Baby, today you turn 19. Words cannot express how proud I am of you today and everyday. You. You, gorgeous boy, the one who made me a mama. The one who gave me a lot of these gray hairs. The one who has the sweetest smattering of freckles across his now full fledged man face. The one who still loves dinos. The one who still makes me laugh when you truly laugh. The one who doesn’t like change…
Oh how you have changed. Oh how you have accepted this challenge and risen to it. One year ago, I was in a panic. You turned 18. You weren’t driving. You weren’t keeping track of assignments. You weren’t ready. Six months ago, you weren’t ready. In June, when we went to Alaska, I saw glimpses of who you were ready to become. In July, more signs you were almost there.
Suddenly, in August, we threw a MAJOR curveball at you. We told you you’d be moving in to the dorm at your college when it had been our plan for you to commute. Here we are. October. Your nineteenth birthday. You’ve been driving for about two months. When people ask me how you’re doing, I say, “He’s living his best damn life.” And you are, sweet boy. You’re navigating too and fro, here and there, going to whatever hiking trail or place to dip your fishing pole calls you. Bigger than this, Baby Boy, you are navigating life.
You are advocating for yourself, joining clubs, keeping track of all the things: cleaning, cooking, calling home. There will undoubtedly be hurdles to come: bad grades, heartbreaks, uncertainty. There is not one doubt in my mind, that you are ready.
#BigBrother is a senior this year, so since August 17, I’ve been marking the #FirstOfTheLasts. Last First Day Of High School, Last Picture Day (don’t get me started on the cap and gown or tuxedo photos), #FirstAndLast football game and homecoming dance. Last This, Last That.
Yesterday, we had his last ARD (Texas speak for IEP meeting). LAST IEP meeting. Last one. Before I can fully visit this, I have to rewind to kindergarten, no birth, where I begin asking, “Is this ‘normal?” Even the day he was born, I thought, “This baby isn’t like other babies I’ve known.” I asked at every annual visit about things we noticed. He was in Early Childhood Intervention due to food aversions that we’d chalked up to trauma related to multiple oral surgeries. He moved to outside Occupational Therapy for Sensory Integration Disorder. In preschool, I’d ask how he was. “He’s so smart! Yes, he plays with his peers.” Like so many families, we created structures and systems to help him navigate life. In kinder I noticed those systems beginning to not be enough. Finally, after YEARS of asking doctors, in first grade, I finally requested evaluation from the school.
Our wonderful, amazing, brilliant LSSP (who is still one of my all time favorite humans) told us what we’d known for six and a half years. Big is autistic.
I remember going to his first ARD like it was yesterday. My husband and I both attended. We walked in to a cramped conference room full of waiting women . There was a box of tissues in the center. I sat between the LSSP and my husband. The meeting began. We heard A LOT about how Big struggled. But, we also heard about his his vocabulary knowledge was in the 99.9th percentile, that he was reading at college level, that they saw him and appreciated him. The time came to discuss enrollment in special education.
I come from a long line of teachers. I am one now-although, I wasn’t at the time. I know about special education. My summers were spent riding the special education bus. But, I suddenly realized what that box of Kleenex was for. It doesn’t matter in that moment that you know special education isn’t what it used to be-kids aren’t in the basement, never seeing their typical peers. It didn’t matter. I was crying for me. I was crying for him and the struggles I was confirming he would continue to have. Mostly, I was crying because he would have the supports he would need to navigate school.
I met some of my dearest friends that year. One being Big’s case manager. She introduced me to others who knew. Others who got it. Others who I would grow to depend on in those early years like oxygen. We have had so many amazing supports throughout his twelve years with an IEP, but…
There were years. There were YEARS where not one teacher had something positive to say about my kid. I knew that was on them because my kid is rad, but it hurt. And I cried at every single one. There was one year that a writing teacher either called, emailed, or text nearly everyday with something Big could not/would not do. There were YEARS that I didn’t know if I was going to pull him from public education. This devastated me as a BELIEVER in public education.
