In looking up early symptoms for autism, parents will find some basic things, like speech delays, issues with eye contact, babies not smiling by six months. But Ethan did all of these things. His speech was always within the minimum word development that children should have by certain ages. He babbled on time. He smiled early on. He looked at me.
There were other issues, which I’m listing below, that were happening and that I had NO IDEA why because I could not find information on these particular topics ANYWHERE. However, I've since learned that other parents of autistic children have also struggled with many of these problems. This is my list of additional symptoms.
1. Watch for sleep problems. From the time Ethan was born, he did not sleep like other babies. He took short little cat naps (maximum of 20 minutes) and only in his swing. He did not sleep through the night until he was almost 4 years old. I would leave him to "cry it out" early on, and he would literally cry for hours without ever stopping. I now know that some doctors believe children with autism often do not produce enough sleep chemicals (melatonin).
2. He would cry until he threw up. This became a HUGE issue at night time (the attempt to cry it out) and at church, where we could not leave him in the nursery without a worker getting vomit in her shoes! Autism is a disorder that affects the digestive system. Many children with autism have severe reflux. Another issue is that a lot of children with autism don’t like certain textures of food. That – combined with reflux – means a lot of vomiting at dinner time. (Strangely, Ethan ate EVERYTHING when he was little. Now he won’t touch most foods.)
3. Meltdowns. These are not tantrums. They are out-of-control events that the child does not snap out of if s/he gets his way. I had no idea what was going on. Only that I couldn’t figure out how to stop them. I couldn’t figure out ways to discipline Ethan and make it work. They discipline led to meltdowns, which led to vomiting.
4. Hitting, kicking, pushing, etc. We went to a child psychologist just prior to Ethan's thid birthday because he would hit the fire out of us during his meltdowns. The psychologist said that hitting at that age usually indicated a speech delay. That seemed very odd to me because, again, he was at least meeting the minimum requirement for word usage. We had him tested, and sure enough he was significantly behind on both receptive and expressive language.
5. Extreme anxiety. Than was afraid of being left at church. He was afraid of loud noises. He was afraid of going potty, which leads to number six.
6. Problems with potty training. Gastrointestinal problems, anxiety and simply a lack of interest in being labeled a “big boy” -- or girl – can make toilet training extra difficult. This can also be an early sign of autism.
7. Sensory problems. If they don't like tags itching them, don't like loud noises, don't tolerate certain food textures, react negatively to strong light or smells, and so on, there are probably some sensory issues and this is a very important element of autism that is often overlooked.
8. Extreme learning/abilities. At age 18 months, Ethan learned to spin those stackable rings like a pro. He knew his alphabet (could point to the letters on anything) by 20 months, before he could talk. The first real batch of words out of his mouth were numbers (and he recognized them). This was at around 22 months. By his second birthday, he knew colors and shapes, including some strange ones like turquoise and nonagons. By age four he was adding triple digit numbers in his head. (By then we’d gotten the diagnosis.)
8. Extreme interests. Ethan's started with numbers. While other kids built things with blocks, we built numbers. We made them out of tinker toys, train tracks, and so on. He often could not fall asleep at night because he was too busy thinking about and saying numbers…over and over and over.
9. Unusual disinterests. I will never forget taking Ethan to the zoo. He must have been almost two, but he was in a stroller. The female lions were right next to the window we looked through, but Ethan was busy counting the screws in the man-made cave, paying zero attention to the animal. I now know Ethan is very afraid of animals, and again, very into numbers.
The above are early symptoms I’ve discovered as a mom of an autistic child. It’s not to say that all autistic children will have these symptoms, nor is it to say that a child who has these symptoms is autistic. However, if you have concerns that something may be “off” with your young child, here are my recommendations:
1. Trust your instincts. Ethan was my first child and I had not been around a lot of small children to compare him to. But as his mommy, I knew something was different about him early on. I took a lot of criticism and heard a lot of "advice" from unknowing parties, but again, I knew something was different.
2. Get your child tested. If negative behaviors are taking place, if you notice unusual sensory issues, or if there are obvious speech delays delays, don’t wait. Don’t trust your general pediatrician’s advice unless s/he specializes in autism. I was told by one doctor Ethan would probably “grow out of” his autism. There is no such thing! Early intervention is so, so important!
3. Don't think you can do this on your own. I've heard parents who feared getting their child tested because they couldn't afford the therapy. In Arkansas, at least, the school systems offer early intervention for preschool age children (therapies) even if they are not in any form of school. We also qualified for a special Medicaid program that covered the large percentage of our therapy bills, including the autism screening itself.
4. Talk to other parents. Get online. Find communities. Facebook has a ton of them, including my page-- Twilights4autism.
5. Find a doctor who knows what s/he is talking about when it comes to autism. The epidemic has come on so quickly that a lot of physicians are not up to date, but some are. Don't settle for less than someone who knows about the subject!
6. Prepare to become your child's advocate. Learn your rights and don’t be afraid to fight for them. That’s not to say that the “system” is against you, as many declare. I’ve personally never had problems with our school. However, no one is going to fight for your child as much as you will.
7. Know that you are not alone, and that autism is ok.
I would not trade my son -- or his autism -- for the world! Some of the quirks get old and some days are hard, but he has such a unique way of looking at the world. He is a joy and a delight. I always tell people he is super cool, because he truly is. For that I am truly blessed.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Oh Christmas Tree
I am a sucker for Christmas. Not just the day, but the entire holiday season.
I remember as a kid begging my dad to let us put up the Christmas tree the moment Thanksgiving was over. He usually complied. My dad, being the smart man he is, would set up the artificial tree and lights before I was allowed to enter the room. Then my mom and I would dig through the box of Christmas ornaments, usually while listening to something like Barry Manilow’s Christmas tunes or watching Rudolph.
As a mommy, I naturally want my kiddos to develop memories like this. However, so far it’s not going so great.
I remember in 2007, when Mike had just left for Iraq and the kids were a mere 2 (almost 3) and four years old, we set up the tree early. Over the next few weeks, the kids managed to run and knock that tree over at least a dozen times. Finally, fed up by their carelessness, I fussed: “If you knock that tree over one more time, I’m just taking it down.”
Little Ethan responded incorrectly. “Yeah, let’s just take it down.”
Abby gave the wrong answer as well. “Yeah, it’s too pokey anyway. I don’t like it.”
Geez. Now what? They had called my bluff and I was NOT going to take my tree down. We ended up going to Wal-Mart to find a cheap, “less pokey” tree.
This morning, three years later, the kids asked if we could put up the tree. Sure we could put up the tree! Are you kidding me?
So I went out to the storage building behind the house and dragged the tree box around front, so as to not disturb Puggles the dog. When I opened the box…ugh. Mouse poop. The box was full of mouse poop.
“Kids, I don’t think we can use this tree.”
Ethan, my son with autism, already had it in his head that we were going to put up our tree this morning. There was no changing his mind.
So I said, “why don’t we go to Wal-Mart and get a new tree that isn’t covered in mouse droppings?”
“I’m afraid that would cost too much,” Ethan said. “We can just use that one.”
Seeing that he was not going to back down, I took the tree parts outside, doused them with an entire can of Lysol and prayed we would not get some rare form of lyme disease that only comes from the mixture of mouse poop and plastic tree bristles.
Next, I realized that the slits that go along the bottom piece of the tree – i.e., the part that actually makes the tree stand up – were gone. “Ethan,” I tried again. “I think we need to just go get a new tree.”
Nope. In the words of Tim Gunn of Project Runway, it was a “just make it work” moment. So I tried. I took a box, filled it with heavy stuff, and stuck the tree trunk down inside the box. It took well over half an hour, but if the tree was properly perched between two kitchen chairs, it did not fall over.
