Hustle BUS-tle

This morning, was like every morning since just over a week ago, when the Bus Driver let us know she’d be picking our twins up early, because more children had opted in to take the bus, and instead of being the last on the route, we would now be the first. However happy to accommodate, it has made our need to be at the end of our driveway happen thirty minutes earlier each day.

The morning hustle that was relaxed at the start of school, offering more than enough time to get the twins through any anxiety starting a new day may bring, now began to feed off of my anxious energy on if we’d make the bus at all.

Because Luca woke up at 5:30am, far earlier than his typical 7:15am stumble out of bed, he was dressed and ready by 7:15am, allowing space for Alex to have a melt-down refusing to put any clothes on, forget wash her face and brush her hair, and Jack to fixate on how he felt like no one liked him at school because he wasn’t able to be the line leader the day before.

We worked to give Alex options for clothes, hoping giving her some control would calm her tears and stomping feet, but when that didn’t work, and the minutes ticked closer to 7:45am, we made the choices for her, providing her in the comfiest sweat pants and her favorite V-neck T-shirt, hoping she would feel that even if we chose for her, we did so with her preferences in mind.

As I carried her clinging to my chest, tears chasing the snot of upset that she held strongly too, I worked to talk Jack through why he felt scared to go to school, trying to pinpoint if there was an incident outside of not being a line leader that we could give him the tools to better understand. Luca followed down the stairs to the garage in tow, clearly annoyed at the whining and crying happening in front of him, but willing to carry on with the routine, knowing what was expected of him.

At 7:47am, all three kids were strapped into their seats, and as I begin to push the ignition, the car let me know the key fob was not present in the vehicle, requiring I run back upstairs to find it. 7:49am is when we were finally able to drive down the driveway.

The bus comes at 7:55am.

The BEST mornings are when the boys have a moment or two to stand outside the car, with their jackets and masks on, feeling pumped to climb the yellow chariot stairs and head to school.

Coaxing them out of the car this morning, I asked Jack to tell me the story of the Gruffalo, as no further progress dissecting school anxiety had occurred, and I needed any distraction to redirect his attention to a happy task, if I wanted any hope of him smiling as he got onto the bus. Luca remained in his seat, firm in his power struggle to have some control. I pulled a bag of gummy bears out of my back pocket, for which he was willing to exit, put on his jacket and mask, and chew happily while we waited at 7:53am.

When the bus pulled toward our spot, both boys were happy, cheering as it opened its’ doors. Jack proceeded to tell his bus monitor about the story of the brave and wise mouse in the Gruffalo, and Luca finished his gummy bears.

They went right to their seats.

The bus monitor had them strapped in by 7:57am, and I remained waving, cheering on their good work.

And then I heard it, just a moment before the bus monitor moved to the back of the small bus to take her seat - the gruff, frustrated voice of the gentleman two car’s back “COME ON!”, he hollered.

I recognized the voice. I knew that voice. I waved a final time as the moment the monitor was safely seated, the boys eyes looked forward to the day ahead and the bus continued on its’ route.

My eyes watched intensely as the cars followed the bus, and I saw his face.

He refused to make eye contact with me, because he knew I’d be looking for him.

He drove with his windows down of that beat-up old maroon SUV, and as he drove past, this time I made sure to look at his license plate.

I made note because when our bus route changed, the first morning when we really understood what 30 minutes meant for our twins’ routine, they had not had as successful of a bus stop as this morning.

There were streams of tears that morning, from both twins. Neither were ready to face the day. The friendly face of the young boy who used to be picked up before them was not sitting in the front seat smiling at them. I had been an anxious mess running late, and we hadn’t had that extra ten minutes to sit and talk about how wonderful the day was about to be, really prepping them for success as they began.

So yes, as I had to physically hand each off to the monitor, while they kicked and screamed, it took a few extra minutes. Painful for all involved, we did our best to try to reassure them.

So when I stood outside my car waving, dancing like a fool, singing, trying to do anything that may invoke laughter instead of tears out of my children, that gentleman honked loudly, hollering to “HURRY UP”, as the bus monitor worked as quickly as she could to buckle the seatbelts of my upset children.

For children on the spectrum, transitions can be very difficult. For my children, auditory disruption, equally so.