This is why I became a special education teacher. I wanted to be the person that gets to say the GOOD. To tell parents we see their children. We see them.
Yesterday, was the meeting of my dreams. Big’s creative writing teacher shared that he is “one of the most prepared for college students” he’s ever seen. “His grammar and mechanics are precise, he has a voice in his writing, and has a unique way of viewing the world that is exceptional.” (Okay, I put this in quotes, but I’m slightly paraphrasing.)
This kid. Who in fourth grade refused to write, hating writing, has a VOICE! I cried at this IEP meeting too. I’m thankful for this particular last.
Tonight is prom night in our little town. Not gonna lie; it’s a little hard. Recognizing that it’s a little hard to see is all about ME. And that’s okay. I’m allowed. I won’t wallow. Instead, we’ll head to one of #Bigs favorite places on earth, his Grany’s. Maybe try to do some fishing.
End of year celebratory posts can be hard on the hearts of moms to kids who aren’t “typical.” It doesn’t mean we don’t celebrate for the kids experiencing these rites of passage. It doesn’t even mean we really want our kids to do these things, either. There’s a certain amount of comfort knowing my kid will be home rather than attending after parties where kids are drinking-and ultimately driving home.
My husband didn’t attend prom; shock of shocks…he doesn’t regret it. Lots of kids don’t entertain these rites of passage for lots of reasons. These are valid experiences too.
I’m honestly considering a parody anti-prom photo shoot. Anyone in?
Good morning, y’all. Last week I decided to start a new blog series, more about me than the boys, really. I mean, I’ve tended to write from my perspective about the kids, because what other perspective could I take, but we’ve reached an age that it’s becoming harder and harder to share stuff with y’all. So, here we are. Stuck with me. I’m calling it #CoffeeAndConfessions.
Last week I talked (bragged) about self care. How I was getting up. Getting dressed. Putting on shoes. Apparently it’s as dangerous to blog about that as it is to say, “my kid will never.” Today’s photos are evidence that today’s self care isn’t really following my plan. And that would be because of the #FourMonthSleepRegression.
#NotoriousVIG or the vampire is the big middle (beginning) of the four month sleep regression. The weird thing about having kids in different decades of your life (28, 30 and 41) is that the last one really is like having a first baby. Did you know that at 41 you are likely to have forgotten everything you knew about babies and the rules of having babies. Did you further know that what ever rules you did retain have changed? Crib bumpers? GONE! Lovey in the crib? GONE! Four month sleep regression? Pssssh. THAT never happened with #ThemBoys. A little about the four month sleep regression: 1. The baby’s brain is growing and changing, and they are sleeping more like an adult. They have actual sleep cycles and they are pissed about it. Sure, the first time they wake up at night they think it’s fun to talk and play with their hands and finally wail like someone set a bear trap in the crib. The subsequent times its straight to wailing. 2. This happens just as your baby is starting to “sleep through the night.” Did you know doctors say sleeping through the night is five hours. Did you know that at 41, after months of sleep deprivation, five hours in a row was a #GodSend? And then, they take. it. away. 3. After taking away this oasis of sleep, you know what else they take away? Napping. Someone won’t take a nap anymore unless a. she’s being held b. she’s being fed or c. she’s on a four hour car ride and the car remains at a constant 55 mph or greater. 4. The four month sleep regression is when you should start “sleep training” baby. (ahahahahahahahahaaha!) It is also a pretty good litmis test for if your baby is strong willed. Guess what! Mine is. Shock of all shocks. She’s not having any of this sleep training BS. She’s like “Nah, I’m good. Thanks. You can just hold me or keep nursing every half hour thinking I’ll stay asleep.” and then, she whispers something about me being a human pacifier. I don’t know. It’s weird.
Speaking of weird. I know I said I wasn’t writing about the boys as much, but how can I not share the two completely opposite ends of parenting I’m at. WeeOne gets in the car and starts talking. Below is an exact transcript.
