWA…it’s been a huge thirty days. I was going to talk about change.

Now I’m going to talk about things not changing enough.

It’s especially ironic considering my last post, but I think that’s parenting in a nutshell. The feelings are different every day.

Today I feel like I’m in the woods. I know they end somewhere. But I don’t know where. I thought I was closer than I am. I can’t go back, the option isn’t there. And I wouldn’t. Except I just want to sit down and give up today.

We moved into our new house a week ago. The first thing we did was put chains on the doors. Then we fenced the back yard. Why? Danger. Danger is an escape artist. He wanders. We thought we had it.

Tonight he unlocked his window and got out while I thought he was sleeping. We went to bring his dog to his room and he was gone. I’ve experienced this three times now. They have been the longest, most hellish moments of my life. I would go through unmedicated childbirth ten times over to never experience them again. To have avoided ever experiencing them. In those moments you realize how all those brilliant things that happened in the past thirty days mean nothing if that child isn’t coming home to you.

Thank God he was safe. Thank God.

I thought he’d progressed past this point. I thought he was progressing and I suppose he is, but it’s easy to let something like this steal that feeling. Like an alcoholic who loses their sobriety and has to start the count again. I’ve never seen him stim like he was tonight either. He was totally overdone.

Here’s the thing about parenting a special needs child: No one asks you if you’re up to the task. I’m not special. I’m not stronger than anyone else. But just like the mother of a typical child I love my son. More than myself. It’s the love that keeps me going. Without it, I would just be lost in the woods. As it is, I’m lost in the woods with that love pushing me forward.

Tonight I thought, I just don’t want to do this anymore. And then I thought WHY ME? And then I looked at him and thought, I love that kid. And so I keep going. Because I need to. Because I can’t do anything else. Because my son is precious to me beyond words. Because he’s brought me joy that surpasses the sorrow.

Maybe that sums up parenting for everyone. You will never know love so deep, joy so profound or sadness so intense as you do when you love a child. Adopted or biological, son, daughter, niece, nephew, grandson or granddaughter. Because they are in our care. Vulnerable to us.

And again, I wish I could see the edge of the forest so I’d know I was getting there. So I’d know I could make it through this okay. So I’d know I wouldn’t let him down. That I won’t let my other beautiful kids down either. But I don’t know. I can’t tell. So I keep walking. And I hope that love makes up for my missteps. I hope my kids’ guardian angels work extra vigilantly to cover where I fail. I pray that God is there to catch them when I don’t.

This isn’t the blog post I was going to write. But it’s the blog post I needed to write. Someday I’ll write a blog post about the shenanigans of our new golden retriever. Or about Diva picking grapes in the backyard. Or Drama and his impressive knowledge of geography. But today I had to write this. Right. *grabs walking stick* I’ve got to keep on hiking through now. I can’t see the end. But I hope love lights my way.

The Great Yates Disney Adventure

There have been a few times in my life that people have looked at me like I was insane. Okay, more than a few. I remember when I was pregnant with my second child and people would ask me, “How old is your oldest?” My reply of “He’s one.” was often met with a slack jawed stare and the question, “Was this one an accident?” My very confident. “No, we were trying to have him.” Was usually replied to with. “Are you nuts?” (would that I were making this up.)

Well, this happened to me again recently. “We’re going on a family vacation!” And the reply is of course. “What are you doing?” “Disneyland for four days!” And yes, I got that look again. Or a verbal, are you nuts!?

The Yates babies are currently 6, 4 and 2. Throw special needs into that mix and anywhere we go is nothing short of an epic production. In Target yesterday we were most certainly the center of attention, and that was not our intent. At least, it wasn’t mine.

So yes, taking them to Disneyland for four days, for our first family vacation was…maybe a little ambitious. But I am SO GLAD WE WENT.

I was talking to Danger’s therapists just before school let out, and I was telling them we planned on taking a Disney trip. I expected them to ask me if I was crazy. Disney is noise, and sounds (loud sounds!) and there’s no routine, and it’s basically just plain crazy. What I didn’t expect was for them to say…good.

But they did. They told me it might even be good for him to experience something totally different. And, my friends, it was. All of the kids loved it. Probably no one had more fun than Drama, the six year old. But Danger is the one who needed it most.

There was something about him being in that new environment. I found out things about him. Things he could do that I never would have imagined he could. Things he liked that I wouldn’t have imagined he would like.

Danger loves roller coasters, it turns out. He’s less thrilled about animatronic pirates, even when one favors Johnny Depp. He also FINALLY went in the potty while we were at Disney and now I know he understands when I tell him to do it at home! (I’m sure he didn’t mean to betray this bit of information, but he did!) My husband took him into the bathroom and he said, “you can go back to the roller coaster after you go potty.” Uh, yeah, guess what he did effortlessly a few moments later?

