On Functioning

**Disclaimer:  I write from my perspective as a parent of a "high-functioning" child on the autism spectrum. I'm absolutely not here to judge anyone else's perspective, diagnosis, or child.  These are simply thoughts on the term functioning as it pertains to our specific situation.**

Autism a 'spectrum disorder.'  To me, this indicates a many-faceted and layered rainbow of abilities and challenges given to unique individuals. Unfortunately, the diagnostic critera make it look more like a sliding scale. This is where I start to grumble at the term "functioning."

My son has a High-Functioning Autism diagnosis, formerly Asperger's Syndrome. He is incredibly smart, hyper verbal, and gifted in too many ways to list here. 

However. 

He cannot dress, bathe, or use the toilet without prompting, redirection, and most times, assistance.  He forgets to drink anything if it's not brought to him with the amount needed to be drunk marked on the side of his water bottle.  He will ignore or not notice the need to move his bowels to the point, we've landed in the ER twice fearing a hernia or appendix rupture, only to find he was so severely constipated, the pain rendered him immobile.  He's currently unable to go into a noisy restaurant without earplugs or spend more than a couple of minutes in a store with harsh fluorescent lighting without his sunglasses (even with them, stores are touch and go).  He stims uncontrollably when in uncomfortable or exciting situations, his body desperately trying to soothe his dysregulated brain. His social anxiety keeps him from typical childhood occupations like extracurricular activities, clubs, parks, and birthday parties. He tries and tries, but it always proves too much and leaves him feeling defeated because we quit or had to leave early... again... while the other kids he desperately wants to be with continue to run and play, oblivious of his struggle and the effort it took him just to show up.  He wants to spend the night with his grandparents, but can't stay once he gets there because he needs his own bed and routine to calm his anxiety enough to sleep.  He does not communicate feelings, emotions, needs, or wants in developmentally appropriate ways.  He hits, kicks, karate chops, threatens, and screams in order to make his needs and wants known.  At this point, his preschool-aged sister functions more independently than he is able.

I have every reason to hope that with the right supports in place from now until the transition to adulthood is made, our son will be able to live and function independently.  But right now, I'm still prompting and using visual schedules to remind him to put his shoes on the right feet and reading social stories to explain why hitting, screaming, kicking, and spitting at friends and adults (a phase of development NT kids his age left behind about three or four years ago) is not a way to solve problems. 

I know the term low-functioning in reference to the autism spectrum is usually used for persons whose symptoms severely inhibit communication, have a low IQ, and/or whose symptoms interfere severely with their prospective ability to be independent.  According to diagnostic criteria, my son is not low-functioning.  According to his daily life, he's not high-functioning either. He's in survival mode.  He's "getting-by-functioning" a majority of the time (though, of course, we have better and worse days).  We're doing everything we can to change this and encourage and support his slowly progressing independence.  We don't want him to simply function.  We are not raising a robot; we are raising a human being. We want him to be a human being who thrives.  He'll get there.  We know he will, because we will never give up on him. We'll even let him live in the basement (assuming we ever have a basement).  Because that's what parents do. High-functioning or not, neurotypical or autistic, grown-up or child, everyone needs a support system.

My son with Asperger's is not high-functioning today.  One day he will be.  One day, I will stand and look up into the face of a high-functioning, handsome, grown up man with Asperger's Syndrome who can accomplish anything he desires through hard work and effort. He will thrive. And guess what?  He will still need our love and support.  We'll be there to give it.

Magical Cloud Dough

Mondays are very sensory oriented around here. The kids are usually slightly dysregulated from the weekend break in routine and I'm usually more than a little exhausted for the same reason. To ease the transition back into school work, appointments, therapy, errands, etc. I try to provide a sensory activity. Many times, we make play dough or play with water beads. Sometimes, I just turn the kids loose in the trampoline and swings to get all the vestibular and proprioceptive input they can handle.

