THE IMAGE

Photography was always something I was drawn to. 

First in college when I walked the walls of my alma mater and learned that one could take an extra curricular and learn how to capture an image, expose it to the world as how you viewed that moment, and then look to that world on their opinion of your vision.

As someone who was already enrolled in too many courses, working on a double major with a minor, the class just never rose as priority enough to make it on my schedule.

As social media became the way we expressed ourselves and sites like MySpace and Facebook brought opportunities for creative expression and communication, I learned how images could show connection, importance, and participation in activity that gave an appearance of being part of something. If you were in a group photo showcasing smiling faces and the capture of a good time, then you must be someone others wished to be around… aka worthy of others' time.

But then, when my cousin died unexpectedly my senior year of college, and I found myself lacking any photographic evidence of our time together, I learned that photographs did more than just suggest moments in time… they froze moments in time to remind you what they felt like when memory begins to fail you decades later.

It wasn’t until my wife and I arranged to have our engagement photos taken, in the most serene New Hampshire setting, that I learned that photography could also teach someone in a way that words could not. Those photos, where my heart was undeniable, and I stood in my truth for all to see, showed me that there was a way to explain to my family who had never truly known the women they were about to see in those photos, could and would believe my truth without question.

When I started this blog, I believed that the years I spent practicing photography and working to capture others' memories as they hoped to remember them would provide my readers insight in a way a blog without photos could not. I believed that as I shared our journey with autism, I could show the connection, love and empathy each of our children have, while discussing the struggles we were working through as a family, in the hopes that any misconception someone may have about autism could be challenged by a photo showing a child who is loved and not only knows how to love, but chooses to love in return.

For the last two weeks, I have written incomplete drafts on where to start on catching readers up on our last year, and where we are currently, that simply could t find traction. Although I hope I am able to use them at one point, my stream of thought simply keeps returning to photography- and my why around it.

There is a reason why over the last two years, images of parents struggling, looking worn and distraught, near the edge of no return, have gone viral on the internet, sharing stories of just how hard parenting has been since COVID began. 

Sure, I have shared a number of them on my own social accounts, and even written many of my own, that were shared on my behalf as well. But I am going to say what every parent/caregiver already knows about why they’ve gone viral, but never wanted to admit. Ya’ll parenting has always been hard. 

True, COVID took down any escape one had from parenting when child care of any kind was no longer an option, an escaping to a workday with coworkers who felt like family was no longer such a relief of a retreat… but there have always been laundry rooms overflowing with laundry that is lucky if it gets cleaned forget folded and put away to be easily accessible when a family member needs to get dressed… there have always been (and will always be) houses where voices bellow from every nook and cranny as they work through whatever hard they are going through, that neighbors can hear without any privy to what the hard is causing such a racket… There have always been (and always will be) individuals keeping the group of humans under one roof going, without ever feeling seen or appreciated.

What COVID did was take away the space to breathe and reset in between all the hard, forcing us all to operate at full capacity, without any space to have “life’s hard things''that we would once have capacity to bear, feel unbearable. As someone who was handed what feels to be a never-ending unnecessarily level of hard nearly six-weeks ago, I can tell you first hand why no photos have come from our last month as a unit showcasing the less-than-hot mess we are functioning at. I can tell you the snapshot of a human I have looked like at morning drop-off in front of so many of my children’s peers and their parents that initiated check-in calls and faces of concern and pity. 

But just as I was trying to figure out what on earth I could share lately that could be of any value to someone else on this journey, I found myself chatting with another mom I admire greatly, about something as silly as fresh pasta I found at Market Basket. What had felt like such a selfish treat for myself, as it was not something anyone else in my family would eat, and would take easily 30-45 minutes of my attention away from a chaotic evening hour on a school night, had felt like a moment where I had put myself first in a way I hadn’t since my wife had her injury two weeks before Christmas.

As that mom had shared her excitement I had discovered what she and I both felt to be such a luxury, I swallowed my guilt around what something so simple felt like, and then continued our small talk like usual… until I found myself admitting why I was so excited about the meal that had made me feel like I could breath for the first time in weeks. 

Thankfully, I didn’t list out the number of lunches I had made, laundry I had done, rooms that I had picked-up, emails that I had returned, parent-teacher phone calls that I had taken, meals that I had cooked, or dishes that I had cleaned. I didn’t confess that I had begun to resent the sound of “mommy” because all I felt I heard lately was, “Cinderella” which is why I was losing my cool so often and had become this martyr version of myself that I didn’t even recognize, or that everytime someone asked me how my wife was feeling through recovery, I wanted to scream “she’s enjoying every moment of my dream of getting to watch netflix all day with meals served to her and no kids around!” 

Instead, I thought it best to ask for advice, because just that day I had spent an hour in therapy and despite that I felt good after leaving, found my presence at home to have not improved, and started to worry if I could really keep going. Here was the perfect insider to ask, so in the attempt to put my own life jacket on so that I’d be able to save others, I went ahead and asked some exhausted and full of self-pity version of the question no captain of the ship wants to be asked: “How do you do it all?”

As the words were sent though the digital atmosphere, and I was able to breathe again remembering the meal, feeling less guilty with the confession, I found myself stewing in a different kind of guilt. 

This mom I admired and was so fond of, I had had similar conversations when COVID first started about how impossible parenting during a pandemic was. I had applauded her each time she had posted an activity with her boys that seemed just so FUN and intentionally present for kids, in easy that I wasn’t able to when I was overwhelmed with my anxiety of how to make it through another hour before bedtime when our kids seem to be at their peak of exhausted energy and chaos. I wondered why I couldn’t seem to be that kind of present for our kids, and often wondered what it would be like to parent neurotypicals.