The “prelit” part of the tree did not work except on the bottom third, so I pulled out the extra lights and planned to wrap. Of course, the tree shifted and leaned every time I wrapped the tree. In the meantime, the kids were busy putting on ornaments – which all managed to accumulate over about one square foot of the tree – and they were getting angry with one another. “Hey, I wanted that one!” “You’re in my way!”
I was not happy and Ethan could tell it. “Mommy, it’s ok if we only have lights on the bottom of the tree.” “Mommy, it’s ok if we don’t use that ornament.”
Finally, the kids went off to watch Nick Jr. while I worked on trying to fix the @#$!% tree. Then it happened.
BAM! The whole thing fell over. The box ripped. The heavy stuff poured out.
My sweet little boy came over, put his arm on me, and in his comforting tone… ”Mommy, it’s still ok if it leans a little.”
Leans a little. The thing was lying horizontal on the floor.
That was the Christmas memory I'd been waiting for, and wow how I laughed after that.
(And yes, we will be buying a new tree come Friday.)
I remember as a kid begging my dad to let us put up the Christmas tree the moment Thanksgiving was over. He usually complied. My dad, being the smart man he is, would set up the artificial tree and lights before I was allowed to enter the room. Then my mom and I would dig through the box of Christmas ornaments, usually while listening to something like Barry Manilow’s Christmas tunes or watching Rudolph.
As a mommy, I naturally want my kiddos to develop memories like this. However, so far it’s not going so great.
I remember in 2007, when Mike had just left for Iraq and the kids were a mere 2 (almost 3) and four years old, we set up the tree early. Over the next few weeks, the kids managed to run and knock that tree over at least a dozen times. Finally, fed up by their carelessness, I fussed: “If you knock that tree over one more time, I’m just taking it down.”
Little Ethan responded incorrectly. “Yeah, let’s just take it down.”
Abby gave the wrong answer as well. “Yeah, it’s too pokey anyway. I don’t like it.”
Geez. Now what? They had called my bluff and I was NOT going to take my tree down. We ended up going to Wal-Mart to find a cheap, “less pokey” tree.
This morning, three years later, the kids asked if we could put up the tree. Sure we could put up the tree! Are you kidding me?
So I went out to the storage building behind the house and dragged the tree box around front, so as to not disturb Puggles the dog. When I opened the box…ugh. Mouse poop. The box was full of mouse poop.
“Kids, I don’t think we can use this tree.”
Ethan, my son with autism, already had it in his head that we were going to put up our tree this morning. There was no changing his mind.
So I said, “why don’t we go to Wal-Mart and get a new tree that isn’t covered in mouse droppings?”
“I’m afraid that would cost too much,” Ethan said. “We can just use that one.”
Seeing that he was not going to back down, I took the tree parts outside, doused them with an entire can of Lysol and prayed we would not get some rare form of lyme disease that only comes from the mixture of mouse poop and plastic tree bristles.
Next, I realized that the slits that go along the bottom piece of the tree – i.e., the part that actually makes the tree stand up – were gone. “Ethan,” I tried again. “I think we need to just go get a new tree.”
Nope. In the words of Tim Gunn of Project Runway, it was a “just make it work” moment. So I tried. I took a box, filled it with heavy stuff, and stuck the tree trunk down inside the box. It took well over half an hour, but if the tree was properly perched between two kitchen chairs, it did not fall over.
The “prelit” part of the tree did not work except on the bottom third, so I pulled out the extra lights and planned to wrap. Of course, the tree shifted and leaned every time I wrapped the tree. In the meantime, the kids were busy putting on ornaments – which all managed to accumulate over about one square foot of the tree – and they were getting angry with one another. “Hey, I wanted that one!” “You’re in my way!”
I was not happy and Ethan could tell it. “Mommy, it’s ok if we only have lights on the bottom of the tree.” “Mommy, it’s ok if we don’t use that ornament.”
Finally, the kids went off to watch Nick Jr. while I worked on trying to fix the @#$!% tree. Then it happened.
BAM! The whole thing fell over. The box ripped. The heavy stuff poured out.
My sweet little boy came over, put his arm on me, and in his comforting tone… ”Mommy, it’s still ok if it leans a little.”
Leans a little. The thing was lying horizontal on the floor.
That was the Christmas memory I'd been waiting for, and wow how I laughed after that.
(And yes, we will be buying a new tree come Friday.)
Thursday, November 4, 2010
A Trip to the Doctor
I have been suffering from what I assumed was just a bad cold/cough for two weeks. After several people insisting I should go see the doctor, I decided to go to the drop-in medical clinic at Wal-Mart. Of course, I’ve had two weeks to do this and I decided to choose a day when the kids were out of school and I would have to drag them along. (Thus, the reason I selected Wal-Mart.)
Ethan was fine with this…at first. I told him last night we would be going there, and then we’d go shopping. He understood we were going because I was sick. I. Me. Mommy. NOT him.
As I started to get ready for our outing this morning, Ethan became teary eyed. “Mommy, I’m sorry I get so sad when I have to get a shot.” Hmmmm. What was I missing here?
“Honey, are you afraid you’re going to have to get a shot today?”
“Uh-huh.” Like many autistic children, Ethan suffers from some pretty severe fears. Shots are one of them. (Animals another. Babies, another. Rain, check. P E Class, oh yeah.)
“Sweetie, the doctor isn’t even going to look at you. He’s going to look at me. He’ll check my ears. Take my temperature. Listen to my heart. Then I’ll get some medicine and we’ll go home.”
OK, so I thought we were good to go, and we were. Until we got inside Wal-Mart. The crocodile tears started welling up in his eyes. “Honey, it’s going to be ok.”
We got to the clinic and he went over to the chairs in the waiting area. Then he started WAILING. I just looked at the receptionist, raised my eyebrows and slightly shook my head, then had her hand me the paperwork. Ethan was lying on his tummy across two chairs, boo-hooing with all his might. “Ethan, do you need to go to the bathroom?” I asked. (I’ve already written a blog about our potty issues.”
“NO!” he insisted. This went on for a few minutes while younger sister Abby scolded him: “Eeee-phan! The doctor isn’t even going to see YOU!”
Somehow a comment came out about his ears. The light bulb went off. “Ethan, do your ears hurt?”
“Uh-huh.” We had gone to this clinic a few weeks prior when Ethan had an ear infection.
“Do you think your ears might be infected?”
“Uh-huh.”
OK. I decided while we were there, he would get his ears looked at. “But I don’t want a shot!” he screamed!
“You won’t need a shot,” I assured him.
“But my throat doesn’t hurt!” he cried.
“You won’t need a strep test. I promise,” I replied. (That is another big fear, second only to shots.)
“But I don’t want to be in the room when she checks you. I want her to look at my ears and then go outside.”
“OK.”
For 20 minutes, we waited. For 20 minutes, Ethan laid on his tummy across two chairs and cried, often quite loudly.
Then when we went back, we had the doctor check his ears. They were FINE.
“Ethan, do your ears really hurt?
“No.”
Fortunately, she did not charge for his visit.
I told my mom about this tonight, and I was laughing so hard I could barely talk. She finally asked, “Allison, why are you laughing?”
It was simple. Feeling as yucky as I do and having to endure an episode like this one today – which, sadly, is more common than not – I had to laugh or I would simply go insane.
In Ethan’s defense, he does now seem to have some sort of tummy bug. He was miserable and in tears for a couple of hours after we got home until he finally could not fight it any more and went potty. Since then he’s been my happy, active little sweetheart.
Ethan was fine with this…at first. I told him last night we would be going there, and then we’d go shopping. He understood we were going because I was sick. I. Me. Mommy. NOT him.
