It’s her birthday next week. She’ll be eight. A little older, a little taller and a little more obviously behind her peers.
It’s not that she isn’t smart, you know. Maybe she’s not at grade-level, but I’m one teacher that will tell you that matters none at all.
The fact is, she is smart in so many ways. And I couldn’t be more proud.
It’s the social stuff that gets her. It’s so damn confusing for her, and her peers are getting less and less patient.
Don’t get me wrong, there are a core few that have the patience of Saints. These little ones will gently explain some very obscure playground rules to a very frustrated little girl. She'll rarely go with the flow, because the 'rules' likely sound 'all wrong' to her, and she'll let you know.
There are others, though; others that don’t have the patience and nor should they. They are just children, after all, and they are trying their best to navigate the complicated web of playground decree and they may not have time to explain its intricacies to Kate.
I can see them getting tired of her rigid moral code. I can see them scrunching their noses and deciding it might be ‘too much work’ to play with her.
That’s far harder to witness than a poor spelling test or lowered reading level.
Now, I know, I have friends who wish this was their problem. Friends who are working on toileting and self-harm. I want you to know that I fully appreciate that our concerns are not theirs and I am hopeful for them and grateful, too. There are never words to explain this divide because no one's worries need be diminished but let's be real. If you're working on toileting, than the playground is going to be a lot further down your list. I get that.
The social stuff is everything to us. Absolutely everything. The curriculum has it all wrong. A new generation of kids, kids like mine, are growing up unable to intuitively pick up on what the collective has deemed appropriate social behavior. These poor souls are left to work on numbers and letters and other such nonsense when they have yet to make a friend, accept an injustice or read an emotion on another’s face. How sad, that we are failing a whole demographic at once. How short-sighted of us.
I suppose, I’ll hop off the soapbox, for now. I know I have little authority to talk about much more than my own daughter’s experience. (But if you read me at all, you’ll know I often take liberties I shouldn’t).
Kate has made herself popular, among her school mates to some extent. She walks around with a Prince of a dog, a dog she considers her very best friend, after all, and her self-confidence has drawn many to her side. But these are friends of a superficial kind and she is growing older and yearning for more.
She deserves a meaningful peer connection and she is struggling to find that, right now.
I want to help her. Her team wants to help.
So we try with social thinking therapy, and speech therapy and occupational therapy, among other things.
And she’s come so far. She really has.
There are just times I can see her wishing she could find a way to fit into these strange and exclusive groups, with their unwritten rules and their pricey social memberships.
I can see it in her slumped shoulders, a posture she wasn’t capable of this time last year. I can see it in the way she is beginning to hang back. There was a time she would rush toward any time of potential fun.
Now, don’t be too sad for MIss Kate. She is quite fond of herself, and most times, considers these exclusions the loss of the group members that reject her and not her own.
I’m thankful for that.
It’s just that someday; she might see it a little differently, and those cracks are starting to show, and that is one of my greatest fears.
Happy Birthday my girl.
As always, if you'd like to send Kate a birthday card, you can forward it to:
27 Wellington Row
Saint John, NB
I know, I run on the angry side, anyway. Just this week I've been driven to irrational anger twice. Once when I saw a grown woman feed her husband from her plate, and then when I saw a car-dealership use the term 'lady-driven'. This is different though. This version of anger I am about to explain is a little more dangerous because someone is trying to fuck with our children and I don't have to tell you that WE won't have it.
There is an actual website, nay a movement, that is attempting to convince parents of children with autism to inject them with small doses of the vaccines they believe are the cause of autism in order to eradicate autism. It's as foolish as it sounds, I promise.
Now, you can go to that website and read until your blood boils but when it comes to something this dangerous I think we have a greater responsibility to do something about it. Tell everyone you know about these crazy assholes before they really cause some damage.
This pseudo-science fuckery is a dangerous propaganda that could reach some very afraid, and uninformed parents. These "Doctors" are masquerading as experts and it's up to us to call them out for their supreme bullshit.
I'm using this blog to share with as many people as I can, that this website and those like it, are formidable.
For the love of Jonas Salk (a REAL doctor, by the way), do not let these people infect our population with their bizarre methods and alarming disinformation.
And, furthermore, don't let some salesman pretend that a lady can't drive the shit out of any car she damn well pleases!
I suppose I could have written about this topic long ago. Maybe I did. I don’t have the energy to check back but if this is redundant, well, I don’t really care.
Autism and Getting Sick
It’s no secret that autism can be challenging for both the individual rocking the autism and their families. If you’ve read anything by me, you’ve seen me run the gamut of emotions surrounding autism, from ‘I hate you autism, you fickle bitch’, to ‘I love autism because it makes her who she is’, to ‘I was told there would be cake and this whole thing is bullshit’, so you won’t be surprised when I say something that might not be as kosher, as you’d like.