This mom had been someone that when I had the chance to take her family photos, I shouted publicly from the rooftops how truly amazing she was in each share of each photograph of her smiling boys that gazed with such love and appreciation up at her. I only knew of her what she shared through her social channels, and what she shared with me in conversation but she was someone I believed deserved every glowing review one could give her.

I believed that because the first time I had met her, was as a brand new mom, in her home, to take newborn photographs of her first son. She had been a friend of my wife, who had seen my work online, and liked it enough to hire me (and pay me her hard earned dollars as a self-taught photographer) to capture her beautiful family in their first days together.

When I took those family photos a better half of a decade later, skills vastly improved from the first go around, she was still holding closely to two of her men that loved her. The difference was, that in our last shoot, the mom stood proudly with two sons, and in the first, she sat with her husband gazing adoringly at their first born. 

This mom that I felt so guilty confessing my selfish reclaim of some “self-care” as I tried to survive what felt like single-parenting and then some, had been doing it for years, not weeks. In that moment of entirely selfish guilt, when I asked her unfairly how she did it every day, she humbly shared some tips and tricks that did make it easier. She said that although she tried to post what was fun or funny about their chaos, they were only moments of the real thing. And that often, she felt everything I was currently feeling. She confessed that on days that the unnecessary hard felt unbearable, she held onto the reminders that her kids think “the world is a really pretty place” as her son had told her one the car that afternoon. 

Her humility in that moment gave me the strength the next day to say all the things to my wife, who is still here, that felt unnecessarily hard since her accident, without concern for how it could hurt her, because I had been walking through the last six weeks bottling it up inside like I was alone, and needed to realize I was not. 

In what was definitely an emotionally charged discussion, she ironically brought up that we were not that family in the photos we hung on our wall, or that I shared in my blog with you. That what we were in currently didn’t feel like those smiles of love and connection and empathy, implying that those felt dishonest and a coverup to what we show to the world.

In that moment I was able to say clearly, what photos like those mean to me, and why photography has been all I can think about for the last two weeks as I try to find something to share about our journey that could mean enough for someone else to be worth a share.

I don’t believe we take the photos to tell a lie to the world. Photographers, like myself, don’t take ten times the amount of snapshots at a photo shoot, to then spend hours culling those images to find just the right ones to hopefully edit (and sometimes even combine) to showcase a lie of smiling faces of children who look up adoringly at their parents with love. The final result of photos that are shared with the world, that we keep with us over time, as we age, change, grow, and sometimes don’t always stay as the same humans in that photography are taken for one reason: to remind us of the truth as to why this life can feel so unnecessarily hard.

As Glennon Doyle has made so catchy (and a mantra I hold tightly to) from her book Untamed, when we choose to: “we can do hard things.”

We take those photos and have a professional spend hours getting a chosen few just right so that we can look at them during the unnecessarily hard to remember why we are here in the first place, and why it’s important to continually remind us that we can do hard things.

We take those photos in the hope that our kids will remember the moments we show on social media and display them on our walls so that they have something to show to their kids in the years when we are gone. 

Through what felt like a never-ending river of tears that had been barged up for six weeks and finally busted through that dam, I told my wife that we take those photos so that when they try to remember this chapter she and I are navigating so poorly, that we figured out how to do it together, and that when you are in a marriage it will not always be easy, and that it will take work and effort, and choosing each other each day to keep going.

We don’t share the hard with the world every day because it’s not what people want to read when they’re scrolling their feeds. They want to think you are who you are in those photos so that there is something to work towards, not just sit in when you have to make the choice to do the hard or not.

But we can, and we are, every day, doing the hard things. 

Focusing on the photos that remind us why it’s all worthwhile, and hoping the work put in now, provides so many moments for photos for decades to come. 

To the mom who shared with me that every moment isn’t fun and intentional, but it is possible and I am able to choose to do the hard things, you are my everyday hero, and your boys are so lucky to have you. 

To all the parents out there, who know what I mean by covid didn’t make parenting hard, remind yourself that what’s hard is when we feel like we are losing ourselves without any time to breathe in between the hard things we choose to do every day.

To the friends and family members who have helped our family over the last six weeks, and particularly to my sister, Granny & Pop-pop, most amazing nanny, and dear C family for continuing to make sure we remember this is temporary - we are forever grateful. 

And to our incredible kids, when you read this one day, remember that your moms love you, and are real people trying their best to get through what can feel unnecessarily hard because you three are worth every second of it. The easiest part of all of this is loving each of you. Don’t believe us? Look at all the photos… xo.

Embrace The Suck & Keep Perspective

This post… this post is for the future parents, the maybe parents and the hopeful parents.

This part right here is talking to the parents working on first children, or more children, and god bless you, multiple children.

This post is to give volume to the voice of frustration, the voice of patience, the voice of sadness and defeat that these parents I’m referring to keep muted for fear of judgement and lack of understanding.

This post will talk about our voices, both Steph’s and my own, that were given life during our own challenges at forming our family.  

I can remember sitting in the Doctor’s office for our informational visit as we started the process. The doctor encouraged us to  sign up for counseling before starting actually trying to get pregnant. The audacity she had, I thought. We didn’t need counseling. The only thing working against us was the anatomy required to make it happen, so we needed to turn to science. Pretty black and white if you asked us. I also remember Steph squeezing my hand with matched confidence as she clarified that we would not be seeking professional help during this process and would gladly sign the waiver that marked that as an unnecessary requirement.

My loves, I smile as I remember how confident we were. I smile because we were doe-eyed innocent bunnies thinking for us it would be different. We had close friends who invested years and savings and nearly broke their bank and emotional backs to start their family, who had encouraged us to stay aware and realistic throughout the process. Steph and I had smiled and graciously thanked them for their advice, but had secretly believed it would be easier for us. We figured it might take one or two IUI’s, maybe three if we couldn’t get the timing right.