As I started to get ready for our outing this morning, Ethan became teary eyed. “Mommy, I’m sorry I get so sad when I have to get a shot.” Hmmmm. What was I missing here?
“Honey, are you afraid you’re going to have to get a shot today?”
“Uh-huh.” Like many autistic children, Ethan suffers from some pretty severe fears. Shots are one of them. (Animals another. Babies, another. Rain, check. P E Class, oh yeah.)
“Sweetie, the doctor isn’t even going to look at you. He’s going to look at me. He’ll check my ears. Take my temperature. Listen to my heart. Then I’ll get some medicine and we’ll go home.”
OK, so I thought we were good to go, and we were. Until we got inside Wal-Mart. The crocodile tears started welling up in his eyes. “Honey, it’s going to be ok.”
We got to the clinic and he went over to the chairs in the waiting area. Then he started WAILING. I just looked at the receptionist, raised my eyebrows and slightly shook my head, then had her hand me the paperwork. Ethan was lying on his tummy across two chairs, boo-hooing with all his might. “Ethan, do you need to go to the bathroom?” I asked. (I’ve already written a blog about our potty issues.”
“NO!” he insisted. This went on for a few minutes while younger sister Abby scolded him: “Eeee-phan! The doctor isn’t even going to see YOU!”
Somehow a comment came out about his ears. The light bulb went off. “Ethan, do your ears hurt?”
“Uh-huh.” We had gone to this clinic a few weeks prior when Ethan had an ear infection.
“Do you think your ears might be infected?”
“Uh-huh.”
OK. I decided while we were there, he would get his ears looked at. “But I don’t want a shot!” he screamed!
“You won’t need a shot,” I assured him.
“But my throat doesn’t hurt!” he cried.
“You won’t need a strep test. I promise,” I replied. (That is another big fear, second only to shots.)
“But I don’t want to be in the room when she checks you. I want her to look at my ears and then go outside.”
“OK.”
For 20 minutes, we waited. For 20 minutes, Ethan laid on his tummy across two chairs and cried, often quite loudly.
Then when we went back, we had the doctor check his ears. They were FINE.
“Ethan, do your ears really hurt?
“No.”
Fortunately, she did not charge for his visit.
I told my mom about this tonight, and I was laughing so hard I could barely talk. She finally asked, “Allison, why are you laughing?”
It was simple. Feeling as yucky as I do and having to endure an episode like this one today – which, sadly, is more common than not – I had to laugh or I would simply go insane.
In Ethan’s defense, he does now seem to have some sort of tummy bug. He was miserable and in tears for a couple of hours after we got home until he finally could not fight it any more and went potty. Since then he’s been my happy, active little sweetheart.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Oh Poop!
Ethan, who is afraid of animals – except for Nibbles the guinea pig – began crying this morning when I told him he would have to wait his turn to take home his first grade classroom’s chicks. Yesterday he told me he was terrified of the little balls of yellow fuzz. So I knew…
“Ethan, you’re going to have to sit on the potty.” (Ugh.)
Without going into too much detail, going “potty” is a BIG deal when it comes to my seven-year-old, high-functioning autistic son. (And apparently this is common in persons with autism because it is a disorder that affects the guts as well as the nerves and the brain.) He has been on an adult dose of Miralax daily since he was two, but we have stages where he refuses to cooperate, such as this past week. He will purposely spill his medicated water out of spite. Then the cycle begins.
When he gets out of sorts, he begins talking gibberish. He starts to cry over unusual things. He starts to misbehave. And he starts to say things like, “I want to do bad things,” “I want to tell lies,” “I want to break the law.” And he will lay on his tummy and tells me he’s cold or tired, even it’s 90 degrees in the house and well before his bedtime.
When a similar situation happened last week, I eventually had to force the issue and ended up with an Ethan meltdown, including a slap across my face and a kick to the gut.
“WHAT?!?! I would not put up with that!” I can just hear my friends who have “typical” children respond.
But many parents of autistic children simply nod in agreement because they’ve been there. Afterward, he told me he was “so, so very sorry” for doing that.
Meltdowns were what led us to a child psychologist when Ethan was 3 years old. These are not simply tantrums. They are totally out-of-control, violent episodes that the child honestly cannot stop just by sheer will.
We learned that hitting at that age generally indicated a language issue. Even though Ethan was progressing “normally” with the number of words he used, we had him tested and found he had significant problems in the use of receptive and expressive language.
Sure enough, as Ethan’s language progressed, the meltdowns lessened. Fortunately these events are very rare nowadays, and usually caused by, well, see the above... . It’s a good thing they don't happen often now because my little man is getting heavy and strong!
This morning, however, things went well. A few little tears, 10 minutes tardy to school, then all was good. He went back to his sweet, funny self, had a great day, and in turn, so did I.
“Ethan, you’re going to have to sit on the potty.” (Ugh.)
Without going into too much detail, going “potty” is a BIG deal when it comes to my seven-year-old, high-functioning autistic son. (And apparently this is common in persons with autism because it is a disorder that affects the guts as well as the nerves and the brain.) He has been on an adult dose of Miralax daily since he was two, but we have stages where he refuses to cooperate, such as this past week. He will purposely spill his medicated water out of spite. Then the cycle begins.
When he gets out of sorts, he begins talking gibberish. He starts to cry over unusual things. He starts to misbehave. And he starts to say things like, “I want to do bad things,” “I want to tell lies,” “I want to break the law.” And he will lay on his tummy and tells me he’s cold or tired, even it’s 90 degrees in the house and well before his bedtime.
When a similar situation happened last week, I eventually had to force the issue and ended up with an Ethan meltdown, including a slap across my face and a kick to the gut.
“WHAT?!?! I would not put up with that!” I can just hear my friends who have “typical” children respond.
But many parents of autistic children simply nod in agreement because they’ve been there. Afterward, he told me he was “so, so very sorry” for doing that.
Meltdowns were what led us to a child psychologist when Ethan was 3 years old. These are not simply tantrums. They are totally out-of-control, violent episodes that the child honestly cannot stop just by sheer will.
We learned that hitting at that age generally indicated a language issue. Even though Ethan was progressing “normally” with the number of words he used, we had him tested and found he had significant problems in the use of receptive and expressive language.
Sure enough, as Ethan’s language progressed, the meltdowns lessened. Fortunately these events are very rare nowadays, and usually caused by, well, see the above... . It’s a good thing they don't happen often now because my little man is getting heavy and strong!
This morning, however, things went well. A few little tears, 10 minutes tardy to school, then all was good. He went back to his sweet, funny self, had a great day, and in turn, so did I.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Scratching, Scratching, Scratching
Ethan and I stopped by a convenience store close to our house so we could get two bottles of water. As we entered, I felt Ethan’s shoulders tense and his stride stammer a moment. Then glancing forward, I realized why. A little girl, probably around age 2, stood in the aisle in front of us crying.
Ethan is extremely sensitive to certain sounds – airplanes, vacuum cleaners, dogs barking. The one that creates the most adverse response, however, is that of crying children. They scare him and he will dart the other way, avoid ailes at the grocery stores, or look to me to cover his ears and quickly pass by.
This little girl was different though. She was crying hard, but very quietly. Her volume resembled more of a whimper, but the crocodile tears indicated a deeper sadness.
Then I saw her mother, hovered over the counter, relentlessly scratching away. One lottery ticket after another. Meanwhile the little girl stood staring at us, lost and lonely. Ethan, afraid, did not wander the ailes as he normally would, searching for the perfect snack. Instead he silently jaunted to the counter so we could quickly pay for the water and be on our way.
The little girl’s volume upped a mere notch. The mother grabbed the girl, cussed at her, and raised her arm and threatened a slap if she didn’t stop crying. Then, as if nothing had happened, she returned to her scratching.