There are times when children with autism get sick (and in my experience, it is not often, because these children have a very high pain tolerance and manage to dodge much of the illnesses that afflict the rest of us) and when they are sick (not a serious illness, of course) they sort of “slow-down”, if you will, and frankly, there is a small part of us that might enjoy that, just a little.
Relax Margaret. I am NOT saying that I enjoy it when my child gets sick. In fact, Miss Kate just spent eight days with a fever that had her refusing to eat and it was one of the scariest times we’ve had with her.
I’m actually talking about those little ‘bugs’ that take us out for a day or two. The times when Kate has one of those, she actually moves at a “regular speed”, and likes to cuddle a little, and sometimes she slows down her manic speech patterns and can tell me something that happened to her. So, yeah, I enjoy those parts of it.
Maybe you still think I’ve crossed a line, so you can forward your hate mail directly to my ass because I don’t care.
It happened this weekend. I’ve been thinking we could go a little longer without her recognizing any sort of deficit or difference that would make her feel less than amazing. Our Kate, as many of you know, has a fairly strong self-esteem. She’ll be eight years old next month and for so long we laughed with her when she announced her superiority in topics like Ninja-fighting, cat-farming, masterpiece-painting and other number of things, to anyone that might listen. We revelled in her confidence because we knew she might someday be made to feel bad about all of things that make her so amazing. We knew that soon enough the world wouldn't let her hold onto that self-love as corny as it sounds.
It started with this simple sentence:
“One more time, Mama?”
Sounds harmless, I know, but when Kate says that little phrase to me or to anyone, it is really the first time in her eight years that she is noticing that she is not following along with the rest of us. By the time she decides to use this little phrase she has already asked you to repeat yourself enough times that she is tentative to ask again. This is new for Kate. The tentative bit, the nervous bit. She wants you to repeat yourself, but her hope is that you will say it again in a way she can understand this time and she won't have to keep asking. It is such a grown-up reaction and mixed with my pride at her maturity is the heartbreak that she might ever feel less than her perfect little self. Her little face, with its giant blue eyes and impossible blonde hair bears a look so unnatural to our Kate. It’s a combination of sadness and embarrassment and it's absolutely crushing.
Confusion is not new for Kate. Don’t get me wrong. It’s been the Hallmark of her version of autism for a very long time. Kate’s moments of confusion have, until now, been manifesting in anger at the other person or the situation because her confidence had not allowed her to believe she could be wrong, or lost. Her fortitude prevented her from accepting she was anything but top-shelf and we liked it that way. Sure, at times, those that didn’t know her might think she was due to be knocked down a few pegs, but I invite those people now to look into her eyes as she realizes for the first time that she is different and not everyone is going to be okay with that.
It’s a moment many parents of children with exceptional needs, will eventually go through. There will be some who reach it early, and some later, and some will wish this was their problem to have, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
So when she’s out and about and she says to you. “One more time?” please be patient and reassuring and help her understand because she’s working really hard to come to terms with her new reality and frankly, so are we.
If you like to color, or even if you don't (you're probably just not doing it right and I invite you come hang with me and do it with wine and friends and at least one great topic of conversation) Fantomorphia by Kerby Rosanes has got to be your next purchase.
I've been a long term fan of Kerby Rosanes insanely intricate illustrations, but now that I get to add my own touch with my favorite art supplies, I am am sold.
This may sound lame to you. but I have Friday night blocked out so I can spend a well-deserved hour (or two) with a bottle of Merlot and some new gel pens and you're all invited.
It’s been a long winter. A winter that’s refusing to recede to a muddy Spring and instead sends us Nor'easter after Nor'Easter to remind us who’s boss. We surrender, of course, but what else could we do. I suppose we could stand outside and yell ‘Screw You’’ at the sky or something of that nature but it would unlikely change our circumstances. So, instead, we Canadians settle in for the last ‘big one’.
It’s fine, really. It’s just fine!
Anyway, enough of that. I’m writing today because I fell apart, once again, after exiting the pediatrician's office and the saddest part of that sentence is that no one is surprised, least of all me.
You’ll be pleased to know that I made it to my van. It’s really the best place to cry. It’s the only time I am alone and if I put my sunglasses on the guy at the coffee drive through can hardly tell, or maybe he can and that’s why he keeps putting cream in my friggin’ coffee!.
Back to the van; Oh, if the airbags could talk, the story they would tell of an over-caffeinated, middle-aged mom, who alternates between loudly reliving her middle school years, loudly listening to The Cult, and crying into her steering wheel because parenting is a lot harder than everyone said it would be.