Oh such innocent bunnies. Ya’ll, it took ELEVEN IUI’s over 3 years, and eventually one round of fully self-funded IVF. We invested over $60,000 when all was said and done for the twins. If you had asked us at that first doctor’s appointment to take an educated guess as to how much we thought we’d spend, we would have told you less than $10,000 because by no means would we ever think we’d be able to spend what we did. And we would have cockily told you that we’d be pregnant within the year, planning the arrival of our bundle(s) of joy that spring. 

Life, as we have learned, does not work that way. But if you are like us, you’ve either tackled that challenge, are currently fighting an uphill battle, or are an innocent bunny yourself looking for a healthy dose of the potential reality you may face. Regardless of your age and stage in working to create your family, the authentic challenge faced by couples who don’t sneeze and get pregnant brings with emotion and exhaustion unlike any other. 

By our fourth or fifth IUI, the process began to take a toll on us. Mistake #1: We had told any and everyone when we started trying to get pregnant. I mean EVERYONE. Why we thought this was smart, I still do not know. Maybe it’s the excitement, maybe it’s the possibility, maybe it’s that never-ending need to be a part of something bigger? Either way, this compounded the level of disappointment we felt after each failed attempt. It went from something we could have dealt with together, intimately and quietly, to something we had to deal with in public, with everyone, and  all at once, I should add. It’s not like you could have a party to announce each time that it didn’t work. Typically people paid attention to timing, so the day I’d get my period, or at least the 48-hour window, would be filled with texts/emails/calls inquiring the results. Each time I had to relive our own disappointment, while disappointing my friends and family. Talk about exhausting! By the third try, we learned how to tell people we’d let them know when something good happened, but to not ask. Then, as we approached the attempts where even drugs weren’t helping, and despite our partnership in managing the daily shots and injections, we started to face frustration.

For me, I felt like a failure. What was wrong with me…. why wasn’t it working? Was I too stressed? Did I not leave my legs in the air long enough after the procedure? Had my stint at smoking 7 years prior affected my ability to conceive now? Were the jeans I was wearing that day too tight? Should I have never used tampons? Ridiculous, yes, but these were the things I continued to question, inevitably ending with: Would I ever get pregnant? 

For Steph, she felt even less in control. The questions she started asking herself were around if she had picked the right donor, as I let her control that part of the process. She would start to wonder if we were actually ready for kids, and if this was the right path to take for our relationship. She started to feel resentful and feared that my attention on a child (or children in our case) would take away from my attention to her - something she started to wonder if she was actually ok with. Feeling helplessand her lack of participation began to consume her to a point where mean things would be said, and the readiness to quit became frequent. 

Remember that suggestion for counseling the doctor mentioned? Around this point would have been an intelligent pivot for us, yet we continued to move forward depleting our savings, increasing the drugs, changing the donors, and researching any complimentary tactics we could try in the hopes something - anything - would get us pregnant. After six tries, we realized that maybe I should switch jobs, because Massachusetts insurance would cover IVF at that point, where New Hampshire insurance did not, but the right job didn’t come to fruition, so we just kept moving forward. 

Mind you, any others seemed to have no trouble conceiving. Perhaps, before I start my bitter soap-box monologue, we should pause and discuss just how hard it is to get pregnant. Loves, it is REALLY hard to get pregnant. Even when all the biological stars align, you literally have less than 72 hours a month where making a baby is even possible. And then once the insemination happens, you have another 48 hours for it to take and form. This small window is what makes it so incredibly frustrating when someone you know seems to sneeze and get pregnant. Or worse, come to you complaining that they didn’t mean to get pregnant - “it just happened.”

Jumping on the soap-box, the following killed me as we worked through our seventh, eighth, and ninth IUI. My younger cousin who was dating a lovely women who already had three children ages 6+, who had gotten pregnant around the time we had first started… announced she was pregnant - AGAIN. No lie. I mean, genuinely, we were happy for them (because he is one of my favorites and she is awesome), but are you KIDDING ME? Here she was, in her forties, welcoming her FIFTH child into the world, where I was healthy and in my early thirties without any identified challenges to having a baby, and she had two pregnancys in the time we invested trying to have our first. 

The literal icing on the cake came when two of our very best friends came over for a typical birthday celebration. As my friend  blew out her candles she said “I wish to tell you - we’re pregnant!” Thank the lord that the lights were off while we were singing, so  no one could see the tears that streamed down my cheeks. Her pregnancy, despite our exhilaration for them, was the hardest to swallow. As part of our daily lives, we were there for every moment she experienced being pregnant for the first time. While her first trimester gave her such nausea it felt like it was all she talked about, I found myself either excusing myself from conversations, or not picking up the phone, for fear that eventually I would yell at her saying “Don’t you know how badly I want to be throwing up!” 

You see, the thing is, when you are in it, it’s really hard to have perspective. It’s truly tremendously hard to tell yourself that you don’t want just any pregnancy. It’s nearly impossible to tell yourself that “everything happens for a reason” and that the universe will bring you “your baby”. But ya’ll, after our eleventh IUI, Steph and I couldn’t even muster the “fake it til you make it” mentality. We were spent - emotionally, physically, and financially. We saw the three year journey as a complete waste. We looked at the division that had begun to take place between us, bitterly and resentfully as we started on the journey expecting it would bring us closer together, not further apart. We looked at the savings we depleted as the romantic trips to isolated beaches where fruity drinks are enjoyed with umbrella straws that we never took; or the basement that was unfinished; or the kitchen remodel that could never happen. We looked at the toll on our faith and belief that we could be parents three years took, and genuinely thought about giving up.