And we could see the fireworks from our hotel room. And it was the coolest thing. My oldest and youngest were ooohing and ahing and Danger said “FIREWORKS!” Yep. And then he oohed and ahed with the rest of the kids. There’s a point to all this, other than just to say we had a blast and my kids are adorable.

If we listened to other people, we might not have gone. If we would have let all the what-ifs stop us, we wouldn’t have gone. But we took a chance. And I’m glad we did.

One of the things I noticed about Disney was how many families with handicapped family members were there. And they were having fun. It’s easy to think, at least it was for me, that your life will be limited by having a special needs member in your family. And yes, there are those who have children with more severe handicaps than I have, and yes, there are limitations that can’t be helped, but in this case, it didn’t prove true for me.

A few years ago I might have said, oh, we won’t get to do family vacations like a normal family. But we did. And it was all the sweeter because of our Danger. I’m glad we went. I’m glad we pushed him, and us outside of our comfort zone. It was totally worth it.

Do you have any family vacations stories? Good or bad?

In Denial About Summer

I kind of hate summer. There, I said it. Summer does not make me happy. Maybe if I lived some place lovely where summer meant 75 degree days and afternoon rain showers. But no, I live in Dallas where it gets so hot that you can hardly bear to be inside with your overworked air conditioning (which can never keep up), much less actually venture outside into the 100+ degree oven daily. And it is just not natural for it to still be 95 degrees at midnight. Seriously.

But now I have an added thing to make me dread summer. Lack of school for kidlet. Up until last summer he’s been in part-time daycare. So it didn’t matter when summer came because his schedule stayed the same. But now that he’s going to the special preschool program with the school district, that program ends just like all the others for summer. And since he’s still not potty-trained at four (please God, let this click soon), that means daycares now won’t take him and summer camps are out. So our only option is a drop in daycare that we use on occasion. I like the place, but it’s limited and he’s going to get bored if he goes there too much.

But mommy (that’d be me) has to write a novella and full novel by the end of October. And there’s no way I’m going to get all that done without some kidlet free work time. So basically, I’m in denial. I’m refusing to even think about the long days of trying to keep a very active, very intense child busy.

So I’m appealing to you moms out there. What are some activities you use to keep your little ones busy during the summer that give you a little bit of quiet time in the process? And am I the only one with her head in the sand about summer?

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I’m Roni Loren, or as I’m called ‘round these parts, No Drama Mama. I’ve been married for ten years and have a four-year old son, who has recently been diagnosed with high-functioning autism. My days are spent writing very sexy romances (my PC way of saying erotic),avoiding all things housework, and hanging out with a kidlet who I suspect is vastly smarter than I am. I secretly dream of having a life that looks like the pages of Real Simple magazine, but would settle for Sorta Decent if could get there. My daily goal is to keep the drama on the pages of my books and out of my life–I’m successful at least twenty percent of the time. www.roniloren.com

The Polite Child Faces the World of Rudeness

So one of the jobs of a parent is to teach your children social norms, how to interact with society, and hopefully, how to be polite and friendly person. And having a child with autism means this is an even bigger focus for my household because my kidlet doesn’t have that finely tuned sensor that picks up those social cues like a “typical” child would. So we work with my son on learning how to engage people, how to have a give and take conversation, and what things could be considered rude. It’s a painstaking process at times.

However, earlier this week I had to bring him to school instead of him riding the bus because they were going on a special field trip. And as I was waiting outside with him, other kids were streaming into the school for their normal day. Well, my dear kidlet saw a little boy walk by who looked to be kindergarten age–so probably a year older than him. And kidlet perked up and said, “Hi! How are you?” And I’m thinking–well, look at that, my son is reaching out and engaging a child. Score!

But then the kid turned his head and gave my kidlet this snotty, what’s-your-problem look. Of course, kidlet didn’t register that reaction. He just smiled and waved at the boy.

Then, not thirty seconds later, another boy–probably eight–pulled onto the sidewalk on his bike. Kidlet–always one to be excited by the simplest things–said, “Wow, I like that bike!”  The kid rolled his eyes and said in a sarcastic tone, “Whatever. That was so three weeks ago.”

My jaw probably hit the grass. I kinda wanted to trip the kid right off that damn bike. He was old enough to see the child talking to him was all of four. And I was standing right there, holding kidlet’s hand.

And that’s when reality truly sank in–the world, especially in kid land, is mean and cruel. I’m trying to teach kidlet “social norms” but what if social norms mean being a bratty jerk? Here kidlet is being innocent and trying to practice what mommy and daddy are telling him are the “nice” things to do, and he’s shot down or ignored over and over again. It breaks my heart a little each time. I know it’s part of the deal. Kids certainly weren’t nice all the time in my childhood either. But it seems it’s only getting worse. Now they don’t even seem to keep it in check around adults.