Now I am the first to say I don’t know the entire situation. I only know the vignette that I witnessed in those few moments. But the little girl's eyes haunted me. What I saw appeared to be a mother so desperate to obtain a great escape from her current life that she failed to see a far greater award: her little girl.
But not only was I haunted, I was convicted. While I try to play the role of the good mommy, the truth is I often complain about my circumstances and groan for my own escape. There are many times that I choose not to pay attention to or even fuss at my children because I'm too busy scratching away at hopes for my own personal gain.
There’s a fine balance between the real need for a break from my kids and pure selfishness. That need for a break is often very real, so I am not diminishing its importance at all. However, if I step back and take a deep, honest look at myself, I realize I lean toward selfishness much more often than I like to think.
So although I hurt for the little girl, I am thankful that God imprinted this image upon my heart. And with that I pray that the Lord will remind me daily of the glorious gift He has awarded me already through my two precious children. May I not simply toss that prize away into my pile of worthless scraps, aimlessly grasping for something "greater."
Ethan is extremely sensitive to certain sounds – airplanes, vacuum cleaners, dogs barking. The one that creates the most adverse response, however, is that of crying children. They scare him and he will dart the other way, avoid ailes at the grocery stores, or look to me to cover his ears and quickly pass by.
This little girl was different though. She was crying hard, but very quietly. Her volume resembled more of a whimper, but the crocodile tears indicated a deeper sadness.
Then I saw her mother, hovered over the counter, relentlessly scratching away. One lottery ticket after another. Meanwhile the little girl stood staring at us, lost and lonely. Ethan, afraid, did not wander the ailes as he normally would, searching for the perfect snack. Instead he silently jaunted to the counter so we could quickly pay for the water and be on our way.
The little girl’s volume upped a mere notch. The mother grabbed the girl, cussed at her, and raised her arm and threatened a slap if she didn’t stop crying. Then, as if nothing had happened, she returned to her scratching.
Now I am the first to say I don’t know the entire situation. I only know the vignette that I witnessed in those few moments. But the little girl's eyes haunted me. What I saw appeared to be a mother so desperate to obtain a great escape from her current life that she failed to see a far greater award: her little girl.
But not only was I haunted, I was convicted. While I try to play the role of the good mommy, the truth is I often complain about my circumstances and groan for my own escape. There are many times that I choose not to pay attention to or even fuss at my children because I'm too busy scratching away at hopes for my own personal gain.
There’s a fine balance between the real need for a break from my kids and pure selfishness. That need for a break is often very real, so I am not diminishing its importance at all. However, if I step back and take a deep, honest look at myself, I realize I lean toward selfishness much more often than I like to think.
So although I hurt for the little girl, I am thankful that God imprinted this image upon my heart. And with that I pray that the Lord will remind me daily of the glorious gift He has awarded me already through my two precious children. May I not simply toss that prize away into my pile of worthless scraps, aimlessly grasping for something "greater."
Sunday, June 20, 2010
A Father’s Day Note from Ethan and Abigail
Our daddy is a soldier, and he’s gone to a faraway place called Afghanistan.
He’s teaching people how to farm,
And helping them get clean water,
So they can take care of their sick babies..
We are proud of our daddy for doing soldier work.
We pray each day to Jesus that he will be safe from the mean people
And we count the days until he comes home.
Mommy does her best to take care of us, but we miss a lot of things about daddy.
Like we don't have perfect Saturday morning pancakes.
Or grilled pork chops.
Or homemade bread or biscuits.
(Frankly, daddy’s just a better cook all around).
Daddy is much stronger.
We can’t ride on mommy’s shoulders,
Or swing like monkeys from her arms,
Or hang upside down by our feet while she carries us around the room.
We have ALL kinds of questions
Like why the sky is blue
Or if a snail is actually a bug
Or how they make Cheetos.
Mommy just doesn’t know the answers because she’s not good at those kinds of things.
(But we know daddy will tell us when he gets home.)
We miss rubbing his furry arms
And his fuzzy hair, especially after its freshly cut.
And he’s a very good tickler. (Mommy, not so much.)
Daddy is really smart.
He knows how to make all kinds of things,
And he knows how to fix all kinds of things.
Too bad he’s not here because our refrigerator is broken.
(And he’d let us help him fix it.)
Daddy knows how to speak German
And Arabic
And Pashtu.
Ethan loves this. Abby could care less.
(Mommy can only speak English, but she is a better speller.)
We miss helping him shoot arrows in the backyard.
And throwing footballs in the tall bushes, then shaking the limbs to get them down.
He’s better at throwing a Frisbee as high as the trees
And he’s not afraid to climb on the roof if the frisbee happens to land on top.
We miss it when he prays at mealtime. And says "gesundheit" when we sneeze.
We miss the way he gives baths, and reads us books, and tucks us in at night.
We miss it when he accidentally falls asleep next to us, then snores so loud that mommy can hear him across the house.
We miss you daddy.
We love you!
Happy Father's Day!
He’s teaching people how to farm,
And helping them get clean water,
So they can take care of their sick babies..
We are proud of our daddy for doing soldier work.
We pray each day to Jesus that he will be safe from the mean people
And we count the days until he comes home.
Mommy does her best to take care of us, but we miss a lot of things about daddy.
Like we don't have perfect Saturday morning pancakes.
Or grilled pork chops.
Or homemade bread or biscuits.
(Frankly, daddy’s just a better cook all around).
Daddy is much stronger.
We can’t ride on mommy’s shoulders,
Or swing like monkeys from her arms,
Or hang upside down by our feet while she carries us around the room.
We have ALL kinds of questions
Like why the sky is blue
Or if a snail is actually a bug
Or how they make Cheetos.
Mommy just doesn’t know the answers because she’s not good at those kinds of things.
(But we know daddy will tell us when he gets home.)
We miss rubbing his furry arms
And his fuzzy hair, especially after its freshly cut.
And he’s a very good tickler. (Mommy, not so much.)
Daddy is really smart.
He knows how to make all kinds of things,
And he knows how to fix all kinds of things.
Too bad he’s not here because our refrigerator is broken.
(And he’d let us help him fix it.)
Daddy knows how to speak German
And Arabic
And Pashtu.
Ethan loves this. Abby could care less.
(Mommy can only speak English, but she is a better speller.)
We miss helping him shoot arrows in the backyard.
And throwing footballs in the tall bushes, then shaking the limbs to get them down.
He’s better at throwing a Frisbee as high as the trees
And he’s not afraid to climb on the roof if the frisbee happens to land on top.
We miss it when he prays at mealtime. And says "gesundheit" when we sneeze.
We miss the way he gives baths, and reads us books, and tucks us in at night.
We miss it when he accidentally falls asleep next to us, then snores so loud that mommy can hear him across the house.
We miss you daddy.
We love you!
Happy Father's Day!
Friday, June 11, 2010
A good walk (almost) spoiled
Last night, Ethan’s grandpa (a.k.a. my dad) told Ethan over the phone that he would take him to play golf today…if it was not raining. Naturally, Ethan’s selective hearing somehow did not process that last part. So when he woke up to sprinkles, it did not matter. Grandpa had said he’d take him. Period.
“It’s ok. It won’t be raining this afternoon,” assured my little optimist.
When I spoke to my dad this morning, he informed that even if it wasn’t raining, they might not be able to play because Ethan wanted to ride in a cart and the golf course often would not allow carts after a rain. “Ugh.” I cringed, thinking, “Please, please, pleeeeeeeeez don’t do this to me.”
So, of course, I hung up the phone then tried to relay my dad’s message to Ethan, adding that if they couldn’t go today, they would go tomorrow. To a logical adult, this made sense. To an impatient 6-year-old with autism, I might as well have been relaying the message to him in Martian.