But then, something happened. As I mentioned, one option we had begun to consider was my career moving back to Massachusetts to take advantage of better health insurance options. In this search, a friend who owned an elearning firm proposed I consider working for her. This, my loves, was a moment of divine intervention. Although the job did not offer better health insurance, and Steph and I would still have to consider continuing to pay out of pocket, it did offer the ability to work from home, a far less stressful environment, and a signing bonus. That said signing bonus, combined with the vacation payout from the job I was leaving, was just enough to cover a round of IVF. Call it divine intervention, call it a silver lining, call it whatever you want. This, for us, was the turning moment in time where our family formation became possible.

I must take a moment to clearly state that this is not my endorsement that IVF is the only way to go, or the best solution in forming your family. This was merely the journey our family took in that process that ended in the inevitable. What I will say is that the endurance, patience, discovery and strength we gained in our three year journey to get to that place was merely the groundwork of what we would need to actually begin surviving for us on this parenting journey. 

You see, as I mentioned, Steph and I were innocent bunnies, thinking the journey to parenthood would be easy. We assumed that because we were madly in love, had done everything right with dating for three years, a two year engagement, and a big wedding celebration followed by a year of enjoying the honeymoon phase, that we deserved to be parents. How entitled is that sentiment? The concept of deserving to be parents is a privilege too many people take for granted, and one that we thought we would be able to as well. 

What we didn’t realize at the start of the journey was simply - we weren’t ready.

Let me repeat.

We. Weren’t. Ready.

Did we think we were? Sure!

Did we think, this will be easy? You know it!

Again, did we think we deserved to be parents? Heck yes, sister friend.

But as just about any parent will tell you, as you naively answer those questions with confidence like we did - you can never be ready for parenthood. Plain and simple, it will never be easy. And whether or not anyone deserves to be a parent, in whatever way that has meaning to you, it’s never that straightforward or uncomplicated - because life is just not fair. And despite what greater being you answer to, if you are spiritual, or if you believe you control your own fate - we all learn things about living as humans in this life that aren’t easy to comprehend or make sense of. More often than not, elements like time and space are the only paths to answers we find, and never when we need them the most.

This leads me to to the advice I give every friend who has come to me asking for advice on how to get through the awfulness it is to live through failed attempts to form a family: Embrace the Suck and Keep Perspective. 

Despite that we were completely unable to do this during our parenthood journey, this is the main piece of advice I give to any and every hopeful parent I talk to, especially those going through the IUI and IVF process. Although I have not had the pleasure of adopting a child, and cannot speak to the nuances of that experience, I have spoken to many parents who have and they have conceded that the advice still holds weight in any journey to parenthood. 

Let me break this advice into the two important factors of focus: embrace the suck, and then keep perspective.

Step One: Embrace the suck.

I’m not sure why we felt the need to keep it all together during three of the most challenging, upsetting, difficult, and awful years of our relationship. Maybe it was pride? Maybe it was embarrassment? Maybe it was fear of actually failing? But instead of buckling down together, relying on each other for comfort, and looking to each other for understanding as we navigated through it, we let the suck define us, and spread like poison to so many areas of our life that it should never have touched. We lost happy times together where we could have been learning more about each other, investing our energy in being better partners, and preparing to better support each other as parents. 

My advice to those tackling this battle currently is the same as to anyone who’s recently lost a loved one, or suffered a serious financial blow like being laid off, and that is to “embrace the suck”. Let it hurt. Feel it. Pity party if you need to. Do whatever you need to in order to understand why you are feeling the way you are feeling, get it out, and then take on step two: Keep perspective. My favorite example of this is to pull a Meredith Gray, open up a bottle of tequila, turn up the volume, and dance it out. (Grey’s Anatomy reference in case you have no idea what I’m referring to.) Pick a vice, be realistic about getting endorphins up, and work through it. If you want to eat a pint of chunky monkey - find a big ass spoon and dig in. If you want to drown yourself in cheesy goodness, order an extra large pizza topped with whatever extras make sense to you at the time, and don’t pass go until you are ready to pass out from carb overload. If you want to run it out, literally running away from the problems you are facing, find a kick-ass playlist, and use that motivation to get your burn on. Regardless of what you want to do, own it. EMBRACE the suck, and pick something that will make you feel better at the moment. Because tomorrow, my love, tomorrow you need to get out of your own way and find some perspective. 

Step Two: Keep Perspective.

Put the tiny violin back in it’s case. Chuck the empty cardboard pizza box in the recycles, trash the licked-clean pint container, put the remaining lime back in the fridge and hide the rest of the tequila (lord hope there’s still some left because too much tequila is really never good for anyone), put your big-kid pants on and focus. Perspective is going to be the only thing that will get you to a better place and if you gave yourself permission to embrace that suck, as hard as you were willing you, you better hold yourself accountable to figure out this important next step, for you will be better for it.

Let’s look at perspective like a what-if game - dramatically enhanced for effect, of course. If the universe sat you down and said, we can do this for you- make it so that this next IUI, this is the one that takes, but what if the following happens? What if that pregnancy turns into a fine pregnancy, but after the baby is born in the winter, you’ll suffer from such significant postpartum depression, you’ll never bond with the baby, and end up deciding you aren’t strong enough to have a second child two years later? Then that baby grows up as a single human versus one with a best friend of a sibling because you hadn’t gone through what the universe knew you needed to survive in order to be the parent you needed for your multiple children. Or, what if the pregnancy ends badly, before it’s able to come to fruition, because that embryo is actually not strong enough to survive the pregnancy? What would you say?