Hands down, their favorite tactile activity is cloud dough. This is the easiest and cheapest activity you'll find. It's two ingredients and can occupy my kids for hours at a time. I will warn you; it is a mess. I highly recommend doing it outside. We normally spread a tarp or vinyl tablecloth in the yard to play, but you do what works for you.

It's got a great silky texture. It's moldable, but not stiff or sticky. It's non-toxic, even edible if made the right way. You can color it if you like, but it's just as fun if you don't. So, without further adieu, my recipe for Magical Cloud Dough.

Ingredients:

8 cups of all-purpose flour (rice flour can be used to make a gluten free version)

1 cup of vegetable, canola, olive, or coconut oil

Optional:  Add 1-2 TBSP powdered tempera paint to color your dough. To make scented dough, add 1/4 tsp. of your choice of essential oil (we made lemon today and it smells so fresh!). I wouldn't recommend adding scented oil or tempera paint if you have a child that does not understand that even though the dough is edible when made this way - it does not mean it's for eating!

This recipe is easily halved and turns out great if you only want a small batch of dough. With two kids, I've found that the recipe shown gives enough for each of then to have plenty of their own dough without running out.

When you've decided on the amount you want, take your ingredients, put them in a large bowl, mix them together with a spoon or whisk, then use your hands to mix in all the leftover lumps of oil. That's it. Seriously. Voila!  Hours of moldable, magical fun! It lasts for weeks if stored in an air tight container in the fridge. The coldness adds an extra sensory experience. The knot rule is, do not get it wet! It turns to muck. Not nearly as much fun.

If you're up for it, get your kids in on the making process. Let them measure ingredients and do the mixing. You'll have a bigger mess on your hands, but they'll be so proud to have made their own fun! What are you waiting for?  Go make this now!

I adapted this recipe from www.tinkerlab.com. Visit their website or follow them on Facebook for more awesome activities!

What I See Now

 Since my son was officially diagnosed with autism, I have been racked with a sense of guilt.  How did we not see?  How did we not know?  We're his parents. We should have been the first to notice something was different about our boy.  Yet, it took us six years for my husband and I to finally say to each other, "Something's not right."  It took us seven to say to a doctor, "Something's not right."  Gone are the early intervention years for our son.  Gone is that crucial window to address what I see now were obvious speech and auditory processing issues, visual perception problems, fine motor delays, gross motor delays, scripting, echolalia, repetitive behaviors, social and emotional delays, and all the other warning signs that glare at me through home videos of my precious curly-haired toddler with chocolate on his chin babbling about toy trains in a language only we could understand.

There have been so many 'what-ifs' and so many 'buts' banging around in my head the last few weeks I've literally been overcome by that hot, sick feeling of guilt. And each night I've closed my eyes, my own script starts to play.

"I'm your mother.  I should have known.  I should have seen.

I should have seen before you were one and could recite every animal sound we asked of you in addition to a handful of their names, but rarely answered to your own being called.

I should have seen when we read the same bedtime story every night for so many years, your daddy can still recite it today.

I should have known at age two when we could NOT leave the store without buying ANOTHER plastic 'horsey.' When you spent hours organizing them and making me read from horse fact cards your great-aunt bought as a gift.

I should have seen when you begged to watch the same Thomas the Tank Engine DVD for weeks and months on end.

I should have known that a three-year-old speaking in a language comprised of only vowels was odd.

I should have seen and taken notice of you rocking your body as you blew out the candle at your third birthday to cope with the noise while we sang.

I should have known the day you bolted in the grocery store and for five heart-stopping minutes, you were gone.

I should have known at four, when your Thomas fascination was still going strong, that you were scripting the lines from the movies while you talked about yourself in the third person, inserting your name into the movie lines as if you were a character too.

I should have seen when Thomas gave way slightly to dinosaurs and we played "classification" on the living room rug and you became so angry when I forgot which category paralophosaurus fell under that you scattered the neat lines of them and refused to play anymore that day.

