Dolls, boys, and a momma who Believes in her kids

Noah has been wanting his own "boy" doll since he was 5 years old. I feel bad it has taken me 3 years to find him one. To actually follow through. But. Hey! I did it. Although my options were next to NONE.

Either I order an 18 inch girl doll and cut her hair and get her some new clothes. .. or... or what? It took me some serious searching to find a website that makes 18 inch boy dolls. I thought it was kind of neat that the dolls are created to help others better understand disabilities. How fitting, you know, in our family? I was a bit disappointed though. They are not as cute as I had hoped. There were not a lot of skin/eye/hair combinations to choose from. I did decide on one with blonde hair and blue eyes though. Yes, I could have MADE him a doll by altering a used American Girl doll or Madame Alexander doll, but I REALLY want him to receive his special doll all in its packaging, in a cardboard and plastic windowed box. Like the gazillion dolls that Emma has received. There is something about unwrapping a new doll and admiring it through the box, then tearing the box open to free your new friend!

Some *assholes* might think or say, "Why the hell would you want your boy to play with a doll?"

Because he always has. Now, this Christmas, he can have one of his own. Not just another stuffed animal or rag doll, but a doll like his sister's! And it will look like him! A little buddy he can cart around to build Lego houses with, to sit next to him while he fights off Creepers in the endless game of Minecraft, a pal to tuck in at night and read to.

Yeah, I got his new doll a bunk bed too and some cute sheets. :-)

I can't wait for Christmas ;-)

all the boxes stored in her head

Music. I CONSTANTLY have song lyrics in my head. Songs are my heartbeat, the center of my soul. I blurt out lyrics in response to what a person is saying to me, if their words strike a chord, if you will, with some song I have stored away in that wacky file box in my mind. Envision it if you would-- the hallways in my head are pristine. Your heels click, click, click on the tile. Aren't you wearing heels? Shit. Well, you are. I say you are. After all, you're in my head. The lights are fluorescent. There are so many doors though. You can hear a child's laughter behind one. A grown woman sobbing behind another. You dare to open a different door. It's a bit dark in here, so you flip the switch. Stacks and stacks of file boxes. A few boxes look as if they'll topple at any moment.You open the box closest to you, and you are amazed. What you thought would be yellowed papers, the corners curling, receipts?, a life's worth of insurance documents?, isn't paper at all. Music, so much music. You look closer at the label on the side of the box:late 80s it reads. My goodness! She's stored every single song, commercial jingle, television show theme, that she's ever heard. Impressive, isn't it?

poems in the rain

"rainy afternoon leaving the doctor's office"

under an umbrella
they walked
daughter
mother
mother stops. says
"wait. ive got a poem in my head dear girl. let me think it."
daughter asks
"does it go like this?
'we are hungry. where is food?'"
mother laughs

walking through her meltdown #autism #sensory overload #spoons

Walking through a meltdown (one kind):
If I had my phone I'd make a meme! But imagine you're in a body whose brain is wired a bit differently. Imagine you've been studying, and practicing, and being told for a week how quiet you need to be on a trip. It's somewhere you really really want to go. You've just discovered it's definitely a new interest. You are so so so excited! You cry a little the morning of because you are confused about the itinerary. You thought a judge would serve you lunch and you would stay all day! Mom shows you the permission slip that states that lunch is at school. You are sad but seem to recover. You get there, and everything goes great! You've really held it together SINCE 6AM! AND you haven't been feeling so great but don't tell your mom, or you tell someone at school but mom doesn't know right away. So, after lunchtime, you are DONE. you've been so well behaved. And this took every little bit of energy you have. You saved up your "spoons," you've been collecting them for days! Oh no. They're all gone! You're going to do the only thing you know how to do: you're going to shout! You're going to laugh like nothing they've ever heard before! You're going to flail! And hit! Someone rescues you with that tight compression hug you need. You wish you could say Thank You. It feels so good. And Thank You for getting me to the therapy swing. You don't even remember walking here. You have calmed. Your senses have restored. But, oh, you are so tired. Can they even imagine how tired? You come home. Mom tries to make you laugh. You do five math problems for her. Is that enough? You just put your head down. Oh, thank God, she is closing the curtains and covering me up! You don't care that it is only 3:30 in the afternoon. You sleep all night, into the morning when mom comes in at 6. You try to get ready for school, but you're just feeling off. You tell her you feel not so good. Oh! She gets it. Good. #autism

Oh, we heard you.