Now, what if the universe told you that your perfect baby, the one you’ve envisioned as part of your life for decades, will come to fruition but you had to be patient. That the reason why your son or daughter had to wait to be born on said date in the undecided future was because on their fourth birthday, they were going to meet a friend who would be their best friend for life, someone instrumental to the incredible human being they were going to be come. Or, that the reason why your child couldn’t be born this year was because by the time they reached their 20’s, they needed to have been preparing to graduate college while interviewing that May for their dream job at a firm where an alumni from their alma mater works, who will be crucial in ensuring their hire, that will shape the rest of their future from that day forward. Or, even, that if your child wasn’t conceived on the exact day they were supposed to be, inevitably born on the day some nine months from that conception date, that they would miss the opportunity to meet the love of their life, that would love them like no one else could, and be the partner they choose to spend their days with, growing and family and making a home together. What if the universe said to you, that they could provide a tiny human to you that would surpass all dreams possible, but that you had to trust them as they had a plan for everything. What kind of perspective could that bring to the incredible suck the trying and waiting and hurt the process of creating a family would bring you?

Like I said: Embrace the suck, and keep perspective.

***This is a slightly edited version of the first chapter of the book I wrote that lead me to blogging, altered to make sense as a blog post vs a chapter in a Survival Guide. I am sharing today after sending it to another friend who is in the “suck” of it all, in case someone else out there needs to read it today.

As always, thank you for being here… for following in our journey… and for supporting my dream to be a writer.

To anyone who reads this, and it resonates with you, please feel free to comment and share to show others they are not alone....

And if you are going through this currently, I hope you know you have every right to feel whatever you need to as you work to create your family. Whatever it takes. XO***

It Will Be Ok.

I’ve had a hard time finding the voice to share lately. 

The story I feel it’s imperative to share, is a hard one to put out there.

You see… now that the paperwork’s been submitted… soon, we’ll find ourselves in that small white room again… that sterile environment with intentionally placed toys… and a team of humans in white coats with clipboards….

When I think back to the first two times... 

How unprepared we were… 

How truly naive we were… 

How scared we were…

I keep trying to think of what I wish someone had told us about autism… 

What I wish those white coats had said to prepare us for the last three years… instead of asking us how strong our marriage was, what child care we had lined up since we both believed we should still be able to work for a living, what expectations we had for our children, and what our support system of friends and family looked like…

I remember looking at them blankly as I squeezed my wife’s hand, thinking, “Is this really what you want to talk about?” Furiously feeling unprepared for whatever we were about to face… 

And now, as we prepare for the third time around, I realize all I wish they had told us was…

It will be ok.

That “there will be days when you’ll worry he’ll never speak…. And that when he cries in frustration it will break your heart in ways you never knew it could be broken…”

That “there will be days you’ll wonder if you’ll continue to spend what feels like half a mortgage payment on diapers for the rest of your life, and as he starts to out grow the only sizes left, you’ll start to research prescriptions for the larger sizes…”

That, “when they ask you how strong your marriage is, it’s because there may be days that feel so long and so impossible, that you and your spouse start to turn on each other because how could you get mad at an innocent child…” 

That “there will be days that you will not be able to show up for the friendships you had, and you may miss out on important occasions, like standing beside them as they marry their true love, because you can’t leave your children alone for a few hours, let alone a few days for wedding festivities out of state.” 

That “there will be days when you hit rock bottom, and while you’re at the doctor’s office for your annual physical, you will cry if they ask if you feel safe at home, not because of an unruly marriage, but because as your child gets older and more aggressive, you actually fear how long you’ll be able to keep both him, and yourself, safe.”

“There will be days when you are simply lost at who to name as a caretaker to your children in your will, because the reality of the situation may simply be unfair to leave behind, and you will decide you simply cannot die.”

I wish they said some of the hard scenarios we would inevitably face with not just one, but two sons on the spectrum. 

I wish they had given us the perspective of, “buckle up folks, this isn’t the parenting road trip you thought was in your windshield ahead”. 

Because had they said that, I feel like they would have finished with “BUT, it WILL be ok.”

I know they’d emphasise the WILL when they’d say...

“There will be a time when your child finds his voice, and teaches you the definition of what it means to sing as if no one is listening, bringing you to tears of pride and joy.”

“There will be a day when you don’t think you can try any harder, and it suddenly clicks for him. It won’t take him weeks to potty train, but hours, and that surplus of diapers you have stashed in the basement will no longer be needed.” 

“There will be days that have what may seem like such small victories to others, but to you both feel like both heaven and earth have been moved for your child, that only your partner in this race of life is who you would ever want to share it with, bringing you closer than you could ever have been without the struggles.”

“There will be a time when you show up for a friend in a way that only you can... like when another mom hits their rock bottom, but you are there to pick up when she calls, and show up in the most authentic way so she knows that not only is she not alone, but that for her family, too, it will be ok.”

“There will be a healthy way to teach your child emotional intelligence, and the importance of using the words once he’s found them, instead of the physical aggression to work through how he’s feeling, teaching him at such an integral age that allows him to show up for society as a better human being decades later.”

“There will be days when you count down the minutes until you can tell his therapist/teacher/para about the small victories you and your spouse basked in earlier that week, and you will cry tears of joy together, because that administrator knows just how amazing each small victory is.”

“And that there will be someone in your life who knows your children and will love them enough to show up in every which way they need. You will know who they are because they will be actively present in your life, and when you ask your child who they want to be their valentine, he will name her before he ever thinks to name you, because she has shown him her love every day since the moment he was born. And if someone, heaven forbid, had to fill your shoes when you were gone, he’d trust her to do it.” 

It will be ok because parenting autism, or even having autism, is not the be all end all of what it means to be ok. 

It is challenging, but it is beautiful. 

It is lonely, but it presents the most authentic relationships of your life. 

It is sacrifice after sacrifice, but it is also reward after reward, in every sense of the phrase.

It is something that not everyone will understand because not everyone was built to understand something of such magnitude. 

But you, my friend, were built for this. 

And it will be ok.

I found the voice to share this because… whether or not our third child receives a diagnosis when we leave that white sterile room this third time around simply does not matter.

What matters is, that IT WILL BE OK.