We had the perfect storm that morning of challenging behaviors due to the transition, but the way that man’s impatience disrupted it further was uncalled for. Not just because it scared my children, but because it was completely disrespectful to the incredible humans who were showing up for our kids every day to drive and monitor the bus, despite the times of COVID we are all facing. The last thing they need for sounds thrown their way are negative tones of ignorance and disrespect. All they should hear as they do their jobs are the cheers of congratulations and gratitude.

I had been so upset that morning, that I yelled at him the explanation their seatbelts were being fastened, and he needed to find some patience. When he then proceeded to gesture a certain finger at me, my blood boiled to a level that if Alex hadn’t still be strapped in her seat in the car, I would have chased his car down the road. (I’m Italian, it’s really not my fault.)

When he revisited our morning routine this time, although anger resurfaced, I spent the drive to Alex’s school considering what I truly wanted out of the situation.

Was I mad? Sure.

Would I love to see him get in trouble? I must have, or why did I feel it important to note the license plate number?

I mean, what did he do- experience a little road rage? I don’t know what the extra moments of my children’s morning routine made him late for. It must have been really important to get him that upset.

After the six minutes it took to drive Alli, I realized that no, I didn’t need him to get in trouble. What I needed was simply for him to understand the following.

At 7:55am, there are twin toddlers on the autism spectrum, who board a bus on the very busy main road that is on his route. Some mornings it takes less than 3 minutes - an average red light takes 60-90 seconds, btw - and some mornings it may take a few minutes longer. If watching my humble self dance like a fool, yelling how proud I am so they can hear me through the window as I wave and make “I love you” sign-language with my other hand is that upsetting to you, the whole disruption can be avoided by leaving to start your route so that you pass our house before 7:55am.

I want him to recognize that a smaller bus is not simply just another bus. It indicates that it is carrying children and young adults with special needs.

I want him to be aware that when you see two young boys, less than 5 feet tall, they are most likely of an age that they cannot, and should not, be buckling themselves into the seats where seat belts are required for their safety. It’s simply not as fast as when an older, neurotypical child, enters a bus, takes a seat, and once seated the bus driver can take off.

I want to tell him that our son, who has a hard time managing his big feelings, has learned that Belly Breathing can be really helpful in moments where he feels himself turning into a monster. (I’ll even give him the youtube link to watch the Common and Elmo video. It’s a catchy tune!)

Lastly, I want to tell him that our bus drivers and monitors are some of the most under-appreciated front-line essential employees, who truly deserve the utmost respect. If he has ever felt under-appreciated, I would hope he could find empathy in the moments of frustration when he couldn’t find the time in the morning to depart five minutes sooner, to avoid being stuck behind a paused bus that is picking up two small boys at the beginning of its’ route.

There is a reason that things make us feel a certain way: wether it be furious, or joyful; confused, or complacent.

We feel things because it means there is something to say, something to teach, or something to share.

I share this today to remind us all that a few extra moments of patience and grace for each other is far more important than any retribution or transfer of negative feelings we give someone else.

No one knows what another’s going through. No one knows how that person’s day has started, is going, or will continue to go in the moments that follow.

We can, however, share what we know: our journeys and stories, in the hopes that we can work to change other’s hearts and minds to make our world better.

Maybe that gentleman will never see this.

Maybe I’ll find a way to share with him the facts around this situation, so that his perspective can ease up, and he can find the moments to belly breath, not causing any added anxiety for my small children on the bus, or the two incredible adult humans simply trying to do their job.

Or, maybe he’ll yell at me again tomorrow because he can’t find a way to leave 5 minutes earlier to avoid the whole thing.

Either way, if you read this, thank you for being with us on this journey. If you think someone else could benefit from reading, please share - however your time and channels allow.

With love, from that anxiety ridden, goofball mom who dances, cheers, and signs to her twins stopping traffic five days a week at 7:55am. To all the other care takers getting their groove on because it makes their kids happy to know you put their happiness before anything else: I see you. XO

Papa's Beach

“You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

One of the silver linings this summer, after becoming a full-time stay-at-home parent, was extra time at my favorite place, and watching our boys learn to love it as much as I do.