The plan was to take the kids to the Splash Park in town. The one that just so happens to be RIGHT next to the community pool. I went over the plan several times with both of my kids, but especially with Emma who has autism. She was a day away from turning 11 years old. She understood. Or so I thought.
She was so excited on the way there. Ecstatic really-- bubbly and happy. As soon as we arrived and sat down at an outdoor table to apply sunscreen,that all changed. The crying began. Through tears, she demanded we go to the pool. Emma sobbed. Asked, pleaded, whined. She screamed. She put her head on my shoulder. She never does that. I put my arm around her and quietly spoke in her ear, trying to calm her. I repeated our "plan" and explained again how we couldn't go to the pool that day. And I prayed that I could get her through this meltdown without us having to leave.
There was an elderly woman sitting on the opposite side at the table. When we got there to the park, I had asked if there was room for us. She said we could sit there. While Emma was screaming, our backs were to this woman, but I could hear her sighing. A LOT. Then I heard her speak to another woman who had just sat down, saying she wished all that crying would stop and she didn't want to hear it anymore. She said it a few times. I turned my head so I could make eye contact, and I asked her to please stop. I explained that Emma has autism and that she was upset. The older woman told Emma there was no good reason to cry and to look at all those "big kids" out there not throwing fits. Emma's yelling got louder then. I turned again to the woman and told her to stop-- that she was not helping and I can take care of my daughter. The woman CONTINUED to talk AT us, while I was whispering to Emma and trying to diffuse the situation. She went on and on about how my daughter needed to be a "big girl" and listen to her mother. I had had enough, so I turned again and not - so - politely hissed, "Zip it!" I made the motion of zipping my lips. That finally did it. No more commentary.
My daughter wasn't being a brat. She was having a lot of trouble with reasoning. In her mind she NEEDED to go on the diving board, and there was no other alternative. The plan? What plan? I knew how to handle it.
Her meltdown subsided a bit later and she was able to have some fun with her younger brother and the little girl I babysit. One kind woman struck up a conversation with me. I was grateful for that. For her making me feel like we weren't lepers. All other eyes were trying not to stare.
It had been a long time since we had run into a person being openly rude, especially one so vocal. I understand the woman was of an "older" generation and a certain mindset of how children should behave. But the comments were unnecessary. Her opinions were best kept to herself. She did not know us. I told her to STOP several times.
That day still plays in my head. And it's hard for me to understand.
Strangers, if you see us out and about and Emma is having a meltdown, 1. Ask if you can help ME. I will be appreciative. 2. But if I say No Thank You, please try to understand and be respectful of that. 3. Don't stare. 4. Don't talk about us. We can hear you. 5. Don't judge. She is not a brat. And I'm not a bad mother.
Thank you.

do you hear what i hear?

Just a little insight into Sensory Processing Disorder and Auditory Processing Disorder, common occurrences with autism: earlier today Emma was in the living room, Noah in his room, and I was one room over in the laundry room. Noah said to me, in a voice just above normal, "I love you!" About a full 60 seconds Emma started screaming. She was panicked. She yelled, "Who's talking in my ear?! Who said 'I love you' in my ear?!" I reassured her it was Noah who had said that to me.
I wanted to give you an understanding of how slowly she processes sounds at times and also how her brain is not telling her where the sound is coming from and is making it louder and extremely close to her. It becomes easier to see how one might feel scared and even a bit crazy if this is how you 'hear.'

learning to live without my Charlie

The yard was calling to me. I mowed, weeded, and mulched. Then sat down to watch four hummingbirds converge at the feeder. Someone was letting off fireworks in the east and the lightning bugs were out. I ignored my pounding allergy headache and enjoyed the slight evening breeze. With every step I took outside my heart ached. Charlie was always following me-- back and forth, back and forth-- as I made rows with the mower. I miss his green Grinch paws so much. I wished he was lying beside me at the patio out back as I rested... but I couldn't bear to sit out there. So I sat at the front of the house and was still, hoping for restoration of my heart and peace in my mind.