WO: A kid got ISS (In School Suspension) today.
Me: What did he do?
WO: Not do. SAY!
Me: Okaaaaay. What did he say?????
WO: Can I spell it?
Me: Thinking: holy crap. This is BAAAAD. Saying, “Yes.”
WO: Spelling. B-O-N-E-R**
Big erupts in fits of giggles. Then I start to giggle because Big’s giggle is infectious, y’all.
Me: Composes self. Do you know what that word means?
Both at once, Big still giggling. No, what?
Me: Deep breath. Erection. It means erection.
Both at once: oh. Okay.
WeeOne: Can we change the subject, please?
**We have a deal with the boys that if they ever don’t know what a word means they can ask us without fear of consequences. I don’t want them googling things at school or walking around thinking the wrong thing.
So, see, #LifeIsWeird. I’ve got four month sleep regression and boner talk. How is this craziness my life? Okay, ssssshhhhh. I’ve got 15 minutes before the girl is going to wake up and be the boss of me. I’m going to go to the bathroom. No one tell her.
Hi. You may not know me. I’m Kristi. I’m a 40-Something mom to two boys who I call Big (13, Autism, ADHD, Anxiety, Cleft Lip and Palate, and Profoundly Gifted. Oh. And Lazy) and Wee One (11, NTish, Self-Proclaimed Nerd, Control Freak, and my Big Headed Baby.) Because life seemed to be running too smoothly, husband and I decided (no we didn’t. That would imply we make decisions rather than letting things happen to us.) to have a baby at 40 something. We call her #NotoriousVIG; she’s 15 weeks old and counting.
Last school year I went back to work full time for the first time in 13 years. I was a pre-k teacher at a small, local, private school. I loved my job, but there must have been something in the water over there. Two of us “geriatric” moms got pregnant. It wasn’t on purpose, but man, was it the best thing that could have happened for our little family. But here I am. BACK at home. With an infant. And postpartum hair loss, not quite sure if my hot flashes are from my hormones trying to balance back out, or if I’m starting peri-menopause.
So, here’s my first “confession” to you all: I feel my anxiety and depression creeping in. Don’t worry, I know the signs, so I’m taking the steps I need to take to help myself. Mostly, through self care. I’m already back to my pre-baby weight. Want to know my secret? I was short and fat to begin with. It’s not hard to bounce back when your shape was round to start. This weeks goal is to get dressed every morning. I don’t mean keep wearing my same ol yoga pants I wore all last week, not that theres anything wrong with that. Here’s what I’m doing, if you’re interested. At the five am feed, I change and feed the vampire, set her in her swing to nap while I pack lunches, make breakfasts and wake all the mens. Then, now this is some sort of far out concept, are you ready? I get dressed. Like pants, a fresh bra and tank top, shirt and cardigan (that’s my mom uniform). I have curly hair, so I don’t wash it everyday. I’m down to twice a week (okay, once). Today is day three hair, so I combed through after spraying my refresh spray. I don’t do make up during the week if we aren’t going anywhere, because lets face it, I’m not taking that much care of myself. I can’t count on myself to wash my face at the end of the day. Today, I even put. on. shoes. #fancypants I know it’s not a lot, but it’s a start, and it makes me feel better.
I’ve gotten all my dishes done, started laundry, swept, and now I’ve even carved out twenty minutes to do my confession, which has led to my second confession. I went to add a pic of myself to this post and my face shine was reflecting so badly that I had to add loose powder and a gloss. So, look at me, I am wearing make up on a Tuesday. #doublefancypants Maybe, we’ll start meeting up like this on Tuesdays for #coffeeAndConfessions? Do you have a confession you’d like to share?
Evidence that I got dressed and “fixed” my untamable hair. Also, this is the thick pregnancy mane that I will be envious of after the shedding stops. #NoFilter
Autism In Our House 