They were supposed to go play golf today. Grandpa said so last night. End of story.
Then came the mini meltdown, complete with a few little hits (his hits and kicks are usually minor these days compared to when he was a wee lad) and a lot of angry climbing on my lap and sulking and hitting the desk. So I pulled this one out: “Ethan, if you can’t behave, I’ll tell grandpa not to come at all.”
Like that really worked.
During the mini-meltdown, he kicked a portable CD player off the table and it crashed to the floor. Ethan found that ridiculously funny and started giggling, snapping him back to reality.
Suddenly – and it really was suddenly – a light broke forth and the sun peeked through the clouds. The rain had ended. A new day -- albeit it a hot and humid day --- had dawned.
Part of me was relieved; part of me feared that if dad backed out now, I’d never survive the day with no rain to blame.
At noon, I picked up the phone to the most wonderful question: “What time should I pick Ethan up this afternoon?”
Happy sigh.
I'm learning that with children, you don't tell them you'll do something unless you are able to carry through. I've had to back out of plans with Abby before, and although she takes it hard, she usually bounces back fairly quickly. For Ethan, however, it's a different story. Children with autism do not easily handle change in routine or changes in plans.
I will say, however, that my little man is growing up. He had a major disappointment yesterday when he learned that the Dollar Tree no longer carries Junior Caramels, his favorite candy (which I could only find at Dollar Tree). But after a few tears, he said he wanted to try one more Dollar Tree. If they didn't carry the candy, he'd "be ok" and choose something else. "I like a lot of kinds of candies." So he settled for peanut butter cups instead.
Fortunately, today worked out all around. He and grandpa had a wonderful time sharing their favorite pastime together to boot.
(Thanks dad!)
“It’s ok. It won’t be raining this afternoon,” assured my little optimist.
When I spoke to my dad this morning, he informed that even if it wasn’t raining, they might not be able to play because Ethan wanted to ride in a cart and the golf course often would not allow carts after a rain. “Ugh.” I cringed, thinking, “Please, please, pleeeeeeeeez don’t do this to me.”
So, of course, I hung up the phone then tried to relay my dad’s message to Ethan, adding that if they couldn’t go today, they would go tomorrow. To a logical adult, this made sense. To an impatient 6-year-old with autism, I might as well have been relaying the message to him in Martian.
They were supposed to go play golf today. Grandpa said so last night. End of story.
Then came the mini meltdown, complete with a few little hits (his hits and kicks are usually minor these days compared to when he was a wee lad) and a lot of angry climbing on my lap and sulking and hitting the desk. So I pulled this one out: “Ethan, if you can’t behave, I’ll tell grandpa not to come at all.”
Like that really worked.
During the mini-meltdown, he kicked a portable CD player off the table and it crashed to the floor. Ethan found that ridiculously funny and started giggling, snapping him back to reality.
Suddenly – and it really was suddenly – a light broke forth and the sun peeked through the clouds. The rain had ended. A new day -- albeit it a hot and humid day --- had dawned.
Part of me was relieved; part of me feared that if dad backed out now, I’d never survive the day with no rain to blame.
At noon, I picked up the phone to the most wonderful question: “What time should I pick Ethan up this afternoon?”
Happy sigh.
I'm learning that with children, you don't tell them you'll do something unless you are able to carry through. I've had to back out of plans with Abby before, and although she takes it hard, she usually bounces back fairly quickly. For Ethan, however, it's a different story. Children with autism do not easily handle change in routine or changes in plans.
I will say, however, that my little man is growing up. He had a major disappointment yesterday when he learned that the Dollar Tree no longer carries Junior Caramels, his favorite candy (which I could only find at Dollar Tree). But after a few tears, he said he wanted to try one more Dollar Tree. If they didn't carry the candy, he'd "be ok" and choose something else. "I like a lot of kinds of candies." So he settled for peanut butter cups instead.
Fortunately, today worked out all around. He and grandpa had a wonderful time sharing their favorite pastime together to boot.
(Thanks dad!)
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A looooooooong Day
I’m feeling pretty low tonight. It was just a long day, and I know it’s one of many long, long days to come over the next few weeks known as summer “vacation.”
I hear a lot of mommies talk about how much they’re looking forward to having their kids home with them for summer. I admit I’m not one of them. I find it exhausting, and I’m not sure why it’s so much harder for me than those other super moms.
Maybe it’s because mine have been home with me, for the most part, for seven years now. Maybe it’s because I’m here alone while Mike is in Afghanistan. And it’s his second year-long tour in two years. Maybe it’s because the only form of freedom I get is dependent on my own mommy’s help, and being 40 years old myself, it’s hard to not feel grown up.
Maybe it’s because my children have such different interests and personalities. Ethan is all things golf. Abby can’t stand golf. Abby is all things animals. Ethan is terrified of animals. Abby wants to go next door and swim. Ethan is afraid of the pool. Abby wants to go places; Ethan wants to stay home – unless it’s to go play golf, and Abby hates to go play golf.
The one thing they do have in common is that they constantly want their mommy. I only wish I got paid a nickel for each time they called for me during the day. I’d be a rich woman.
To boot, I’m supposed to somehow find the energy and joy of maintaining my household, i.e., cleaning, and I’m constantly under the microscope for failing to do so. Tonight, rather than go outside and watch Ethan and Abby play in the yard, I chose to stay inside and clean up. In the meantime, Ethan whapped Abby in the noggin with a golf club. The both ran home screaming and crying. I never figured out what happened – if it was an accident or on purpose because I cannot trust what Ethan tells me. So I tried a “typical” discipline approach and took his golf clubs away.
Only Ethan is not typical. He is autistic. So he hit me and then darted across the street in rebellion as I had to run shoeless after him then carry him home.
Yet to many close to me, none of this matters. What’s important is that the laundry and dishes are washed and put away. This is what determines whether I’m a good mommy. And this is why I feel like a failure.
I feel so alone right now. No one to call on. No one to help me.
No one but the Lord.
Fortunately, His love is enough to sustain me. His mercies are new every morning (and "morning" technically starts in about 20 minutes).
So I praise God that tomorrow is another day.
I hear a lot of mommies talk about how much they’re looking forward to having their kids home with them for summer. I admit I’m not one of them. I find it exhausting, and I’m not sure why it’s so much harder for me than those other super moms.
Maybe it’s because mine have been home with me, for the most part, for seven years now. Maybe it’s because I’m here alone while Mike is in Afghanistan. And it’s his second year-long tour in two years. Maybe it’s because the only form of freedom I get is dependent on my own mommy’s help, and being 40 years old myself, it’s hard to not feel grown up.
Maybe it’s because my children have such different interests and personalities. Ethan is all things golf. Abby can’t stand golf. Abby is all things animals. Ethan is terrified of animals. Abby wants to go next door and swim. Ethan is afraid of the pool. Abby wants to go places; Ethan wants to stay home – unless it’s to go play golf, and Abby hates to go play golf.
The one thing they do have in common is that they constantly want their mommy. I only wish I got paid a nickel for each time they called for me during the day. I’d be a rich woman.
To boot, I’m supposed to somehow find the energy and joy of maintaining my household, i.e., cleaning, and I’m constantly under the microscope for failing to do so. Tonight, rather than go outside and watch Ethan and Abby play in the yard, I chose to stay inside and clean up. In the meantime, Ethan whapped Abby in the noggin with a golf club. The both ran home screaming and crying. I never figured out what happened – if it was an accident or on purpose because I cannot trust what Ethan tells me. So I tried a “typical” discipline approach and took his golf clubs away.
