Mother's Day, What I really want to say is....

I had no idea that Mother's Day was this coming up Sunday. My comment: I'm too busy being a mommy to know things like that. As I'm sitting at my desk, I glance over at my page-a-day calendar. It says April 30th. The days scramble together and leave this weird aftertaste. Did that 24 hour span of time really happen? Obviously something happened between now and a week ago to suck me into a wormhole. I don't know the day right now, let alone that Sunday is a holiday where I am supposed to be celebrated as this tights and cape wearing hero called "Mommy".

So let me say, today is not April 30th, and the first of May has come and gone days ago. It's May....(I have to look, honestly) May 5th. Our rent was due five days ago (oops), I have no milk in the fridge (must stop and get some), and I'm too tired to express how tired I am (trust me. I'm tired). Mother's day is this. It's screaming in the morning to get out of bed because we are running late again. It's wondering if the boys brushed their teeth because I didn't have time to check because I was pumping the baby's morning bottle. (Insert deep breath here.) It's waking up at 2am just to worry about what I need to do at 5am while shoving a piece of 'cake bread' in my mouth. (tossing in chocolate chips was such a good idea.) It's chaos and flipping insanity. It's tearing apart every weird place Logan may have put his silly purple McDonald's Hot Wheel, and praying Connor doesn't notice I gave his away because I couldn't find Logan's. It's helping Connor play his Spiderman game because killing Black Venom is too hard, and mushing friendship bread again and again with Logan, even though it is ridiculous (his word). Today is Mother's Day, and tomorrow is too, because that's what I am. Sometimes I may not be so good at this Mommy thing....but I'll wake up tomorrow and celebrate again. I'll mush the bread, and beat up Black Venom, and beat my three minute shower record.

So what I really want to say is, Happy day, mothers.
I don't know about you, but that's what I'm shooting for.

Dipping in the Shake and Bake, Honey

Logan is well into his second week at the AAOL and three weeks on Risperal. He seems to be settling into his new routine without much drama, though everything is just so ridiculous to him. Getting up is ridiculous, the clothes he wears are ridiculous, the color yellow... it's all ridiculous. Of course, asking him why is pointless. Don't you know, new things are just absurd bullshit. His words, not mine. He is so raw and honest, and leaves me with my mouth hanging open more than shut. I hardly know what to say, and really do not want to fight that battle. Besides, is he wrong? New shoes are always so damn uncomfortable, and such is life for Logan.

We all have new names in my shoebox. I've become Honey Girl, Connor is Ian, and poor Morgan is Williams. I have no idea why- but Logan has decided we all need new identities. Connor plays along without a hitch, and I really don't mind. Who doesn't occasionally wish they were someone else? It's funny how we all shift and turn to fit into the puzzles he creates. It's an unspoken rule. We buckle and fold to make things as easy as possible. Life in our family is human origami.

Last night he told me I made a "fabulous dinner for our strong family" which really made me stop and think. For starters, it was shake and bake. Beyond that, it's interesting how he perceives our family unit. Just when I have guilted myself to pieces for failing as a mother, Logan is right there to point out what works, even if it is out of wack. We're not necessarily the model, traditional bunch, and our world may be observed as chaos. It is what it is, but one thing is for certain... we are a strong family tossed in the shake and bake... and sometimes it is fabulous.

Risperdal, Demons, and More Changes

Logan has been on Risperdal for 11 days. It's an anti-psychotic medication that is supposed to help with his irritability and aggression. It amazes me that I ever reached this place. No one wants to medicate their child, especially with something that is given regularly to schizophrenics. Is my son crazy? It's a stigma no one wants attached to their lovie... until they start punching teachers in the face and stomach and spitting venom in strangers' faces. At that point, all bets are off. He seems to be tolerating the dosage well, though it made him very sleepy at first. He told me his eyes were stars and I felt horrible. I keep thinking, I'm drugging my kid because I can't handle it.... he's miserable, and I'm the one who can't take it.

I have a crazy drunken Russian neighbor (I adore her) who suggested I take him to a priest. I caught myself googling "autism & demons", "autism exorcism". I wasn't surprised to find an article about a set of parents who did just that--and stood by praying while their son was suffocated to death by the minister. I shake my head, but the thing is... I get it. I get wanting to try everything and anything to find your little child inside that monster. I, too, scream out to God to just do something. Please. Just for a moment, make him a happy, normal, well adjusted six-year-old. And trust me, I've been tempted to call my father up here to lay hands on my son until something slithers out of him. The truth is, that would be too easy. Autism isn't some fire breathing serpent embedded in my son. If only this disorder were that simple. It's not an extra limb, and I can't put him on an organ transplant list to fix it and make him all better. Our jet crashed here and can't be repaired. Holland.

Tomorrow Logan starts a new school. Again. It's a charter school designed especially for autistic kiddos. The student/teacher ratio is awesome, and I feel as if good things may happen there. Perhaps Logan will once again be comfortable being himself. Maybe he won't worry that people are talking about him all the time, or making fun of him when they laugh. Hopefully he doesn't hide under the slide when someone tries to play with him. Please. Lord. Let him smile and be truly happy to wiggle in his own skin again.

I really miss my Honey Boy, and as exhausted and sick as I am, I won't stop tearing through life until I find him. Until then, let's hope he doesn't clock anyone in the jaw tomorrow. Little steps. Ya' know?

I Hate Holland

I once read that having a child with autism is like planning a trip to the Bahamas and landing in Holland. It isn't what you planned for, or expected, but it isn't such a bad place to be. Well, that's a bunch of crap. I f'ing hate Holland. I hate autism, and I despise what it has done to my child. I decided to create a blog to help both myself and others express (honestly) what life is like with an autistic child. I thought once we made it through the diagnosis, the early intervention battles, advocates, and finding words that it would be easier. My son, after-all, has superseded "severe". However, I am now learning that it doesn't get easier, the battles simply change. I started fighting this war in one place, only to discover the battle follows me wherever I go. Yes. I hate Holland.

My son, Logan, was diagnosed first with developmental delay at 10 months, and then autism at 18 months. We were lucky. We managed to get an early diagnosis. "This is half the battle" I was told. Like most mothers of children with this diagnosis, I became this cape wearing superhero, enrolling him in every service I could find. I became an expert in all things autism, ABA, play therapy... the list goes on and on. I managed a 40 hour a week Applied Behavior Analysis therapy program at home. I fought our local school district in order to put him in the school of my choice at age three. I breathed a sigh of relief when Logan spoke his first word, and cried when he said, "I love you" the first time. Holland. I celebrated the place. Logan saw the world as a wonderful, perfect utopia. Everything was flowers and there was so much we could all learn from him. He excelled academically, and transitioned into a regular kindergarten class with typical peers. We did it. (Insert house falling on head here.)

I don't know what happened or what went wrong, but Holland went straight to hell and fast.

I can handle the quirky little behaviors. I can deal with the hand-flapping, sleep disruptions, repetitive motions, lining things up based on size, shape, color, etc. Pullups don't bother me. People staring in stores...tough shit. But when my son, my sweet, lovable son, began having violent outbursts combined with profanity and spitting.... come on! The difference between landing in Holland and landing in the Bahamas became clear. We can't just hop on a jet and leave this place behind. I am trapped in this godforsaken hell.

And so, this is where the blog journey begins... dealing with where I am now as a mother stuck in Holland with a little boy so lost, confused, and angry that he can't control himself. As a mother who has gone from celebrating autism, to hating the diagnosis more than anyone can imagine.

Yes. I hate Holland.