If you have someone who needs to read this, please tell them, IT WILL BE OK.

If you, yourself, need to read this, IT WILL BE OK.

Every day, for the next chapter of days to follow, IT WILL BE OK.

We see you. You are not alone. And it will be ok.

XO

Lost

I was afraid he lost it.

And only recently, did I admit I thought it was my fault.

When COVID first hit, we faced some of the hardest days with autism. Mainly, I’ve determined, due to the lack of sleep, and the heightened state of anxiety we all faced.

In the worst run of it- out of 33 days, 29 of them I spent up for hours during the middle of the night with Luca. 

#Sleeplessnightswithautism, I deemed them… documenting them on my social media feeds, trying to explain what they looked like, and although the kind suggestions of “just let him work it out”, or “leave him in bed, he’ll be fine” and “don’t let him have his iPad” continued to come our way, I needed people to understand what our sweet boy was going through.

Seeing is believing, and they needed to see a STIMM in action… the way his small swift feet paced without hesitation around our darkened living room… his tiny fingers working through the buckets of small animal figurines, squinting his eyes to the light only provided by the Disneynature movie playing in the background…

I needed to show the way he simply could not settle… not due to a screen of an iPad, but due to the internal reel that raced through his mind, matching the drum to his rapid heart beat…

I needed to show his love of the lines and the attention to detail that when his mind was working in such magical ways where he would create these beautiful landscapes playing out in front of us. 

I was afraid, for a minute, when his lines stopped… that it was my fault.

Because when I couldn’t take the lack of sleep any longer, I worked with his doctor to put him on a medicine that would help him slow that reel at night… calm his heart beat… a medicine that I was afraid may have stopped his love of the lines completely... as he stopped lining up his figurines, and he stopped creating those landscapes of magic and wonder, once the medicine regulated his days.

My goal with the medication had never been to stop his stimming. I need to make that clear. There are mixed views on if you should allow stimming, and despite any controversy this may imply… Luca’s stimms of needing to create in that world were what I considered to be his magic - one that I felt privileged to bear witness of. 

I adored that he had this creativity stirring inside him that simply had to be shared with the world. 

I admired when he could show with such conviction that his artistry demanded the space and ability to be created… 

Like a painter who spends hours on a tortuous one nighter in a dark studio in front of a blank canvas… 

Or a songwriter who carries a small notebook, constantly humming and drumming a beat, allowing the words to swirl in their heads until they make it onto the page… 

The way a composer can get lost behind the keys of a baby grand, allowing every feeling to escape through their fingers as they move along the keys…  

It was magical… and by no means something I had hoped would end.

As I was making our holiday video though, Luca sat on my lap at its’ completion so I could show him the finished product. (If you haven’t seen it, selfish plug- give it a watch! I was really proud of how it came out.)

The moment that we got to his section, his eyes lit up. He watched as he made the lines on the screen, and screamed “Penguins!” when we reached the image of he and his friends at the aquarium. It was almost as if he had forgotten what it felt to be inspired.

He lept from my lap, worked his way to his playroom, and the magic began. 

The lines returned.

My heart ached as I realized how much I had missed it. Watching him in his happy place, creating without boundary, alive in this other world. 

I savored it. Unsure if this was merely a moment of inspiration that may not continue.

As the days went on, it was like his lines had never left.

Tonight, when I suggested The Lion King as he requested to watch a movie before bedtime, he paused to consider it. 

After a moment, he agreed, and then searched the playroom to grab his many buckets of figurines.

Those powerful tones of the opening scene played through the speakers, and I watched him take the small antelopes out, and start to line them up, while humming with the music. 

After the antelopes, he reached for the elephants, as the screen displayed the scene where all the animals make their way to meet the new baby prince, Simba. 

He lined up his butterflies, and his cheetahs… his buffalos, and his hyenas (or what he’s deemed to be hyenas, because frankly- they don’t make hyena figurines), all in front of the shelf on which he placed his monkey and his lion.

He continued to create for an hour into the film. 

It was beautiful.

Our boy had not lost his magic. 

Our boys’ magic still had a place to be fostered and celebrated... 

We just needed to wait patiently and remind him how special we thought it was. 

To those parenting, autism or not, remember that each child is magical. Take the time to witness it, celebrate it, and let them know how important you think it is… as it is uniquely theirs. And you never know when they may grow out of wanting to be part of that magic. 

To anyone who feels like they too may have lost part of their identity lately… maybe Luca’s lines can remind you how important it can be to always remember who you were, in order to discover who you can still become.

XO

Happy Holidays!

Holiday Greetings, to you and yours!

2020.

It’s been a powerful year for so many.

For our family, it was one where we learned so much.

About each other…

About what really matters…

About who we are and who we could be…

And so this year, although we hope you hang our holiday postcard among many hosting dozens of smiling faces who miss you as well, we thought we’d send something a little different… 

Something that fills you in on what our year looked like…

In a way that we couldn’t in person… 

Something to introduce you to who we each became this year, through the months of adversity, change, and magic that only the turning of a century could do...

There once was a time, in the not so distant past, that our boys were men of few words. 

You see, 2020 introduced us to our storyteller… our actor… our little performer… not quite sure where he gets it from, but our Jack is happiest when making others happy.

This little boy, who is less than little as each day goes by, is our constant voice of reason… our voice of clarity… our literal reminder of things we’ve said and shouldn’t say… of the stories that fill his heart and head so strongly he simply cannot forget…

His sweet voice has air to fill through his missing front teeth, and he takes every opportunity to use the words he’s found, ask questions, and hold you accountable. 

His heart is bigger than most, and although he can feel the weight of all feelings… he can tell you he loves you with an ease and sincerity that makes that burden seem bearable. 