I should have known when you were five and knew all the days of the week, months of the year, and taught yourself how to tell time so you could keep track of every minute of his day and know exactly what time your daddy would get off work and be home each night.

I should have looked twice at you constantly standing on your head and folding yourself into a ball, hiding under chairs and tables, long after other kids had outgrown that kind of thing.

I should have seen at age six when we finally found a playgroup, but you spent all of your time sitting with the adults chatting or trailing behind the other kids, content to watch their games instead of asking to join."

These are the thoughts I've gagged and choked on for months. They have kept me up at night, gnawing at my mind and pulling at my heart.  That small voice inside whispers, "You should have known. You should've seen." And I fall apart every time.

My beautiful boy. I wish I had known. I wish I had seen.  But, let me tell you what I was looking at instead.

I was looking at your smile. How it shows your dimples and the way your eyes crinkle like your daddy's.

I was looking at your gentle way with animals, bugs, birds, and even spiders.

I was admiring your intelligence. In awe of all you were learning.

I was watching your logical mind put pieces of the world's puzzle together. I was listening to you explain to your sister how plants grew and where the Sahara was. 

I was watching you admire Claude Monet and decide you wanted to be just like him when you grew to be an old man (pipe, beard, and all).

I broke down in ugly tears when the occupational therapist finally mentioned autism. Because by then, I knew. I knew what I saw.  Even after all the books I'd read, documentaries I'd watched, having gone through an autism evaluation with your little sister, I still cried at the cacophony of emotion exploding in my heart. I felt so overwhelmed and relieved and grateful and GUILTY all at the same time.  I cried because I felt I should have known, should have seen. I cried because I didn't want to change you. I cried because I didn't know how to stop the struggles and pain you were going through every time we walked into a store with fluorescent lighting or someone started a diesel truck nearby.  I cried because as smart as you were, you didn't understand why things were SO hard. I cried because you wanted so badly to whistle and tie your shoes, but no matter how long you practiced, you just couldn't seem to learn and you thought it meant you weren't special. I cried inside when I watched you want to interact with a friend, but turned away instead because it was just too much for you.  And I silently berated myself.  Why did I never see?  

Maybe, I was blinded by your beautiful soul.  And over the last year as the struggles came harder and faster for you, I found myself finally seeing past the torchlight of your gorgeous, muddy, giggling little boy self.  Finally comprehending that inner-beauty alone couldn't stem the anxiety, control the frustrations, keep you from lashing out, or manage the challenges you were facing.  I watched, feeling helpless, as your behavior regressed and each day became a struggle, your emotions no longer manageable for you.  I knew now you needed help, and it wasn't help I could give by reading you another book or watching a nature video together.  It hurt as I watched you lose interest in friends, in playing.  I watched you out the window as you sat in the hole you so carefully and painstakingly dug, content to run dirt through your hands for hours.  Then I saw.  I saw it all and then I looked over my shoulder and saw a breadcrumb trail of signs that had been there all along.  The stimming, the echolalia, the scripting, the hopping, the flapping, standing on your toes, unable to grasp a pencil, but able to recite sonnets from memory.  And so much later than you deserved, I finally asked for help.

We're on a different path now.  It will, no doubt, be a rocky one. Probably with its fair share of potholes and steep hills.  But I'll walk every step with you, your hand held tightly so you don't fall behind.  If you get tired, we'll rest together.  If you feel like running, we'll run.  Faster and freer than cheetahs on the plain. If it gets too hard and your legs give out, I'll carry you with your curls tucked under my chin. If it gets dark, I'll find a flashlight so we can watch our feet together. We might have to walk in the rain sometimes.  I'll bring an umbrella, and you can carry it. If we get lost and need a map, we'll make one together, complete with compass rose. I'll be your shelter if it gets windy, until you're strong enough to walk alone.  And when that day comes, I'll walk the path beside yours.