Now, I don’t mean to paint myself as a pathetic, blubbering parenting failure, because I also suck at other aspects of my life. Kidding, I kid! Relax. I have some things totally figured out; like how many episodes of Forensic Files I can fit in on any given evening or how to remember to compliment my husband’s cooking skills so he keeps preparing our amazing meals and I’ve even recently realized that painting, along with writing, are excellent ways to express myself because swearing at the sky wasn’t working for me.
That’s quite the useless preamble, isn’t it? After all, you come here to read my thoughts on autism and all things related and here I am spewing some confessions that you may or may not be interested in. Ah well, that’s the beauty of writing one’s own blog. I make the rules. Look at my lazy title, for example. And today, I feel like writing whatever crosses my mind as my fingers sweep across this keyboard. How is that different from any other day, you ask?
Fuck if I know.
The reason I opened this page on google docs today is because I spent the morning with Kate’s pediatrician. (Can anyone spell that right, first try? Sheesh). She’s joining the Co-Morbid club with a second diagnosis of ADHD. Neither Alex or I, were shocked, and it certainly doesn’t change our rock star little girl, at all, but there was something about discussing the things that are hard for Kate that got me. It’s never the label, or the potential medications or strategies or any of the good and helpful suggestions that we hear, that get stuck in my brain. It’s the fact that her Dad and I spent the better part of an hour describing how Kate has a hard time with this, and this and sometimes this and almost always this.
It hurts. It’s unnatural and the parents of kids with exceptional needs do it for a goddamn living.
I held it together, though. Until we walked out to the parking lot and parted ways and Alex, said “are you okay? Do you want to talk about anything before we head back to work?” And I with my Irish indignance, said “No, I’m fine. See you at supper.” And then I proceeded to walk back to my van and cry. I didn’t cry long, because I am an old pro now, sad as that may seem. I cried a little and then I drove with fogged up sunglasses back to work.
Before I made it to work I pulled into the grocery store and ran in and bought Kate a little Monster Truck toy she has been eyeing and I bought her sister some silly putty and I tucked them away in my purse like they are some sort of consolation prize for having an emotionally fluid mother.
I’ll give them their little prizes tonight and hug them extra hard because things are good and we are lucky and I’ll try and remember that even when James* puts cream in my coffee.
So, hey ADHD parents, and adults. Is there a secret word to join this club?
*Names have been changed to protect slack-ass drive-thru employees.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day and maybe my Irish blood has me boiling but I’m about to entertain you with some seriously lazy writing because I’m mad and I want to use all the swears.
My seven year old with autism is aggressively, and dangerously social. If you don’t know what that means, please let me clarify.
She’ll talk to anyone, anywhere about anything and she truly believes you’ll enjoy the interaction just as much as she does.
She’ll chat with her teacher, the lady in the grocery store, her Coach, the border guard, the gas station attendant and even the ex you’re trying to avoid in the grocery store.
She doesn’t understand this is not “normal”.
So when that little blonde spitfire repeatedly tries to engage you in conversation, your ass best take a minute out of your day and acknowledge her!
Sure, she may be about to remark about the size of your belly or the smell of your breath, but she she also might be about to describe, in painful detail, an episode of Power Rangers. Either way, you’re the Jesus grown-up and you need to check in with her to see what she has to say.
Not long ago, there was a time when she could not connect to anyone, and if you think I don’t rejoice every fucking time she makes a connection no matter how odd it may seem, you’d be wrong.
And furthermore, you DO NOT need to remind me that talking to strangers is dangerous. You just let me handle the weeding out of the assholes from the awesome fuckers like you, whom she relishes in chatting with.
Maybe I am asking too much. Maybe your day is far too busy to take thirty seconds to tell her your favourite superhero.
But here’s the thing.
I don’t care.
That’s my girl.
It’s your god damn pleasure to chat with her.
I've been a creator my whole life. I often think, "what can I make". And then with little skill and less money I go about creating something which usually finds its way to the garbage, eventually. I know I am not alone in this. Where are my crafty girls at?
There is something legitimately therapeutic about creating something, however. For most of my life, it's been for fun.; just another of my many expensive and messy hobbies, but lately, it's been more than that.
Lately, I find much solace in my 'art room'. I spend tens of dollars on art supplies and I turn on my favorite podcast "my favorite murder", of course (no judgement in the apartment, remember ) and I create these badass little faeries to say the things I want to say. The things I want my little girls to say, (well, not literally, but you get the picture).
Raising kids in a world where the President is a sex offender, among other things, and people are denied basic human rights for simply being their authentic self is depressing as Hell, and I hope these fed-up little faeries bring you some of the solace they've brought me.