Our family’s small cape cottage is located steps away from Onset Bay’s shore line. Only a few houses, and cobbled steps stand between the perfect porch to sit and watch the day go by, and a beach where hermit crabs and minnows could provide hours of entertainment for the dozens of Aprea cousins that filled my childhood summers.

Yes, for our boys, it was a little different this year… as the cousins and we did not adventure together, finding separate days to visit our quintessential happy place, respecting quarantine guidelines… but the memories created still felt the same.

Where we used to only be able to visit on a weekend, or an intentional vacation day over the last few years, this summer provided open-ended opportunity to call up Auntie Sammy and Papa and ask for a few hours together playing in the sand, and walking the pebbled shore at low tide.

This last visit, before the summer days come to an end, and school returns to session next week, was different than the many over the last few months, as our bay was covered in fog, and storms continued to roll through.

We explored the shells at high tide, walking the deserted beach with the boys.

Although our visits to the beach typically last only a couple of hours, and we spend more time in the car then we do with our toes in the sand, my heart is full as I sip my coffee and share this with you. Those hours of unexpected memories in my favorite place are irreplaceable in what they did for my soul this summer, because they reminded me of the magic of “Papa’s Beach”.

As the daughter of a sailor, if I’ve learned anything from the ocean over the years, the first line of the post rings true: “You can never cross the ocean until you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

This last year’s adversity has served as a defining moment for our family, and for my parenting in particular. Autism’s shore line provided a stability in routine and depending on the boys’ teachers, administrators, and aids to guide us on how to navigate parenting autism. When that was removed, there were days that I felt like I was lost at sea, without a life boat, or even a life jacket, treading water in exhaustion and fear.

But once I stopped fighting the change that was drowning our need for relying on others to teach us on how to be there for our children, I found my courage to stop looking back at the shore line, realizing the muscle memory could kick-in long enough to start to cross the Parenting-Autism-Ocean of unknown again.

Returning to the beach gave me quiet time in the car, most days, where I could put in my airpods and listen to an audible book, or a spotify playlist that didn’t consist of “Who let the dogs out” or a Disney Playlist, and I could take in an ounce of self-care.

It gave me time with my sister and my father, and occasionally, my step-mom and brother. Although we all weren’t together with the dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles like we’d prefer, particularly after losing Nana, it still provided the comfort of just being around them, and continued opportunity for our children to know them.

Trips to the cape gave us an escape, the three musketeers that we were, with an unknown structure that had flexibility and lacked expectation. If it was a great day, and everyone was happy, we could stay as long as we liked. If it was a tough day where the twins weren’t having it, we could simply be proud of the attempt, pack back up in the car, and head home.

Returning to “Papa’s Beach” as the boys fondly call it, reminded me that even on the gloomiest of days, when you can’t see past 20 feet in front of you, all you need is time for the storm to pass, and the shoreline to appear again. Courage isn’t always just about being able to leap into the next adventure, but also to remember where you’ve been, and how far you’ve come.

Here’s hoping courage continues to find you, too. Xo

Parentship

A few weeks back, on maybe day two of no school, life is over/*cough*/on pause, my wife had come home from work later than usual, after the first of many long days of adjustment for our new normal at home.

She was fried. As a small business owner, she hadn’t slept much, as her brain was feverishly trying to strategically rearrange the life of her business to make sure her team was protected, could continue to provide for their families from their Pro Image livelihood, and that what she built over the last two decades could survive this. She didn’t have capacity for much else by the time she made it home that night. But I didn’t have capacity for much patience or grace, because every ounce of it I had left had been spent trying to reassure our children things were fine, and the lives they just lost wouldn’t be gone forever. 

Inevitably, our lack of capacity that night lead to a heated conversation, and going to bed angry. Something we work really hard to not do. But the next day, when some of the feelings had settled, we took a few minutes to sit in the uncomfortable, and be honest about how we were feeling. She shared how scared she was for her team, her company, and how to provide for us, and I shared how for the first time in a long time, I felt invisible. That because all her capacity was being spent on her team and her clients, she had none left to see us, her family. That I was looking at really long and hard days ahead with three young children, two of which needed skills and structure that I didn’t know if I was capable of, that they were used to getting for 6 hours a day, that I was pretty sure I was going to fail miserably at. If the one person I chose to be my partner couldn’t find space to see me, I was worried I wouldn’t matter. She shared that she had a team of 10+ who could become invisible if she didn’t have space to think about them, and that if the team failed, she couldn’t provide for our family either.