As for our little Luca, our light… our Casanova… his words are still coming, but as they come, they enter with the sweetest tone and levity… songs move his soul in a way that brings serenity and joy.

Luca is strong, built for endurance and with a fierceness that is frightfully compelling. This summer, he learned that he was in charge of his own destiny. As he fell in love with watching movies about the ocean, he determined he too could swim under water. Within an hour of trying, and figuring out just how to hold his breath, he spent the rest of the summer exploring the freedom beneath the surface. 

2020 brought Luca the magic of Disney+, and Disneynature, introducing him to the entire animal kingdom. His love of the lines… whether they be of penguins, or elephants… lions and bears… or gently flying birds around… his eyes lit in excitement imagining the feeling of the wind in your wings… was simply magical.

Our boys continue to teach our family about autism… about it’s uniqueness and improv… it’s 

Struggles and lessons… it’s light and magic… a pandemic that takes your routine and throws it out the window can surely teach you how much you can handle… 

As for our rainbow baby, Alex turned two this June. You couldn’t tell, as her stature is similar to her brothers, which we joke gives her the status of a triplet, not a younger sister.

This kid… oh how she makes our hearts smile. She is as sweet as she is sassy. She is as kind as she is strong. She is the definition of what it means to be raised by two strong women, and protected by twin older brothers.

Her words are arriving slowly, but surely, however when she can choose how to express herself, she reaches for the pens, markers, crayons, and paper. She simply cannot get enough. 

She can hold her own, though.

As for Steph, 2020 and COVID did not slow down Pro Image Painting, LLC. Not a stranger to diversity, Steph worked diligently to ensure everything she’s built stood tall, always taking care of her team, and pivoting when needed. 

She took on a 4000 square foot unit, additional vehicles, and everything it takes to build and support more crews.

She became the only certified painter in New Hampshire to work with Fine Paints of Europe, and elevated her business to a level where its reputation speaks for itself.

And, while hustling like no other, managed to get her invention launched, picked up by The Grommet out of Sommerville, MA, and now onto Lowes.com.

As for me… if you’ve kept up with the blog at all, you know I’m an open book. 

2020 didn’t look quite like I thought it would.

However, a pandemic, and three young children under the age of 5, two of which on the spectrum, I’ve found my days to be filled with supporting their schedules, and Pro Image when I can… building a home and a life we can be proud of.

You see, if 2020 has taught us anything… it was that we were stronger than we thought, but have many miles yet to run in this race.

We learned how much we took for granted…

Like the gift of being able to say goodbye to someone you love, and be surrounded by those who understand the loss as greatly in the days that follow…

We learned the meaning of real friendship… like the kind you can’t live without…

We learned the power of magic, and those who believe in it… 

We learned the power of hard work and an unwillingness to give up…

And we learned that this too, is temporary. If this is merely a chapter to our story, there is so much left to be written… moments to be captured and frozen in time… and memories to be savored as they are created… 

We miss you all… more than we can say… but we hope you know that you are in our hearts this holiday season… and hope that peace and joy fill your homes where we cannot, as we all stay safely distanced, waiting for all of this craziness to be over. 

Peace out 2020. See ya’ll in 2021. Happy Holidays. From Our Family, to Yours. Xo

Improv of Autism

Improv: of, relating to, or being improvisation or improvising : to make, invent, or arrange offhand.

I can remember Freshman year in college, standing in the Black Box theatre, as the exercise of “Improv” was explained.

There are no rules, our professor said, except to accept what you are given and not say “no”. If you were to say “no”, the exercise simply would not work, and what could be a beautiful practice in experimenting, learning, and believing would be over.

We were unleashed on the stage, at the whim of our fellow participants, encouraged to let loose, let go of any caged restrictions of being polite or proper we brought with us when we entered, and told to trust the players, giving them our everything while in the arena.

Lately… I feel like this is simply the only way to explain what “Parenting Autism” Is.

(C)Becky Abrams Photography 2020

Parenting Autism is buying screen protectors for televisions, knowing that at any given moment, something could be projected at your tv, and saying “No, we don’t throw things at the TV” means game over, with shattered cracks and black fuzzy projection is in your future.

Parenting Autism is the inability to relax at a birthday party or group gathering, because any simple thing could set your child off, and in the split second moment of fight of flight response, you have to be able to deflect both or either.

Parenting Autism is accepting that if you are in a gathering of any kind, where your child tells you it’s time to go, you pack up your troops and belongings and hit the road, despite if the journey there took longer than the time you spent in that place.

Parenting Autism is understanding that if your son sprints down your long driveway like an African cheetah who hasn’t eaten in a week but sees a deer at the end where the cars are rushing by, you can not expect him to listen to “freeze”, “stop” or even “come back please”, and you have to accept that he is going to run to the end of the driveway unless you prevent him from doing so.

Parenting Autism is watching “boys be boys” turn into life long scars when typical wrestling provides permanent damage and the folks in the ER know you by your first name, because “we don’t hurt/kick/punch/pull hair/etc.” simply does not register amongst the focused rage of revenge.

Parenting Autism is a melting heart when those same boys look to each other in moments of tenderness, and despite that social interaction, physical touch, and eye contact can be atypical, practice all three, followed by the words of “I love you” before an unexpected embrace.

Parenting Autism is understanding cant’ vs won’t, and not holding it against them, or yourself.

Parenting Autism is tears… lots of tears, but both those of sadness and equally as many of joy when you let them fall.

Parenting Autism is strain on a marriage, the kind that can either break or make you, depending on if it tears you apart or brings you together, and the kind that can make you believe in the power of parentship: the strength of a team.

Parenting Autism is sleepless nights… where the brain of your child cannot stop, and the imagination is wild as the rest of the world is at peace.

Parenting Autism is in the love of the lines, remembering to believe in the smallest of details and differences that makes each piece of line an important factor in the greater picture.