It’s ugly and it’s sad. And it makes me want to build a cocoon around my sweet, innocent boy even though I know that’s not realistic or preparing him for the world at large. But knowing that he has deficits in those social areas makes me worry even more for him. He doesn’t have the tools to defend himself right now and probably won’t for a while–if ever. It’s like being thrown into war with a toothbrush when everyone else has machine guns.

But despite all that and all my worries, I have to say, I’m glad I have the polite child even if it come with lots of challenges. He may be an anomaly amongst his “normal” peers, but that doesn’t make the other kids behaviors the right ones. A lot of them could learn something from him.

*end rant*

I really did want to trip that kid.

How do you handle it when your child is picked on or other children shut them out? What social norms do you try to instill in your own children?

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I’m Roni Loren, or as I’m called ‘round these parts, No Drama Mama. I’ve been married for ten years and have a four-year old son, who has recently been diagnosed with high-functioning autism. My days are spent writing very sexy romances (my PC way of saying erotic),avoiding all things housework, and hanging out with a kidlet who I suspect is vastly smarter than I am. I secretly dream of having a life that looks like the pages of Real Simple magazine, but would settle for Sorta Decent if could get there. My daily goal is to keep the drama on the pages of my books and out of my life–I’m successful at least twenty percent of the time. www.roniloren.com

Autism Awareness

I wasn’t going to come right out of the gate with a Heavy Autism Post, but yesterday was World Autism Awareness day, and April is Autism Awareness month. That means I can’t pass up the chance to talk about autism, and what it’s meant to me and to my family.

Our middle son, who I call Danger online, was first diagnosed as ‘showing characteristics consistent with children who have mild or moderate autism’ (nice, right?) when he was two. Because we’d already gone through the evaluation process with our oldest son (who was diagnosed with a developmental delay, which has morphed into an ADHD diagnosis) we were faster on the mark with our second son.

Actually, the day I sold my first book to Harlequin, we were enrolling our oldest, Drama, into a special preschool, and starting Danger on his evaluations to try and determine whether or not he had autism. (I was also due to give birth in three weeks. Interesting times!)

There is nothing that scared me more than hearing those words. Than hearing that my son was very likely autistic. It was actually something I’d been afraid of before having kids. What if I had one who had autism? What would I do? The first time they came to see him, and they came back with the statement that he met the criteria for therapy I sat on the floor with him and cried. I felt like everything had changed.

And then I realized something, as I sat there, holding him. Nothing had changed. My son was the same boy he’d been before they told me he likely had autism. I still loved him. I couldn’t love him any more. He’s the same miracle. The same amazing person. What they had given me with that diagnosis was a key. A key to unlocking him. To figuring out what he needed, how to give him therapy, how to help him succeed.

My perspective changed in that moment. (And every so often, I have to remind myself of this. Like everything in life, it’s a process.)

Having a child with special needs has changed me. It’s made me more protective, it’s made me stronger. It’s made me value every day, every milestone. Every word that comes out of his mouth.

He’s four now, and until a couple of months was mainly non-verbal. Suddenly, it’s easy for him to say “I want this.” Or, when my dad came to visit the other day, he took my dad’s hand and said “Come on!” Yesterday, in the store, he pointed and said “Apples” when he wanted an apple.

THAT IS AMAZING.

And some days, I feel blessed. Because those moments are miracles. Every step forward is so valued, so incredible, and I feel the full impact of that. When I see someone shouting at their children in the store, telling them not to talk so much, telling them to JUST BE QUIET, I wish they understood that words are a gift. That being able to speak your thoughts and express yourself through language isn’t something everyone has, and that the ability to do is a spectacular blessing and achievement. That every word spoken by my son is a hard won battle. That it’s  moment of perfect beauty and triumph. I feel blessed to understand that. (That’s not to say my kids’ volume level doesn’t occasionally drive me crazy, again, it’s a process.)

And sometimes, when I see a child who points at something easily and says “Look at that.” I hurt inside. I wonder why my son can’t do that. I get angry that things are so hard for him. That things are so hard for me.

It’s easy to worry. To wonder where he’ll be in five years. Or ten. Or twenty. That’s another of the many lessons I’ve learned from my Danger Baby. I’ve learned that every day is new, and every day is precious, and that the achievements of the day should be celebrated. Because two days ago, he hadn’t spontaneously pointed to an object and asked for it verbally. And yesterday he did. And today is filled with even more possibilities and miracles that need to be celebrated. If I’m too busy worrying about the years to come, I might miss the magnitude of the moment I’m in. And that goes for so many things in life, and not just dealing with autism.

My son is NOT autism. He is not a mistake. He is fearfully and wonderfully made. He will develop at a different rate than other children. He deserves love, and understanding and respect. He is unique, and he deserves to have that uniqueness celebrated. He is a gift, he is not a burden. He has a purpose.

