This Ain't Nothin'

A few weeks ago, I was in a community theater show called Moon Over Buffalo.  It's a comedy about a pair of aging stars, a scandal, and backstage hijinks.  Everyone associated with the production--actors, director, costumers, crew--was lovely and supportive and fun.  The audience laughed.  A good time was had by all.

I'm so glam.

This was huge for me because I was doing something for myself that I loved and hadn't done in so so long.  Theater used to be a huge part of who I was, and it had all but disappeared from my life.  I hadn't set foot on stage in 12 years.  Friends congratulated me and then asked the inevitable question:

"Weren't you nervous?"

And here's the surprising answer:  Not at all. 


I couldn't have been more surprised by my total lack of nerves.  Back in the day, I would pace frantically before the show, fighting off the urge to puke.  Once I got on stage, I'd settle down, and eventually have fun.  But beforehand?  I would be a wreck.  Not this time.  I still paced, but just to get my energy level up, not out on anxiety.  Before my first entrance, I took a breath, turned the doorknob, and walked onstage as if I belonged there.

Like it was no big deal.

Because you know what?  In the grand scheme of things, it was no big deal.  With all the crazy autism stuff I deal with, not to mention teaching snarky adolescents while being a mother to another snarky adolescent, it seemed like putting on a costume and pretending to be someone else was the easiest part of my day.  It was even a relief.

The advantage to being an autism mom is that situations that scare other people are nothing to us.  Our everyday life is so effin' hard that perceived challenges can seem easy.  Face it:  What's easier than being a special needs parent?  Um, pretty much everything.

Whenever I face something difficult, it helps to remind myself that I've already dealt with worse.  So when the Boy had a meltdown in the car the other day because he wanted ice cream and french fries and doughnuts and snow and Santa and Baby Jesus (I kid you not), I knew nothing would placate him.  But I'd seen worse--much worse--so I decided to focus on my breathing.  Breathe in for four....breathe out for four.  Breathe in for four...breathe out for four.  Resist the urge to scream.  Be all zen and crystals and patchouli.  Think about breathing and yoga and Rodney Yee in his tiny hot pants--God bless him--and resist the urge to yell.  And it worked!  I stayed calm.  Eventually, he burned himself out and we went to the park and played on the swings and all was well.

I just have to remember that I've seen worse.

Or, to quote the hobo in Slaughterhouse Five, "You think this is bad?  This ain't bad."*




*All right, if you've read the book, you know those are the hobo's last words, so I may also be making a secret ironic point here.  So it goes.

Five Reasons Why I Still Tri

When I decided to do my first triathlon, the Boy was only about five months old.  I announced my intentions to my family.  My mom, attempting to stifle a laugh, took a gulp of wine and then said, "Um...ok?"  She had reason to be skeptical.  I didn't own a bike, the most I had ever run in my life was one mile in gym class once, and swimming was something I thought you did if you fell out of a boat.  When my friend convinced me to take a spin class with her, I complained for two days that my cooch was sore.

I wasn't what you'd call athletic.

I just wanted a challenge--something to do that I'd never done before.  I had been a dancer, but I found the adult dance classes depressing.  As a teenager, I could sink into splits, but now I could barely get my foot up on the barre.  So I bought a book called Slow, Fat Triathlete by Jayne Williams and got to work.  And four months later, on August 8, 2008, I crossed the finish line for the first time in my life.  My husband was there waiting for me.

"You are amazing!" he yelled. 

Celebrating our awesomeness.

"I KNOW!" I shrieked.

It was the most wonderful feeling to know that I had done something I never thought I was capable of doing.  I proved to myself that I am a badass when I need to be.  That feeling would become very important to me before too long, because almost exactly one year later, we got my son's autism diagnosis.  And I thought, OK, you can do this.  You're tougher than you thought.  Triathlons gave me the confidence to face the never-ending challenges of parenting a child on the spectrum.

 I still race.  I'm not much faster than I was when I started and I don't train as much as I'd like.  (That whole autism-parenting thing takes up a lot of time.)   I'm not competitive.  I run my own race--which is usually far behind a lot of other people, but that's o.k., because I'm still in it. I have nothing to prove to myself now.  So why do it?  What started out as a challenge has become a lifeline.  Racing is my therapy.

Because everyone loves lists, here are my top five reasons for racing:

1)  Training.  Without the goal, I would not train, and training is important and sometimes fun. I love the feeling of being in the water--my earplugs and goggles help me block out the rest of the world.  I just count my strokes and listen to the sound of my own breathing and follow that blue line at the bottom of the pool.  Sometimes training brings unexpected fun, like the time my husband and I went out for an exhausting, hilly ride and ended up at a bar with a sign that said "Bikers Welcome."  We were not the kind of bikers they meant.  They wore leather.  We wore spandex.