We sat in that uncomfortable for a good 45 minutes. There were tears from both of us, but once we were completely honest, we were able to talk through a plan that got us both to what we needed. One that could be flexible and could pivot as needed. We understood that with only so much capacity at this time, and with both the business and our family having needs that had us at capacity level, we would need to own our roles but make sure to leave room for whatever else might come up by relying on open communication with each other on what we could handle, and when we needed help. 

That plan has been working pretty well for the last four or five weeks. But this week, after two really long sleepless nights with autism, I failed at holding up my end of the deal yesterday. The boys schedules are totally off, so emotions are high, bodies can’t stay calm, hands are not staying to themselves, and they are super quick and short to react. My reactions weren’t as patient or kind as they needed to be yesterday either. My wife had to call me out twice on the way I responded to Jack.

When she had had enough, she finally looked at me and said “what do you need?” I responded defensively, because I knew my actions weren’t attractive- but I was TIRED. She stayed patient, and asked me again- “what do you need?” After a minute, I cried. I was so tired. At 4am that morning, while Luca and Jack were up, I had been working on quotes we didn’t finish the night before for her work, so that we could keep up with making sure the team’s schedule was full. I had been patient and played with the boys at 5am, even though I just wanted to nap on the couch. And when Luca threw all of his toys at me, including a heavy-duty microwave, I was so tired I didn’t pay attention to my surroundings when I chased after him before he could throw something at Jack- I ran into the baby gate, scoring a solid bruise that still hurts. I cried because even though I napped for an hour while Alli took her morning nap, it wasn’t enough. I cried because I knew I wasn’t holding up my end of the bargain. I wasn’t proud of my behavior either, and was ashamed my wife had to call me out.

She looked at me and said, “this isn’t you, or the parent you want to be, so you need to tell me what you need, or snap out of it.” 

I could have fought back. I could have been nasty, but weeks before I promised to be honest, so I simply said “I am tired”.

She goes, “Ok, to to bed. I will put Jack to sleep by myself” as it was after 8pm and both Luca and Alex were already asleep.

I don’t ever not put the kids to bed. Jack usually needs to hold my hand to fall asleep, and ridiculously, it’s my 2 minutes with him at the end of the day that feels worth all his emotional roller coasters that come before it.

But I had just told my wife what I needed, and I needed to listen to myself, and let her show up while she was willing to.

So I went to bed.

And the kids slept through. Jack got up at 4:30 am, but he was willing to play in his fort (our master closet - don’t judge- it gives me an extra 45 minutes later to snooze which I NEVER get so I am letting it work as long as it can). 

I slept from 8:30pm, woke up at 1:30am to find everyone was sleeping so I went back to it, until 4:30am and didn’t get out of bed until 5:15am. 

I am two cappuccinos in as I sit in the playroom and type this up on my phone watching Alex and Jack play with legos at 6:30am. My wife is still asleep, and Luca is hanging under his sensory sheet, content enough he isn’t quite ready to get up yet.

I share this in case anyone else is struggling as a parent navigating the new normal, not just with their kids, but with their relationship as well.

Our parentship, aka parent-relationship, is one we put a lot of effort into. But while pregnant with the twins, we agreed to make sure she and I, outside of being just parents, always came first. If we couldn’t take care of each other, how could we possibly take care of our kids effectively. 

Sitting in the uncomfortable was a theme my therapist encouraged, that scared the crap out me. She said that if I always thought the worst was going to happen, I needed to find a way to let the facts debunk my fears. By sitting in the uncomfortable, and doing the work to be honest about how I was feeling in a situation and let others do so as well, I would learn that the worst that could happen, wasn’t really the natural outcome, slowly helping to build muscle memory in facing uncomfortable situations for what they are - momentarily decisions that need to be made, not monumental in size or life altering. 

As you face another week of this pandemic, ready to parent, teach, show up as a spouse, and get some work done to pay the bills on top of it, I just want to say- you can do this. You CAN do this. It looks to be that the country will slowly open up again, and although the newest form of normal may still not be the totally preferred one, hopefully it will continue to provide options that make things better able to meet everyone’s needs. 