Only Ethan is not typical. He is autistic. So he hit me and then darted across the street in rebellion as I had to run shoeless after him then carry him home.
Yet to many close to me, none of this matters. What’s important is that the laundry and dishes are washed and put away. This is what determines whether I’m a good mommy. And this is why I feel like a failure.
I feel so alone right now. No one to call on. No one to help me.
No one but the Lord.
Fortunately, His love is enough to sustain me. His mercies are new every morning (and "morning" technically starts in about 20 minutes).
So I praise God that tomorrow is another day.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
What Defines "Gifted?"
Last Friday morning I was supposed to meet with Ethan’s school to discuss possible placement in the gifted and talented (GT) program next year. Now, while every parent wants their child to be “gifted and talented,” I honestly am not messed up over the label. I just want him to excel.
Ethan is a smart, smart little boy. By 2o months, before he could speak, he knew his letters. I mean KNEW them. A TV commercial would come on with text and I’d say, “Ethan, do you see the letter Q?” He’d point to it. On a street sign, “Ethan, where’s the letter M?” He’d point to it.
His first real words came around 22 months – the numbers one to 10. I should have known I was in for a ride because he was so excited about those numbers. He would stay up for hours in the middle of the night counting from one to 10 (and I had to lay right there next to him listening.) Again, he KNEWthem, and he was adding more numbers to his vocabulary just as quick as his little language development allowed.
These things just came naturally to him. He taught himself to read by age 3. To add triple digit numbers together by age 4. This past year, it was the world map. He literally taught himself the countries of the world and their capitals. All with very little help on my part. His reading is well beyond that of his peers. (They’ve got him reading chapter books.) He can recognize numbers to infinity and beyond. His mind is just amazing.
OK, so back to my meeting. I made plans to have someone watch Abby so I could attend. When I arrived, the school administrative assistant said, “Oh. (Teacher’s Name) isn’t here today. Didn’t she call you?”
Then today, I got a note in Ethan’s folder saying the school decided to just go ahead and meet without me, and they decided to just observe him for the next year. Turns out his IQ test came out at 103, which is around the 57th percentile.
Flashback: When I was a child at this very same school, I was given what was probably the very same IQ test. Mine came back around average as well. I was not allowed to enter GT. A few years later, I was again tested, given a creativity test. They in turn told my parents that I had one of the most creative tests they had ever seen. Guess what? I qualified.
I'm not telling this to brag. I'm saying that the first test did not fit my skills or "giftedness." The second one did.
Again, I’m not as upset about the fact that he did not get in as I am the reason he did not get in. There is something wrong with a system that focuses on standardized testing and avoids common sense. (Not to mention the fact that they decided to exclude me from the meeting!) Autistic children often don’t do well on standardized tests. He was also given a creativity test. I don’t’ know what it consisted of, but I’m sure it was based off of “typical” children. Ethan may hate playing with dolls or playing cops and robbers, but you can’t tell me he’s not creative.
I thought, “Yeah, but did you ask him to design golf courses for you? Or create a new font? Or see letters and numbers in everyday objects?”
One final point. A friend told me that in her school district, they don’t like to test disabled children for GT because then they don’t qualify for special education. Since when does being disabled mean that you can’t be gifted or talented? I believe Beethoven would disagree. Or Helen Keller. Or Franklin Roosevelt. Or Temple Grandin. Or Albert Einstein, Leonardo Da Vinci, Steven Spielberg, or Bill Gates, all of whom were diagnosed with, or suspected of having autism.
So what’s the answer? I honestly don’t know. I don’t even know what to do about my own situation. I do know that this cookie-cutter system of one-size fits all is failing, especially in a nation where now one in every 110 children is diagnosed with autism.
I’d love to hear suggestions. And more than that, I’d love for us all to create solutions.
Ethan is a smart, smart little boy. By 2o months, before he could speak, he knew his letters. I mean KNEW them. A TV commercial would come on with text and I’d say, “Ethan, do you see the letter Q?” He’d point to it. On a street sign, “Ethan, where’s the letter M?” He’d point to it.
His first real words came around 22 months – the numbers one to 10. I should have known I was in for a ride because he was so excited about those numbers. He would stay up for hours in the middle of the night counting from one to 10 (and I had to lay right there next to him listening.) Again, he KNEWthem, and he was adding more numbers to his vocabulary just as quick as his little language development allowed.
These things just came naturally to him. He taught himself to read by age 3. To add triple digit numbers together by age 4. This past year, it was the world map. He literally taught himself the countries of the world and their capitals. All with very little help on my part. His reading is well beyond that of his peers. (They’ve got him reading chapter books.) He can recognize numbers to infinity and beyond. His mind is just amazing.
OK, so back to my meeting. I made plans to have someone watch Abby so I could attend. When I arrived, the school administrative assistant said, “Oh. (Teacher’s Name) isn’t here today. Didn’t she call you?”
Then today, I got a note in Ethan’s folder saying the school decided to just go ahead and meet without me, and they decided to just observe him for the next year. Turns out his IQ test came out at 103, which is around the 57th percentile.
Flashback: When I was a child at this very same school, I was given what was probably the very same IQ test. Mine came back around average as well. I was not allowed to enter GT. A few years later, I was again tested, given a creativity test. They in turn told my parents that I had one of the most creative tests they had ever seen. Guess what? I qualified.
I'm not telling this to brag. I'm saying that the first test did not fit my skills or "giftedness." The second one did.
Again, I’m not as upset about the fact that he did not get in as I am the reason he did not get in. There is something wrong with a system that focuses on standardized testing and avoids common sense. (Not to mention the fact that they decided to exclude me from the meeting!) Autistic children often don’t do well on standardized tests. He was also given a creativity test. I don’t’ know what it consisted of, but I’m sure it was based off of “typical” children. Ethan may hate playing with dolls or playing cops and robbers, but you can’t tell me he’s not creative.
I thought, “Yeah, but did you ask him to design golf courses for you? Or create a new font? Or see letters and numbers in everyday objects?”
One final point. A friend told me that in her school district, they don’t like to test disabled children for GT because then they don’t qualify for special education. Since when does being disabled mean that you can’t be gifted or talented? I believe Beethoven would disagree. Or Helen Keller. Or Franklin Roosevelt. Or Temple Grandin. Or Albert Einstein, Leonardo Da Vinci, Steven Spielberg, or Bill Gates, all of whom were diagnosed with, or suspected of having autism.
So what’s the answer? I honestly don’t know. I don’t even know what to do about my own situation. I do know that this cookie-cutter system of one-size fits all is failing, especially in a nation where now one in every 110 children is diagnosed with autism.
I’d love to hear suggestions. And more than that, I’d love for us all to create solutions.
Monday, May 31, 2010
A Tribute to My Soldier
It’s Memorial Day– a holiday that for me primarily indicated an extra day off of work, some fireworks and a possible picnic. With my husband Michael on his second deployment in two years, the holiday takes on a whole new experience.
Michael has served the U.S. Army National Guard since he was 17 years old. That’s just shy of 23 years total.
When I met Michael in 1996, he had recently moved to Arkansas to teach sniper school. (I admit I found that incredibly intriguing, not to mention downright sexy.) Mike is an amazing shot with an extreme understanding and love for guns and ballistics. Beyond that, though, he simply is one of these solidiers with “Hooah” in his blood.
Those “grunts” who are truly called to infantry, like Michael, are an unusual breed, and it’s a mindset I honestly don’t get. There’s something in these men that makes them salivate at the idea of battle. During training, it’s what makes them laugh at things like “getting smoked” (a.k.a. “Drop and give me 20”), sleeping in freezing rain or bug-infested heat, eating nasty chow with a spoon (that’s all they get – a spoon) and so on. It’s also what allows Mike to now laugh and eat peanut butter crackers when his vehicle is dodging IEDs and under fire by the Taliban.