Maybe I should've seen you struggle, long before I have.  But I promise from here on out to look through your eyes.  I will feel with your heart, not mine. I will always try to know. I won't.  Not always.  Because even moms can be blind.  But even when I'm blind, I will love you, just as I always have. I will love you so big and so much that there is no measure on earth for it.  I will pour such an infinite amount of it on you, it would be easier to number the stars or count the molecules in the air.

So, my silly crazy boy, at the end of our road, all the things I didn't know and didn't see...and even the things I see now and know.

They will all pale in comparison to how much I love your beautiful soul.

What Special Needs Parents Want You to Know

Special needs parenting is not something I ever imagined before it became my story. Little to no thought on my part was given to parents with exceptional and differently abled children. As an education major in college, I always thought exceptional student education was just not my thing. I didn't have what it took. And back then? I was right. I didn't have what it took. However, fast forward eight years and two special needs kids of my own later, I've found what it takes. Or at least I usually find what it takes. You see, there is no "right stuff" to being a parent of any kid, no matter their abilities or challenges. Having children with special needs has mellowed my thoughts of the right or wrong way to do things. What works for some, doesn't for others. And it's okay. All parents will face judgment of their decisions in some form or another. We'll all get a sideways look or a blatant stare when our child is screaming in the grocery store. As parents, we ask that you don't stare, don't comment rudely, don't roll your eyes or suggest a spanking. *And for God's sake, don't ever touch that child (special needs or not) without permission!*

What we need from you is empathy, compassion, an attempt at understanding that life is hard when you're a kid and doesn't get easier when you grow up.  Special needs children are called special needs because they need more. More support, more understanding, more effort put into accepting them along with their challenges or differences. This also means special needs kids have special needs parents. So, what do we want you to know to help you understand what might help make the toughest job on earth a little easier? It just so happens, I have a list right here...

We hide things from you. (And we're good at it.)
I once spent an entire grocery shopping trip crying silently. It had been a hard week and a harder day. I was mentally and emotionally drained. I had given every ounce of patience and used every strategy in my book to control the behaviors, the meltdowns, the anxiety. And still, I felt it hadn't been enough. My husband must have heard it in my voice because he left work early and met me at the store. He kissed me on the head and took the kids without saying a word. He knew. And as I watched their backs as they headed to the Pokemon card aisle, the tears came. And they flowed for the next two hours as I numbly remembered to get the right brand of cereal and the right flavor toothpaste. No one's heard that story before. And many people wouldn't believe it. We're good at hiding. Because sometimes burying the feelings is all we can do. So next time you see someone inexplicably sniffling over the bologna, if you can't give her a smile, at least stop staring. You don't know what struggle she's got buried under the giant bag of Cocoa Puffs.

We work harder. (At everything.)
I don't mean this one to sound rude or abrasive. I don't mean it to downplay the challenges of others, because I don't know them. All I know are the parents of special kids who work tirelessly and ceaselessly to advocate for their children. They work a regular job and come home only to be on duty of a different kind. They're waking up early, going to bed late, forgetting to eat, forgetting to shower, yet still getting to therapy on time, spending money they don't have to get their kids into the school that fits their needs best. They spent all day serving someone else's needs, haven't done anything for themselves in months, and they know it has to be this way. Even if they don't like it. They have to work harder to make it to play dates, to take a trip to the store, to deal with something that didn't go down as planned. We have to work harder to make our marriages and partnerships strong. Because our kids need more of us and we sometimes forget to save some for each other. We work harder to have friends and remember it's okay to let the little things go. Respect us, please. If our kids don't "look" special needs or "seem that bad", it's because we've worked hard as a family to get where we are. The hardest thing to hear is someone who doesn't see our daily hard work invalidate it before we can explain.