Which is true of every single one of our kids, no matter what.

I want to share this song from Sesame Street. Danger learned how to sing it (in the way that he does) and it makes me cry every time. Because it’s just so true.

 

 

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 Maisey Yates is a USA Today Bestselling author of sexy, angsty, funny romances and a terrible housekeeper. When she’s not writing books, you can find her reading them. If you CAN find her beneath the massive pile of unfolded laundry. Maisey has three kids (5, 4, & 2) one husband (who is a much better housekeeper than she is) and not a single dull moment. You can find her on twitter, Facebook and her website.

Love Yourselves, Moms!

Hi, I’m Merry Mama! And I’m so glad to join the Peanut Butter ladies, writers who are equally passionate about their roles as moms.

We want our daughters to grow up proud of who they are, right? Comfortable in their own skins, strong, compassionate, and full of joy. But you know the pressures on girls. It’s so intense that you can never start too early building them up.

So how do you do that when they’re little?

As a mom with a college-age daughter, I have one piece of advice to offer. It sounds counterintuitive because we’re all about giving as moms–thinking of everyone but ourselves. But my advice is this: Love yourselves.

I thought I had done a wonderful job of supporting our daughter, Indie Girl. She was truly happy and vibrant. I encouraged her to be strong and use her voice. But when she became a junior in high school, she succumbed to an eating disorder.

There are all sorts of factors that go into creating the perfect storm of an eating disorder. I won’t blame myself for not stopping it from happening, but I do believe that I could have done a better job of showing her by example that a woman must love herself.  A woman who loves herself can withstand those hurricane-force demands that come in every woman’s life: the pressures to be thin, perfect, beautiful, etc.

Those two years were the scariest our family had ever been through. Thankfully, Indie Girl was never hospitalized and is now fully recovered: a happy, healthy college freshman whose goal is to help other girls avoid the hell she went through.  She’s stronger than ever, more self-aware than ever, and best of all, she’s learned to forgive herself for not being perfect. She’ll have to remember that lesson the rest of her life so she won’t fall into the trap of an eating disorder again.

Moms, have you forgiven yourself for not being perfect? Or do you still, as a woman and a mom, walk around believing that your imperfections make you unworthy of love? Of acceptance? Of success? Of speaking up in your true voice?

When your toddler tells you you’re beautiful or perfect, do you believe him or her?

You should.  Because children, who look at us through the eyes of love–which is the clearest vision of all—are right. We are beautiful, we are perfect…just the way we are. Kids can get confused when they witness parents who obviously don’t love themselves wholly.  Girls who see mothers putting themselves down, even in jest, learn that the world’s view of who they are is more important than their own perception.

If I could do anything differently as a mother, especially as the mother of a girl, it would be to have learned to love myself completely sooner in life.  I was never a mom who talked incessantly about my fat thighs or big butt or flabby stomach, but I had my moments. Sure, I did. I think more often, though, I expressed disappointment in myself, or showed a lack of belief in myself, that my daughter picked up on—even as I was teaching her (and I thought I was doing it so well!) that she should believe in herself.

But it’s not enough. You have to believe it for yourself, too, ladies.

So lay aside those self-deprecating remarks. Do whatever you have to do to believe that love makes you beautiful, inside and out–even if you have to go to therapy or walk through fire. Truly the best thing we can do for our daughters is to love ourselves, to believe that we’re worthy of happiness. Of success. Of speaking in our true voices, without shame, without fear.

If we want the same for our girls, we must show them the way.

You ROCK, fellow moms! Say it here! Feel free to write a self-affirmation in the comments section or anything else you’d like to express.  And thanks for joining me today!

Kieran Kramer, Merry Mama

Hi, I’m Kieran. My family loves music and anything that makes us laugh out loud. I try to teach my kids that we have to actively choose happiness–and if I accomplish nothing else as a mom but pass that one lesson along to them, then I think I’ve done my job.

My oldest guy, Dragon, was diagnosed in kindergarten with Asperger’s syndrome, and now he’s a sophomore in college; his sister Indie Girl, who’s younger by 16 months, is a college freshman; and my youngest, Nighthawk, is in eighth grade. My kids are compassionate, smart, fun, and funny people–and they turned out that way even though I wasn’t June Cleaver. I lose my keys all the time. I stare into the fridge and wonder what’s for dinner in half an hour and then remember I have to cook it. I double-book things a lot because I have three ways to make appointments (phone, purse calendar, and kitchen calendar) and haven’t yet worked out a great system for streamlining them. I don’t know how I managed to write a book, much less five now. But for me and my kids, it’s about managing your weaknesses and wringing everything you can get out of your strengths. And along the way, finding joy.

www.kierankramerbooks.com