Mike left the infantry about 10 years ago, something that was honestly very painful for him to do. But he had a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity to work full-time for the Guard in their Marksmanship Training Unit, building guns for the national shooting teams. And he also had a wife to think of, and later children. So while in many ways he got his dream job, he had to give up on other dreams, like going Special Forces.
Since February, Mike has been on his second deployment. The first was in Iraq and it was a horrible experience. Not because of the war, but because of the boredom. An infantryman swept away from his wife and two young children then stuck overseas behind a desk. Downright miserable.
So when we decided to take his current deployment to Afghanistan – and yes, it was an optional deployment – many thought we were crazy. We had our reasons, and while they were all legitimate, perhaps the biggest reason was that he was actually needed for this one.
Mike grew up in a small town in Iowa where farming is second nature. The community’s primary job source, however, is the meat packing industry, and Mike served his time both working in a plant as well as helping build one of the facilities. He’s also an amazing machinist and fabricator. Beyond all of that, however, he’s just plain smart.
So he’s in Afghanistan where he and his fellow troops will hopefully be teaching the locals better farming techniques so they can break free from growing poppies for opium and begin to feed their families.
It’s a noble cause. A pretty concept. And while I’m proud to have him serve, the truth is, it’s nowhere near fairytale land.
When Mike’s unit arrived in Afghanistan, it was as if no one remembered they were coming. The troops had no place to stay. They sat around for weeks while Mike traveled to location after location just to find room for them to stay. Then they were put in tents with no electricity. (Mike thought that was funny, fyi.)
After finally setting up shop, the troops slowly began with their mission.
Many of the Afghan locals live in mud huts. They have no food or water. They have no sewage systems. Their babies are starving because their mommies cannot produce enough milk. They need the Americans’ help. If they accept that help, however, they risk getting their heads chopped off by the Taliban. And the Taliban are rampant where Mike is serving.
For awhile, I only heard from Mike about every other day. I’ve learned to recognize that when I don't get an email from Mike, it usually means there is a blackout, ie., somewhere closeby a soldier has been killed. (He's late writing me tonight, so I'm just wondering and trying not to worry.)
Perhaps this hit home most closely to Mike a few weeks ago. At lunch, he teased one of the independent contractors about eating so much ice cream. “What can I say,” the guy chuckled. “It’s my one vice.” Later that day, the guy was blown to bits by an IED.
But Mike is infantry. He misses us, yet he’s pretty happy over there truth be told. And for that, I’m pretty happy too.
I’m proud of him for all he’s doing, More than that, though, I’m proud of him for all he’s being. Things that are completely opposite of who I am and often beyond my understanding. These are the things I fell in love with almost 13 years ago.
Little things, like eating goat liver and heart with the locals and actually enjoying it. Taking cookies and tea to the Afghan truck drivers stuck on the base and unable to contact their families. Making fun of the guys whining about the lack of electricity or limited showers. Wishing he’d been on the truck that flipped and almost went off a cliff after being fired upon by the Taliban. (And yes, he was supposed to be on that truck.)
These are the things that make my husband my soldier. For these things, and so many more, I am proud to be his Army wife.
Michael has served the U.S. Army National Guard since he was 17 years old. That’s just shy of 23 years total.
When I met Michael in 1996, he had recently moved to Arkansas to teach sniper school. (I admit I found that incredibly intriguing, not to mention downright sexy.) Mike is an amazing shot with an extreme understanding and love for guns and ballistics. Beyond that, though, he simply is one of these solidiers with “Hooah” in his blood.
Those “grunts” who are truly called to infantry, like Michael, are an unusual breed, and it’s a mindset I honestly don’t get. There’s something in these men that makes them salivate at the idea of battle. During training, it’s what makes them laugh at things like “getting smoked” (a.k.a. “Drop and give me 20”), sleeping in freezing rain or bug-infested heat, eating nasty chow with a spoon (that’s all they get – a spoon) and so on. It’s also what allows Mike to now laugh and eat peanut butter crackers when his vehicle is dodging IEDs and under fire by the Taliban.
Mike left the infantry about 10 years ago, something that was honestly very painful for him to do. But he had a once-in-a-lifetime job opportunity to work full-time for the Guard in their Marksmanship Training Unit, building guns for the national shooting teams. And he also had a wife to think of, and later children. So while in many ways he got his dream job, he had to give up on other dreams, like going Special Forces.
Since February, Mike has been on his second deployment. The first was in Iraq and it was a horrible experience. Not because of the war, but because of the boredom. An infantryman swept away from his wife and two young children then stuck overseas behind a desk. Downright miserable.
So when we decided to take his current deployment to Afghanistan – and yes, it was an optional deployment – many thought we were crazy. We had our reasons, and while they were all legitimate, perhaps the biggest reason was that he was actually needed for this one.
Mike grew up in a small town in Iowa where farming is second nature. The community’s primary job source, however, is the meat packing industry, and Mike served his time both working in a plant as well as helping build one of the facilities. He’s also an amazing machinist and fabricator. Beyond all of that, however, he’s just plain smart.
So he’s in Afghanistan where he and his fellow troops will hopefully be teaching the locals better farming techniques so they can break free from growing poppies for opium and begin to feed their families.
It’s a noble cause. A pretty concept. And while I’m proud to have him serve, the truth is, it’s nowhere near fairytale land.
When Mike’s unit arrived in Afghanistan, it was as if no one remembered they were coming. The troops had no place to stay. They sat around for weeks while Mike traveled to location after location just to find room for them to stay. Then they were put in tents with no electricity. (Mike thought that was funny, fyi.)
After finally setting up shop, the troops slowly began with their mission.
Many of the Afghan locals live in mud huts. They have no food or water. They have no sewage systems. Their babies are starving because their mommies cannot produce enough milk. They need the Americans’ help. If they accept that help, however, they risk getting their heads chopped off by the Taliban. And the Taliban are rampant where Mike is serving.
For awhile, I only heard from Mike about every other day. I’ve learned to recognize that when I don't get an email from Mike, it usually means there is a blackout, ie., somewhere closeby a soldier has been killed. (He's late writing me tonight, so I'm just wondering and trying not to worry.)
Perhaps this hit home most closely to Mike a few weeks ago. At lunch, he teased one of the independent contractors about eating so much ice cream. “What can I say,” the guy chuckled. “It’s my one vice.” Later that day, the guy was blown to bits by an IED.
But Mike is infantry. He misses us, yet he’s pretty happy over there truth be told. And for that, I’m pretty happy too.
I’m proud of him for all he’s doing, More than that, though, I’m proud of him for all he’s being. Things that are completely opposite of who I am and often beyond my understanding. These are the things I fell in love with almost 13 years ago.
Little things, like eating goat liver and heart with the locals and actually enjoying it. Taking cookies and tea to the Afghan truck drivers stuck on the base and unable to contact their families. Making fun of the guys whining about the lack of electricity or limited showers. Wishing he’d been on the truck that flipped and almost went off a cliff after being fired upon by the Taliban. (And yes, he was supposed to be on that truck.)
These are the things that make my husband my soldier. For these things, and so many more, I am proud to be his Army wife.
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Not-So-Happy Meal
Ethan is about all things golf. Golf courses. Golf Channel. Mini Golf. Computer golf.
One of his favorite places to go is what we've named "computer McDonald's." This particular restaurant has a separate indoor play area with air hockey, foosball and Ethan's favorite, the touch-screen computers that include a variety of golf games. The restaurant is located within walking distance of Ethan's school, so we meander over there more often than I'd like to admit.