We love when you learn about us. (And teach your kids.)
My son has Asperger's Syndrome. Both my kids have sensory processing disorder. My husband has a cousin who has asked us what life is like for them and how we deal with it as parents. I love her questions. She truly wants to understand their differences. I can't begin to explain how much it would improve my children's (and my own) life if everyone weren't afraid to politely ask, "Sensory seeking behavior? What's that like?" We crave your understanding. We don't want or need pity. We don't need you to do things for us. (Unless you're sending coffee or wine, then by all means -bring it on!) We simply want you to see things from our perspective. And a good start is learning our story. What do our kids' diagnoses mean? How does it shape them and make them who they are. Only through educating yourself can you try to see from their perspective. One thing I absolutely love about sitting in the occupational therapy waiting room is watching my kids intact with kids who are different from themselves. They don't see diagnoses or labels. They see kids. Kids like them, but a little different. And they already, at four and seven, have learned that the differences don't matter. We're all just people and every person is different. As my son said recently, "There's only three types of people. Babies, kids, and adults." The world would be such a beautiful place if everyone else could think the same.


We are happy. (Even if it looks different from your happy.)
We live life to the fullest of our abilities. It may not look like your life or your abilities, but we live it. We are happy. We celebrate moments other parents will forget. I stood in a dollar store and cried tears of joy the first time my daughter said a three word sentence. My heart leapt with excitement when my son asked to leave a function at our local community center because he was able to verbalize his sensory overload! It took seven years for him to recognize that feeling. I was ecstatic and bubbling over as his dad took him to the car to watch Jeff Corwin videos on his tablet instead. We are happy with three hours at a local amusement park, even if we only ride one ride, because it means they knew their limits and were able to transition without a meltdown. We're happy staying home in our pajamas because it means a day without stress and no need to spend the next day in detox and recovery mode. We might be happy that we married such strong, loving people who will never let us down. We might be happy to have friends who get us, family who love us, and children with such dazzling smiles. Our happy is different, but so is our parenting. We're okay with that and you should be too.

The bottom line is, parenting is the toughest job there is, no matter what challenges you or your kids face daily. Respect the journey of others because most likely it won't look like yours. A journey that's different from your own is still valid, still worthy, and still needs to be appreciated. None of us have the right stuff, but we're working on it.

Just Another Day

Yesterday was something for my son that I've heard referred to as "diagnosis day." That phrase always incited a small bll of fear and anxiety in me. It sounded cold and forbidding. Like life as you know it will never be the same after "diagnosis day." For months I've been in a strange place of simultaneous dread and eagerness for an answer. A name to give this entity that has the power to control, mystify, and delight. So yesterday, I sat across from an experienced psychiatrist and at the end of a couple of hours; there it was. The thing that causes my son to have so much anxiety about leaving the house, that causes noises and florescent lights in the grocery store to make him "car sick," the reason he can read with the skill of a child five years older than himself but can't remember how to spell his favorite color, the reason he hops on his toes and flaps his hands when he gets excited, the reason he was stoic when I was in tears because a childhood friend of mine passed away, but was beside himself when I casually mentioned he needed new bed sheets. It's the reason for the disparities in his skill set, his avoidance and ineptitude of social interactions with his peers, his rigidity in not being able to perform a task unless it's on his calendar. It's also why he's so interesting, so verbose, so gifted and intelligent. It means he hasn't had a haircut in over a year because he can't handle the feeling of clippers vibrating or loose hair touching him and he's irrationally terrified the scissors will cut him. He's a scientist, logical and honest to a fault. It blows his mind that not everyone thinks like him and other's mistakes frustrate him to no end. He's currently obsessed with Tolkien, Pokémon, and Abe Lincoln and will discourse about them for hours. He's eccentric and quirky and absolutely beautiful.

 My son has Autism Spectrum Disorder. My son's version of this spectrum disorder is called Asperger's Syndrome. And while it makes him the beautiful, inquisitive, and unique kid that he is, it's not all rainbows and good times. With his Asperger's comes crippling anxiety, obsessive thoughts, compulsive behaviors, vocal and motor tics, possible seizure activity, learning difficulties despite being highly, highly intelligent. It comes with visual perceptual difficulties, auditory processing issues, fine motor skills delay, and a staggering amount of clumsiness. He endures sideways looks and stares from people who don't understand how a kid can look perfectly normal one minute and meltdown from sensory overload the next, effectively reverting to behavior that looks more like a three year old than a gifted first grader. He has vocal tics that he can't control at times. Many people don't seem to understand that he doesn't WANT to clear his throat every forty five seconds; he simply can't stop. He wants to play with the other kids on the playground, but he doesn't know how and it causes him so much stress to think about it, he ends up sitting under the picnic table with a book instead. You will always know where you stand with him because he will give you honest answers, even if you don't like what you hear.