2)  Health.  This isn't about weight loss.  (I don't consider myself "spandex-ready," and I don't care.)  It's about time to focus on myself, and do something just for me.  But it's also about my family--about being there for my family.  I have to live a long, long time.  My kids are going to need me and I want to get as far as I can before I have to pass the baton.  Besides, our lives are stressful; this is a positive way to deal with stress, and allows for some trade-offs.  Like my buddy Joe said to me in the faculty cafeteria, "As long as I'm teaching special ed, I can't quit drinking.  So I'm gonna eat this salad."  I'm not quitting wine or M&Ms anytime soon.

3)  Triathlon people.  Love them!  Tri people are the most encouraging and open people in the world.  Shivering at the water's edge before a start immediately bonds people.   Athletes emerge from porta-johns with their arms raised in triumph.  "Yes!  I POOPED!"  And we cheer.  (Note:  It's very important to poop before a race.  Triathletes discuss poop as often as autism parents do.  They are my people.). 

4)  Triathlon spectators.  They cheer for everyone--not just their friends!  They bang on cowbells and hold up signs. I love these people.  How great would life be if we had these spectators cheering us on as we faced other challenging moments in life?  Imagine trying to drag a mid-meltdown child out of Target, and you've got a crowd of supporters encouraging you.  "You've got this, Mom!  You are awesome!  Only two more aisles and you're out of the store!  YOU CAN DO IT!"

5)  The Finish Line.  I need a finish line.  I need to look back and say, Yeah, I did that.  I need to feel like I've accomplished something.  Parenting is great, but it's never done, it's never over.  But when I cross the finish line, that can't be undone.  I've done this great thing and I've done it for myself and there's nothing that can take that away. 

Plus, many of the better races have a beer garden at the finish, and that's good, too.

Greener Grass And Fences And Shit: Why We Are No Worse Off Than Anybody Else

I sometimes speak in a proverbial shorthand I learned from my father.  It started years ago, when my mother, a catalog-shopping enthusiast, told me I needed to be more careful with my money.  My father, blown away by the irony of my mother offering financial advice, attempted to tell her that this was like the pot calling the kettle black.  Only it didn't come out that way.

"Pots and kettles and shit!" he shouted, waving his arms in some kind of gesture meant to indicate a connection between us.  "I mean, are you kidding?!"

A new way of talking was born.

I've taught proverbial shorthand to my colleagues, and it's served us well as educators.  Like when we call a meeting to discuss the attitude problem of a student, and meet the surly parents.  "Wow! Apples and trees and shit, huh?"  Or when we give up our lunch periods to tutor kids who don't show up.  "Oh, well, you know.  Horses to water and shit."  Or even the notion that we have to jettison the entire existing curriculum to accommodate the Common Core.  "Really?  Don't you think that's just baby and the bathwater and shit?" 

Note:  It's imperative to add "and shit" to the abbreviated phrase.

Anyway, this all leads me to my point, which is, "Greener grass and fences and shit."  I mean that we sometimes get it into our heads that our NT friends have happier lives than we do.  But I don't think they do.  Their lives are different, for sure.  Easier?  Most likely.  But happier?

There are times when it's almost impossible not to compare.  After spending an afternoon at a friend's house, Big Bro was uncharacteristically quiet.  I asked him what was up.  Didn't he have a good time?

It turns out he had a really good time. He and his friend played soccer and basketball and manhunt with her younger brother.  Then they went swimming and ate pizza and played video games--all three of them, all day long.

"It's just...she gets to play with her brother.  It must be nice.  My brother doesn't play like that."  And there it was.

I tried to explain how different the circumstances were.  Laura and her brother were a year apart in age.  There's a five year age gap between our boys.  Apples to oranges and shit.  But he wasn't having it. 

"Look," I said.  "Our family is different.  But there is no less love in our house.  Yes, Laura and her brother play together, but they also fight like cats and dogs.  Your brother doesn't play ball with you, but he does idolize you.  To him, you are better than Elvis and the Beatles and Derek Jeter all in one.  We do things differently here.  But we still love each other just as much."

That doesn't mean it's easy. 

One night, when things were getting particularly "interesting" in our house, my husband got frustrated.  "Other families get to watch movies together.  Other parents get to relax a bit.  Why is nothing easy?  Why is everything such an effin' tractor pull?"

And I responded, "I don't know.  But nobody is any happier than we are."  And I meant it.  I mean it.