Yesterday was such a day. As is our ritual, Ethan rushed into the playroom while I got his cheeseburger Happy Meal -- meat and cheese only with chocolate milk and a cup of water. He was already on the computer well into his golf game by the time I brought him his food.
This day, however, there was another little boy around Ethan's age sitting at the computer next to him. Playing alongside this boy was a lady I'm guessing was his grandma. I'm going to call her Grandma Grumpy.
The little boy was playing the same golf game that Ethan was, and the grandma was playing too. The young boy, trying to help his grandma, was explaining how to make the ball go farther. The grandma was not appreciative. "Why don't you just leave me alone and let me play my own way?" she snapped.
Ethan is the biggest cheerleader I have ever seen, and when he realized these two were playing golf...well, he couldn't just mind his own business. He tried to keep his focus on his own game, but the temptatin was too strong. He just HAD to watch.
So he peered over their shoulders. Yes, invading their personal bubble a bit too much. He would comment on the game in his mumbly manner that often only Ethan and I understand. He would jump up and down when a good shot was made. He would shout "oh, that was soooo close" when they didn't quite make it in the hole.
Abby and I observed all of this while cuddling in our normal spot alongside the windowsill across the room. (The sun shines through that particular window, making it the only semi-warm spot in the otherwise frigid gameroom.)
Finally, Grandma Grumpy turned and snapped at Ethan: "Why don't you just let us play it our own way and leave us alone?!?!"
Whoa. Now surely, you didn't just snap at MY son. Every ounce of my being wanted to go over there and let her have it. Nothing ignites a fire in a mommy like having someone be hateful to her child. I debated for a moment. I wanted to tell her that Ethan has autism. That he loves golf. That he struggles with social norms and he is only six years old, so get over it lady. I wanted to. But I decided she probably didn't care and that was her loss.
Fortunately, I don't think the Grandma Grumpy phased Ethan. She snatched up her grandson, fussing at him over something, then angrily stomped out the door.
The whole thing just made me feel sad. I felt bad for the little boy, but even more, I felt bad for Grandma Grumpy. Hopefully she was just having an off day. Otherwise, to get so angry over a stupid computer golf game -- I can only imagine what it's like when the big bad stuff hits.
So as I'm reading back throught this blog, I'm saying a special prayer for Grandma Grumpy that she can have a happier meal tomorrow.
One of his favorite places to go is what we've named "computer McDonald's." This particular restaurant has a separate indoor play area with air hockey, foosball and Ethan's favorite, the touch-screen computers that include a variety of golf games. The restaurant is located within walking distance of Ethan's school, so we meander over there more often than I'd like to admit.
Yesterday was such a day. As is our ritual, Ethan rushed into the playroom while I got his cheeseburger Happy Meal -- meat and cheese only with chocolate milk and a cup of water. He was already on the computer well into his golf game by the time I brought him his food.
This day, however, there was another little boy around Ethan's age sitting at the computer next to him. Playing alongside this boy was a lady I'm guessing was his grandma. I'm going to call her Grandma Grumpy.
The little boy was playing the same golf game that Ethan was, and the grandma was playing too. The young boy, trying to help his grandma, was explaining how to make the ball go farther. The grandma was not appreciative. "Why don't you just leave me alone and let me play my own way?" she snapped.
Ethan is the biggest cheerleader I have ever seen, and when he realized these two were playing golf...well, he couldn't just mind his own business. He tried to keep his focus on his own game, but the temptatin was too strong. He just HAD to watch.
So he peered over their shoulders. Yes, invading their personal bubble a bit too much. He would comment on the game in his mumbly manner that often only Ethan and I understand. He would jump up and down when a good shot was made. He would shout "oh, that was soooo close" when they didn't quite make it in the hole.
Abby and I observed all of this while cuddling in our normal spot alongside the windowsill across the room. (The sun shines through that particular window, making it the only semi-warm spot in the otherwise frigid gameroom.)
Finally, Grandma Grumpy turned and snapped at Ethan: "Why don't you just let us play it our own way and leave us alone?!?!"
Whoa. Now surely, you didn't just snap at MY son. Every ounce of my being wanted to go over there and let her have it. Nothing ignites a fire in a mommy like having someone be hateful to her child. I debated for a moment. I wanted to tell her that Ethan has autism. That he loves golf. That he struggles with social norms and he is only six years old, so get over it lady. I wanted to. But I decided she probably didn't care and that was her loss.
Fortunately, I don't think the Grandma Grumpy phased Ethan. She snatched up her grandson, fussing at him over something, then angrily stomped out the door.
The whole thing just made me feel sad. I felt bad for the little boy, but even more, I felt bad for Grandma Grumpy. Hopefully she was just having an off day. Otherwise, to get so angry over a stupid computer golf game -- I can only imagine what it's like when the big bad stuff hits.
So as I'm reading back throught this blog, I'm saying a special prayer for Grandma Grumpy that she can have a happier meal tomorrow.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Baptism Sunday
Yesterday at church was a baptism service. If I'd only known I would have brought Kleenex.
You see, witnessing people proclaim life change is emotional enough as it is. But the second person baptized -- a boy, who I'd guess was probably about 12 years old -- hit me square in the heart.
Before each baptism a short video clip was shown with the person talking about accepting Christ. When I saw this boy, I knew something was different. Others were taken aback when he eventually said he had autism; I recognized it right away.
What a huge step for this young man. Speaking to a film crew. Standing in a baptismal in front of a large audience. Being in an unusual place, out of his routine. Taking this massive step in front of God and our church body. I found myself cringing and praying at the same time as I imagined Ethan up there someday. And then I wept.
The boy was baptized by a man who had served as his mentor for years. The man told the story of how when he was younger, this boy would sometimes lose control at church in violent fits of rage, at no fault of his own. We who are familiar with autism recognize this as the "meltdown" and it is an extremely traumatic experience. This boy would get out of his mind until his system finally regulated itself. Then he would exhaustedly crawl up into his mentor's lap and just sob over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And the mentor would hold him tightly, rock him gently and whisper, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Guess what? To God, we often probably resemble this young boy in his out-of-control state. Yet He patiently waits by us as we work our way through the meltdown, until we eventually "snap out of it" and return to our senses. Then He longs for us to crawl into His lap and let our Daddy comfort us, gently reminding us "it's ok. Nothing you can do will ever make me stop loving you."
What a beautiful image of our heavenly Father.
You see, witnessing people proclaim life change is emotional enough as it is. But the second person baptized -- a boy, who I'd guess was probably about 12 years old -- hit me square in the heart.
Before each baptism a short video clip was shown with the person talking about accepting Christ. When I saw this boy, I knew something was different. Others were taken aback when he eventually said he had autism; I recognized it right away.
What a huge step for this young man. Speaking to a film crew. Standing in a baptismal in front of a large audience. Being in an unusual place, out of his routine. Taking this massive step in front of God and our church body. I found myself cringing and praying at the same time as I imagined Ethan up there someday. And then I wept.
The boy was baptized by a man who had served as his mentor for years. The man told the story of how when he was younger, this boy would sometimes lose control at church in violent fits of rage, at no fault of his own. We who are familiar with autism recognize this as the "meltdown" and it is an extremely traumatic experience. This boy would get out of his mind until his system finally regulated itself. Then he would exhaustedly crawl up into his mentor's lap and just sob over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." And the mentor would hold him tightly, rock him gently and whisper, "It's ok. I forgive you."
Guess what? To God, we often probably resemble this young boy in his out-of-control state. Yet He patiently waits by us as we work our way through the meltdown, until we eventually "snap out of it" and return to our senses. Then He longs for us to crawl into His lap and let our Daddy comfort us, gently reminding us "it's ok. Nothing you can do will ever make me stop loving you."
What a beautiful image of our heavenly Father.
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