As the psychiatrist gave the diagnosis we knew we'd hear, he said something that resonated with me and my husband. He said, "We use labels for kids like your son to give them answers for their behavior, not excuses for it." My son's diagnosis is an answer. He'll still have to make his bed tomorrow and he will still get grounded from screen time if he hits his sister or speaks rudely to me. He doesn't have an excuse; he has an answer for who he is and how his mind works. I could've hugged the psychiatrist, but my son has taught me to respect the physical boundaries of others, so I said thank you instead.

We left the office and took the kids to the park. I called my mom and told her. She was glad her grandson had an answer that would help him. I messaged my best friend, who happens to be a fellow spectrum mom. I told her the relief I felt. She said simply, "I get it." And I know she does. I asked my son what he thought about the whole thing. He said, "The doctor told me he had lots of other patients with the same things as me, isn't that cool?" I texted my son's occupational therapist (who gently encouraged or search for answers). She texted back, "Welcome to the A-train!"  We are lucky and grateful to be surrounded with support and people who appreciate my son and our lives for what they are:  spectrummy.

My dad said it best, "Today is like any other day for me. I love your children."
 He summed it up well. Our son has an autism spectrum disorder, what some call Asperger's Syndrome. We love him.

And that's it. Diagnosis day. Just another day, but with answers.

Dear Halloween Candy Hander Outer...

Dear Halloween Candy Hander Outer,

I'm a parent of two children with sensory processing disorder. They are DYING to go trick-or-treating. Their Dad has taken the entire day off work to help them get ready. We have been marking the days until Halloween in our family calendar for over a month. But listen please, because as excited as they are, it won't be easy for them. It can be fun if you'll help us, but fun in the way I imagine climbing a rock wall is fun. In an "I overcame this colossal challenge and gained vast amounts of confidence that I CAN DO THIS" kind of fun. (And in the "I'm now exhausted and need a very long nap and break from the world" kind of fun).

This is the first time my daughter has asked for a Halloween costume (a pink bunny rabbit). I don't expect she'll be able to wear it all night. Their father and I have already discussed what the kids will be able to handle and planned for a short evening and small amount of going door to door because too much walking makes my son tired and too many unfamiliar faces make my daughter anxious and upset. Too much noise bothers them both. I know my sensory kids want so badly to participate, but are completely overwhelmed at the same time. Be kind. My daughter won't speak to you. She probably won't say "trick or treat" and she *might* whisper, "thank you." Talking to you is too much for her. Her brain is working harder than yours ever will just to be able to process the sights, sounds, and smells she's bombarded with.

My son will be exuberant for the first half hour, then a switch will flip. He will pull most of his costume off, stomp his feet, and demand to be taken home. He'll do it because it's 'too exciting, too loud, too busy.' He has poor hand-eye coordination for his age and struggles to pick out specific objects in a 'busy' background. If you tell him to choose his own treat, it's going to take a while. My daughter doesn't do peanuts. Don't be offended if she doesn't take a piece if your candy or if we have to put something back. We're not upset you only have Snickers; we're just trying to keep her safe. She will accidentally knock your bowl over or grab too many, not because she's greedy or rude, but because she has a hard time with motor-planning and self-regulation. We will skip your house/business if you have flashing lights or fog machines. They freak my kids out and my daughter doesn't like the fog 'smell.'