We were once an NT family--just the three of us.  Were we happier then?  Of course not.  We had our worries and stresses and arguments.  We didn't know at the time that our lives were relatively simple.  We didn't know that a few years down the road, we would be installing locks on every appliance and door.  We didn't know that we'd be in this club we'd never asked to join, but has the most amazing members.  All we knew is that our family didn't feel quite complete. 

Well, it's complete now.  He's our miracle.  And yes, it's hard.  We're on our toes 24/7 and we don't get enough sleep.  But we get to celebrate every little milestone.  We get as excited about the boy playing Candy Land appropriately as we do Big Bro making the honor role.  They both bring us such joy.  We're going to worry about some things that other families don't worry about and they're going to worry about some things that don't cross our minds.  And that's cool.  Everybody has their shit.

And shit does get weird around here.  Sleep is interrupted all the effin' time.  Our conversations revolve around meds, therapies and meltdowns, as well as report cards, scout meetings, and baseball practice.  Every outing requires Navy Seal-level planning.  There is often some kind of food substance stuck to our walls.  And we watch an awful lot of Raffi.  But we laugh an awful lot, too.  My kids are funny.  I mean, the boy was naked and trying to hang rosary beads off his junk!  That's good comedy!  We have dance parties in the kitchen to Harry Belafonte and the Beastie Boys.  And I can hardly wait for the weather to get warm so I have an excuse to blast the kids with the garden hose.  Oh, how we all laugh!

Other families likely have cleaner houses.  Other families definitely have quieter houses.  But I don't believe that other families have happier houses.

Home and heart and shit.

Whatever Keeps You Off the Front Page: "Coping" with Autism

Last summer, after a particularly rough evening involving screaming and kicking and a soupçon of fecal smearing for good measure, I grabbed a bottle of rum and went out to my kids' swingset.  I pulled out my phone and texted my best buddy, Deb.

Me:  "Dude.  I'm getting drunk on the boys' swingset."
Deb:  "Whatever keeps you off the front page."

Debbie's wise like that.

It's good advice.  I've recently become friendly with a mom whose son was just diagnosed.  She's in the "Holy Shit" phase of all of this.  She's reeling from the news and dealing with family members who are in denial.  She asked me to meet her for a drink because she mistakenly believes that I've got my shit together.  I do not have my shit together.  (The shit is smeared everywhere.  N'yuck, n'yuck.)  But talking to her got me thinking about what's keeping me from losing my ever-loving mind, at least temporarily.

So, in no particular order:

1.  Exercise.  (Don't get excited.  I'm not going to preach.)  I'm not remotely athletic, but about a year before the diagnosis, I did my first triathlon.  That gave me such a boost of confidence, that I figured I was up to any challenge--even autism.  (Granted, I had no effin' idea how hard it was going to be.)  I still race in the summer, though I don't have time to train like I used to.  But I do meet my friend Dana at kickboxing once a week.  It's very satisfying to beat the crap out of a bag for an hour, and it makes me feel badass--probably because there's nothing punching back.

Exercise is great and gets your endorphins going, but before you start thinking I'm well-adjusted, let me tell you about something I like even more:

2.  Alcohol.  I'm not being remotely ironic here.  I medicate with chardonnay.  Cheap chardonnay.

3.  Friends.  My oldest girlfriends are probably the only non-ASD parents that I can be totally open with.  They are awesome at not pitying me--probably because they know what a jerk I am.  I am awesome at not envying them--probably because I know how fucked up they really are.  (I say this will all the affection in the world.)  We don't get together nearly often enough, but even the occasional weekend at the shore is an effin' tonic for my nerves.

4.  My husband.  I know.  I'm lucky.  Though I have to say, sometimes we can't vent to each other.  There have been times that he's wanted to talk about his feelings and frustrations, and I've cut him off because I can't take in any more.  I've reached critical mass.  I'm soaking in it.   But I have a partner in this madness.  And he can cook.

5.  Downton Abbey.  At least I don't have to worry about the pressures of maintaining a castle that's been in the family for generations.  We live in a three bedroom ranch that was built in 1981.  However, it does need new windows, so in that way I can relate to Lord Grantham.

Holy crap.  What was that?  Did I mention the alcohol?  Do you see I wasn't joking?

5.  This blog.  You.  All of this wonderful networking and communication has made me feel like I'm not the only one.  Sometimes I'll read a blog or one of your comments and be amazed because someone has read my mind.  It's the best thing I've done for myself in a long time.

I think that's the key.  We have to have something for ourselves.  We can't just be ASD parents all the time.  We can be writers or artists or mediocre athletes...whatever it takes to keep us off the front page.