If you find any of this helpful, what has worked for me is remembering to be present in our parentship, keeping open lines of communication, asking each other for what we need, and letting my partner show up when I ask her to. Nothing about the last couple of months has been normal and we have all had to adjust in some way. If you can sit in the uncomfortable long enough to find what’s comfortable, maybe the solution can be something you never knew you needed, but gets you to be better than you knew possible before.

XO

Oh and PS: if anyone has any tactics on getting a certain 4 year-old to have a calm body and a quiet voice- I am all ears! My sanity is at stake. Thanks in advance.

The Struggle Is Real.

Have you ever found yourself struggling as a parent? Where every time you feel like you finally have it figured out, whatever next age or stage hits and you are back to square one of the struggle? Feeling frustrated, defeated, and completely unsure if you can “do this”?

And then, to make matters worse, every time you ask a parent who is further along age/stage wise, when it is going to get easier, the hardest and most frustrating thing to hear was that it won’t. “Not easier just different” they answer- EVERY time.

Parenting twins with special needs has reiterated that phrase in our lives each time I have found myself questioning if I can “do this”, this weekend being one of those moments. 

The struggle is real. And each time in the heat of those peak struggle moments, where all reasoning is gone and I am left on a mountain of built-up of frustration, fear and anger, I convince myself I can’t. I get lost in resentment of thinking “if this doesn’t get easier, I will never be able to survive this.” Not the autism... not the parenting twins... not the having a third... not the what feels like working three full time jobs (1.) in the job force, 2.) as a mom, and 3.) as a spouse....) the combination of trying to do it all without directions or a rule book... each one of those has been something I could tackle at any given moment, but the combination of all of it on any given day feels like the struggle will defeat me. 

I found myself in a pretty pathetic pity party, crying uncontrollably in the weight of it all, after a typical instance occurred on just an average Saturday afternoon. I lost perspective. I lost patience. I lost my grip. I let my child down because in a moment he needed me, I couldn’t show up.

I then took space. Took a breath. Walked away. Accepted help. And found perspective again. 

Have you ever been in that moment of struggle? Where it feels simply impossible to tackle? If so, for the parent that’s in the struggle like I am, here’s what I’ve learned...

Each time it gets unbearable, it’s because soon you will have to be stronger, in a way you never realized. You are building muscle memory and agility to be able to stay calmer longer, find patience faster, and ...

This is your work out.

This is your more than you can handle.

This is when you are thrown the straw that breaks the horses back.

Because it’s not about if you quit. 

It’s not about if you give up.

It’s not about if the straw breaks you.

It’s about what you do in the after math.

You’re a parent. If you quit or gave up it was momentarily. Reality snapped you back to where you had to keep going.

Muscle memory kicked in of needing to respond to a child’s needs. The behavioral pattern of showing up takes over and you do... just like you have, over and over again... you show up. 

There is always a way...

Can you find it? Can you ask for help if you can’t do it alone? Can you be proud of yourself for being willing to try? 

Remember, when working for that ever important perspective, sometimes it’s merely a matter or can’t vs. won’t, or in this case, can vs. will.

In case this was merely the reminder you needed today, ya’ll... you CAN do this, and for your kids, you know you WILL. 

So pour a cup of coffee or matcha or espresso if you are in my boat, and go get the job done. Because this never-ending journey of parenting waits for no one, and has difficult and exhausting as the struggle can be, the moments uniquely amazing to your journey are yours, and yours alone, to savor and appreciate, only earned and created through the struggle you endured.

You’ve got this. Xo

5 Things You Can Do To Support Your Friends Who Are Parenting Autism

Someone asked me recently, how to be there for us, or in general, for those parenting autism. After thinking on it, here are 5 things I came up with, that I thought others may find helpful to know.

1.) Just Ask.

If you are parenting neurotypical children, and trying to support a parent of a child(ren) on the spectrum, and simply don’t know, it’s ok to ask. Lead with love and curiosity, and ask to learn what you don’t know. Every child is unique, despite if they are on the spectrum or not, so parenting each child is unique in it’s approach, maintenance, and execution. Every friendship is unique, and I know when friends have asked me about the diagnosis, just sharing the stories of our day-to-day, help them to show up and support our family in ways they wouldn’t know how to otherwise. If you are asking from a place of love and wishing to truly support your friend, chances are they’ll be relieved to be able to be honest with you, and grateful you are willing to meet them where they are comfortable.