If we see you toward the end of the night, we will all look a little harried, a little exhausted. But we'll be happy, ecstatic even, to have made out this far. Because we're making memories too. They'll be a little different from yours. Our experience will be as unique as our trick-or-treaters. Just remember, it's their holiday too. They deserve to wake up the next day like everyone else with a tummy ache that the only remedy for is eating chocolate for breakfast. And with a little understanding from you, they will have memories of a night of fun rather than fear. All I ask is your empathy and acceptance. Lose your preconceived notions and gently give those kids without a costume hiding behind their parent's leg a piece of gum or maybe a sucker. If they don't take it, ask mom or dad what they like and give it to them instead. You'll probably make the whole family's night and I guarantee they'll talk about you as they eat that special treat on the way home. Because it's their Halloween too.

Thanks for listening,
A Mom Whose Kids Can't Wait for Halloween

Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Mom

I am a stay at home mom. Hear me roar. Well, maybe yawn and repeat myself over and over until these wild animals I call children take some sort of heed. (Or at least until they fall from that high place while choking on that piece of food and holding a sharp object and roll into a nest of angry wasps knocked loose by their fall.) Because only then will my children truly understand why I wouldn't let them climb on the top of the fence with a sandwich in one hand and a homemade stick shank in the other right next to the roof that has a wasp nest hanging from it. The irony? I'll be too busy driving to the emergency room and monitoring swelling and blood loss to say, "I told you so!" The following are my humble opinions on what the stay at home life is like and my experiences and may or may not be relatable to you. Either way, they are mine and if you don't like them, you're not required to believe them to be true. Isn't individuality a beautiful thing?

I've had people say they envy me. I always wonder at this. What do they think I do? Is it the endless amounts of chores that are never done or the crushing weight of knowing your children's future successes are entirely dependent upon how you conduct yourself in these formative years that these people wish they had? I chose to stay at home, and therefore chose everything that goes along with it.  Don't belittle my choice by expressing jealousy without first doing some thoughtful and empathetic reflection.

 I think of parenting as both the most selfish and selfless thing I'll ever do. Staying at home means I have put a career on hold, often forget to eat meals, and put my desires for adult interaction on the back burner in order to better serve the needy little humans clinging to my leg. Did I bring them into the world? Oh, very selfishly so! Have I given up multitudinous aspects of my life and self to better attune myself to their needs so I can advocate and support them to ensure they thrive and develop? You have NO idea!

I have two beautiful children. They are healthy, generally happy, and intelligent humans who are learning to think for themselves and discover the world around then. I'm very lucky to have them. But you want to know something? I forget that once in a while. When the car needs servicing and we can't afford it on one income. When I dreamily research graduate school and am subsequently plagued by fears that by the time I go back, it will be too hard to start over. When I feel like I'm one load of laundry or sibling fight mediation away from losing my sanity. When I sit in a board meeting in a volunteer position I hold and rather than productively contributing, I spend the evening repeatedly apologizing for my children who've decided to interrupt by attacking the facility director with hand puppets as he attempts to present his monthly report. I'm lucky that I get to stay home with these kids. That does not mean I never want to pretend they're not mine.

I wasn't always this person you see with a purse full of wet wipes and an endless knowledge of children's television. I used to be a free spirit with a short fuse. I once held multiple jobs while going to college full-time. I've had lovely and interesting experiences in my life that have nothing at all to do with my children.

I will not always be what I am today. I am just crazy enough to hope that one day, I'll have a career and life that doesn't involve spending the majority of my day in the kitchen. But I will never forget the joys and the turmoils of being a stay at home mom.

The truth of it is, some days I feel inadequate, unimportant, irrelevant. Some days, I'm pretty sure I could run the world singlehandedly. It's the best of times and the worst of times. But it's my time, and though the minutes are years and the years are minutes, one day that time will be up. I'll look back on it fondly (I hope). The bad times won't seem so bad and the good times will seem to have been better. My kids will one day realize I'm not only their mother, I'm a person. Then I'll tell that funny story about the time they nearly choked on a sandwich and impaled themselves on a stick when they fell off the fence into that wasp nest. And the beat will go on.