I opened an Etsy shop to sell my faeries because of a number of inquiries regarding buying them. They are also taking over my house so they have to go somewhere. If you're so inclined you can visit that shop here.
It's getting to me, you know. This food aversion, that I know is part of autism. We've been to the doctors, the feeding team, and the nutritionists. They all say the same thing: "It could be worse."
I get that. I know some of your children exist on goldfish crackers alone. I know that is excruciating for you, because you want them to have vitamins and minerals and all those things they need to help them grow.
So, forgive me when I say this:
I might barf if I have to make her one more peanut butter sandwich. Like my eldest, I have grown to dislike peanut butter, a food I once adored, because Miss Kate eats this for breakfast every single day. Every single day for 5 years running.
Her lunch...you ask? Well at lunch time she's practically a Foodie, with her flatbread with pesto and feta and chicken. It's a pizza she was introduced to at two years old. And for lunch and supper, she has it every single day. Every single day for 5 years running.
Snacks will range, thank goodness, from apples to more peanut butter sandwiches, to more pizza and back to apples again, but at least there is some change.
Chips and nuggets and french fries have made an appearance and so have grapes, strawberries and an Aero bar of all things. but those things come and go.
Her staples remain the same.
Now if you're shaking your head and thinking stupid things like: "I could get that child to eat", "In my day we ate what was put in front of us or we didn't eat at all" or my favorite. "She's just a picky-eater", I would like to extend an invitation to my home. Please come and do what teams of professionals could not do. Please come and introduce a new food to my child, or any child with food aversion, and I will gladly bow down to your superiority, you smug son of a bitch.
But until then...
Tonight, before bed when she asks for a peanut butter sandwich, I'll make it. I'll gag a little as I slather the peanut butter on the bread, but I'll hand it to her and she'll happily eat it, again. Like she's done every single night, for five years running.
What are you food aversion experiences?
It’s been awhile since I've written to you. I’ve made it my business to write about you many times, and whether you’ll approve of everything I’ve written, and shared with your adoring public, is still unclear. I figure, worst case scenario, we’ll share a therapist someday and you’ll have ample opportunity to tell me off or thank me for my forward-thinking, and exceptionally thoughtful prose. At least that’s how I choose to imagine it playing out.
Anyway, this letter is for you. You, my seven and three-quarter year old doll, the sunshine to my rain, the sweet to my sour, the beauty to my…well…fair for my age. But seriously Kate, I love you so hard. Let’s just get that clear right away. And you know what, I know you love me, too. I really, really, do.
You won’t remember the first few years when I couldn’t get my nose out of an autism book long enough to take a good look at my littlest girl and appreciate her for every little quirky move she made. There were times when you couldn’t look at me, or answer to your name and it was crushing. You often ran off and never, ever looked back to see if we were following you. To be fair, you’ve held onto to a form of this fearlessness that terrifies me to this day (Oakley, your loyal service dog has helped with this), but back then, I felt like you didn’t need me or didn’t want me, and it hurt. I wasn’t yet able to understand that it wasn’t about ‘our relationship’ but more about your purely innocent trust of all things. I know, I know, I have this annoying way of making things about myself. Let’s explore this more in future therapy. So, I read and I read and then I read some more because I was going to understand autism, what made my little girl tick, at any cost.
I guess I felt like I was failing you if I didn’t figure out as much as I possibly could on the subject. I realize now that it was just my way of coping, and not very well, at that. Over the years I’ve found other ways to cope. Writing helps, and food, and art, oh and food, and wine, and of course, food. What did I have to cope with you ask? In your eyes, and my own, I have the sweetest, funniest, most amazing little girl who happens to have autism. In fact, some might argue that the autism made her exactly who she is. So, what is there to ‘cope’ with? In the beginning it was fear of the unknown because ‘autism’ can be such a scary word for new parents. Then later on it became anger at how misunderstood you might always be. And now it’s changing because I’ve spent the last seven years watching you hurdle mountains they said you’d never climb and more importantly, I’ve watched you do it without a thought to any other possible outcome. You, with your handsome service dog by your side, have rocked it.
You’ve come so far, Miss Kate; and not just in your taste in music (remember the ‘Wiggles’ years? You’re making friends, now. It was hard to imagine that my powerhouse little blonde tornado could ever slow down enough to make a friend. But you did it, Baby. You didn’t change who you are or pretend, because that is simply not an option for you. You owned your silliness, and your never-ending energy and your Kanye-esque confidence and you found your people.
I’m proud of you Kate. You’ve taught me so much, and I only hope to someday return the favor.
All my love,
p.s. I love sharing our stories with you. If you like following along, consider buying me a coffee to help continue making this website free
Grace and Kate's mom. (Shanell)