2.) Send Caffeine.

Ya’ll, your friend parenting autism is not sleeping. And not in the way that they could possibly survive without caffeine. Whether they drink a pot of coffee black a day, or straight shoot with shots of espresso like I do these days, or maybe they are mad for Matcha- whatever it is, they most likely don’t have hours in the day to take a nap and catch up on the Z’s they lose in the middle of the night. If you’re thinking of your friend, and you want to send something that could help, I promise, for any parent I’ve spoken with who is up with kiddos all night, a free coffee is pretty darn magical. Us east coasters run on Dunkin’, but Starbucks, Peets, whatever your flavor, it can seriously go a long way. Not only does it say, “I’m thinking of you” but it says “I see you, you’ve got this, keep going.” Well, at least that’s what I’m convinced my four cappuccinos tell me every morning… a shot of magic energy in every shot of espresso.

3.) Bring Wine.

Most likely, your friend hasn’t made it out for ladies night in a while. It’s not as easy as you think to get a babysitter, and, from my experience, my guess is staying home for bedtime routines is a requirement. Truth be told, by the time the kiddos are asleep, the parent probably shortly follows to their own bedroom, not knowing how much sleep she is going to get that night. But stopping by with a bottle of wine, leaving all judgement of whatever you are walking into at the door (as most likely you are about to witness a witching hour right before bedtime for the kiddos), and smiles ready to help in anyway needed with clinking glasses as the reward at the end of it- can be the ultimate way for a mom who never gets out, to feel a little less like just a mom, and more like someone who still finds time to spend with her friends- even if the friend is the one bringing the time to her. Having a conversation with another adult about something other than stimming, or triggers, or behavior, with unexpected laughter, while dressed in sweatpants and bra optional (you know you were thinking it), can make a really exhausted care giver feel more like that person you once knew before kids, and just enough of a pick-me up to make any hangover that accompanies the next morning worth it.

4.) Love our babies.

It can take a care giver or teacher months to get a child on the spectrum to pair with them- and that’s with training and understanding to put in the work. But, from what I have seen, for as much work as it takes, it’s pretty simple. Show up, and show up again and again until they know your face.  FaceTime instead of calling. Stop by after work, or for a play date on a Sunday morning. And don’t expect our babies to come to you, be ok with however long it takes for them to pair with you. It needs to fully be on their terms. You need to earn their trust, and their want to spend time with you. Celebrate it when they do. Because they will make you work for it, but it will be incredibly worth it.

And, if you bring kids into the mix with you, make sure you teach them how to show up too. Explain to them that just because our kids might not say “hello” back, or be comfortable running around with noisy chaotic fun, or like to give hugs and loves at the end of a visit, it doesn’t mean they aren’t grateful for the companionship, and that they don’t bring something truly special to the friendship. Encourage they be open to wherever the play date takes them, removing expectations from the mix, providing important opportunity for learning, grace, and simple joy.

5.) Sit with us in the dark.

Brene Brown, Empathy Researcher, says “Empathy is...simply listening, holding space, withholding judgment, emotionally connecting, and communicating that incredibly healing message of, ‘You’re not alone.’” Sometimes, all we need is someone to sit with us during the moments we question what we are doing, fully aware that we are navigating blind in a space without doors or windows. As I’ve said so many times before, Autism is magical, and has a truly beautiful lens that it places on your life as a parent if you let it, showing just how incredible your children are because it navigates, showcases, and highlights your child’s gifts right before your eyes. But parenting, in general, can be hard. And when the “rule book” doesn’t look like all the ones your friends, family, and published strangers look like, it can sometimes make you question every decision you make. I’ve heard Brene explain that to have empathy is to see a friend sitting in a dark room alone, and that your actions are not to rush in and turn a light on, or even walk by, say a quick hello, and leave, but to enter the space quietly, sit beside your friend, maybe even hold their hand, and just be. Just sit with us in the dark, for however long we need you to. Remember, we’re strong, committed parents, who put our children first. We won’t be sitting there long- there is laundry to switch, lunches to pack, pick-ups to arrange, therapy to get to, etc… but if we need a minute, let us know we aren’t alone in it.