I get asked a lot how to be a good friend to a person who has a child with special needs. Here are my 10 suggestions. 10. Let me be. In the beginning, I needed someone to let me be sad. Or worried. Or angry. Whatever emotion I was at the time. Just let me be for a while as I step into our new world. So often people try to rush us through or gloss over our hard times. Just sit with me and don’t try and fix it…
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I have a question about this ‘season of life’ and it’s…. What in the actual heck?! We are in the thick of it over here. And while we are no stranger to it, nothing seems to ever prepare you for kids who fight sleep, the stomach flu, pee sheets, dishes, whining, and the laundry. There is so much laundry. Six people. It’s insanity actually. It’s a season they say. Which I love by the way. I love looking at it that way. Some seasons are easy breezy 75 degree sunny…
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I’m really bad at asking for help. And I don’t mean that in a job interview sorta way where you say your biggest weakness is ‘doing too much’ because you secretly want to make yourself look good. Nope, this isn’t that. I’m really bad at asking for help. It’s a character flaw really. And it isn’t necessarily a good thing. It’s more of a sinking in a boat and someone throws you a life raft and you smile and say, ‘thank you, but I got this.’ When clearly, you don’t.…
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‘Everyone has a different idea of what happiness looks like.’ Is my son happy? I think about that a lot. As do many parents of children who struggle to communicate. Who can’t show us. For a lot of years I honestly didn’t know the answer to that question. At age 5 my son didn’t laugh or smile much. He didn’t enjoy leaving our house. At home, he isolated himself a lot. He didn’t play or interact really. He was full of anxiety, only we didn’t know because anytime we asked…
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My sweet boy is having a sad night and he is unable to tell us why. We are doing everything we can to figure out the why and the what but no luck so far. It’s the hardest part of nonverbal/nonspeaking for me as a parent so I can’t even imagine how hard it is for him. Does he not feel well? Does something hurt? Is he getting sick? Is he scared? Worried? Sad? Does he miss someone? Was someone mean to him? There are a million and one questions…
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I just got home from a car ride with my son Cooper. A rare time where it was just the two of us. The ride, taking 30 minutes, was joyful. He showed me an excavator. An airplane. And more than a dozen semi trucks. He moo’d at cows. Showed me a fire truck on his Kindle screen. And then tapped his chest, letting me know that he wants to ride a fire truck. He danced. And waved. He giggled at penguins on his screen before showing me how they waddle.…
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We used to not be able to safely ride in the car as a family. Let that sink in for a moment. We had to take two cars, Jamie and I separating the boys, or one of us had to ride in the back with the kids and even then it wasn’t all that safe. At one point we had to have a safety plan. We couldn’t turn left. Or stop at stoplights. Road construction was the worst. Slowing down wasn’t allowed. I’d tell friends that we couldn’t go through…
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Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the paths that each of my children will take as they grow up. Three sons and a daughter. Ranging from 11 to 9 months. Cooper, my oldest, well, it’s been complicated. So many daycare’s until we finally couldn’t find one to take him anymore. Then starting in the school district at age 3, multiple day programs, IEP meetings, transportation to and from, trusting the world with my tiny, yet mighty, nonspeaking, spirited, child who could hardly hold up his backpack. I waved goodbye…
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When we are out in public, I don’t worry about how my autistic son will act. I don’t worry about his mannerisms. Or his uniqueness. Because I know exactly who he is and how he is going to behave. And that he is learning and growing. I know he will flap his arms in pure joy. I know he will run. And sit. And maybe feel the cool of the cement with his cheek. I know he will squeal. And hum. And laugh. I know he will wave to strangers…
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A letter to my little brother… Hey brother, I’m hoping that someday I can say this all to you. But there is a chance that I might never be able too…I’m hoping that when you are older you will read this and understand. I know I confuse you. I’m so loud. I flap my arms. I don’t notice toys. Or play sports. Or like to leave our house. I don’t play like you. I have never ridden a bike and I don’t care at all about hockey. And I know…
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