(C) Becky Abrams Photography 2020

Parenting Autism is accepting that your child plans to eat the same meal every day, no matter how strange or lacking in vegetables it may be, because at least it means their belly is full.

Parenting Autism is high-fives in the kitchen with cheers when your child eats a new food, and with a fork instead of his fingers no less.

Parenting Autism seeing the importance of a specific print on a specific T-shirt as the difference between a good day and a bad day at school, because the love of the character in that print can make your boy brave in the moments when the anxiety can feel paralyzing.

Parenting Autism is celebrating when your child gets notes sent home from school, that they had a “great” day, were present, worked hard, and served as the classes’ special helper.

Parenting Autism is teaching your child that all feelings are important, and meant to be felt - accepting and acknowledging any and all of those feelings when they surface unexpectedly.

Parenting Autism is sacrifice for all members of the family, but the greatest gift of learning what hard work and commitment to each other can truly mean.

Parenting Autism is witnessing magic in the every day moments, the kind that creates beauty that cannot be imagined or believed if not experienced first hand.

Parenting Autism is blind faith in that every moment of your life before the one you are in has prepared you trust your instincts and move blindly forward without expectation or opposition.

Parenting Autism is getting on board to not saying “no”, but to being present with your child for all of it: the hard moments, and the magical, twenty-four hours a day, five hundred and thirty six days a year.

(c) Becky Abrams Photography 2020

When we started to follow the rules of improv, in terms of how we parent autism, we found more joy, more excitement, and more freedom.

We let go of the society presented rules on how to parent, and began to listen to what our children needed from us, accepting that all players on the stage had equal opportunity to dictate where the scene could lead.

We stopped taking it out on each other, like some how parenting autism was anyone’s fault, vs. just the magical arena we walked into, choosing to partner, hand-in-hand, as a unit in the skit, vs. individuals thrown in separately.

We began to focus on the wonder, and the reward in all of the work, appreciating the unknown twists and turns of our story.

We participated in the art of it, and watched in awe on how our faith, attention, trust, and acknowledgement gave our children the courage and confidence to be who they were made to be, each taking opportunities to shape our narrative.

We are only a few years into this improv journey with autism, and fewer as the present improv troupe we were made to be, but we look forward to the journey ahead as a team.

Yes, “Parenting Autism” has narrowed our audience, as our performance is not one everyone buys a ticket to, but those in the stands cheer louder than a room full of those who were barely watching to begin with.

And yes, “Parenting Autism” is a marathon, not a one-night performance… but it’s fresh, exciting, and still yet to be decided, promising cliff hangers at every turn.

So, if you’re in the arena with us, send us a wave, a wink, a hello… or even an introduction to whatever scene you want us to be a part of. We’ve learned the rush and thrill of the trust fall, and once you’ve experienced the pure organic magic that comes from the unknown, it’s truly hard to ever say “no” again. XO

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

The Cool Mom.

Last weekend, my wife confirmed for our children, that she is, in fact, the cool mom.

How did she do that? You ask?

She brought home nerf guns.

Let’s back up.

About two years ago, we were Christmas shopping, and she wanted to get the boys nerf guns. My disgust clear across my face, I factually pointed out that all the packages state for 8 years old or older, and that ours weren’t even 1/2 that age, so it would not be in our best interest to gift them to twins whose excitement matched with aggression on a holiday morning would simply mean any fragile decorations I’d put at a height they could not reach, would most definitely find peril.

That shopping trip, I won.

Last weekend, when Jack let Steph cut his hair and trim his nails, earning him a trim to the oh-so-wonderful-Walmart, he pridefully came up the basement stairs yelling “Mommy! Look what Mama let me get!”

She followed behind him grinning, ear to ear, excited to introduce our kids to the amazing battlefield of rush that styrofoam pellets aimed at you at a speed to fast for 5-year-olds should be.

Jack rushed to his siblings, making sure they each got their gun and stash of ammunition, and all three kids followed Mama eagerly to learn what to do.

She walked them through it, and I simply sipped my coffee in the kitchen quietly, watching their eyes follow her ever movement, hanging on her every word in amazement.

The only one to get injured that day was me.

The only one to pick up the hundreds of darts shot, was me.

I am the Mom who cleans up the mess.

I am the Mom who is the target.

I am not the cool Mom, when she puts the darts up high above the kitchen cabinets because she’s tired of cleaning them up.

I am also the mom that at 5am the next morning, when Jack was desperate to play with them again, said, “Mama will be so excited to play with you when she wakes up, so let’s wait for her.”

I could have tried to be cool at 5am. I had been up for an hour, and had a cup of cappuccino- cool was technically possible.

But that’s the thing.

There can’t be two cool moms.

So all week, when they wanted to introduce their friends to this amazing new world Mama gave them, I left it for her. I let her look like the coolest Mama there was.

Because she is pretty cool.

At one point I asked her, after I’d cleaned up the darts for what felt like the 100th time, why on earth she thought this was so cool. (Again, I’m not the cool mom.)

Before I could lecture her on how scary it is to teach our children about guns she stopped me.

“If we had a gun in the house, I’d never get these for them.” she said.

She then pulled the ultimate excuse, that’s impossible to fight. “I never got to have this stuff as a kid. I just want to have fun with them.”

Ugh.

This is why she is the cool mom.

We will continue to have conversations with our children about guns, and ensure they know to never touch a real one… but for now… the cool mom is enjoying teaching them about aiming at a target, and how to breath and relax their bodies to really focus in on what’s in front of them. She is filling our house with laughter and play, and giving the kids memories that are happy and filled with joy.

I’m not really sure I’ll ever be the cool Mom.

I’m the worrier.

The keeper of all information.

The one who knows every teacher, aid, nurse, school administrator, doctor, and adult who works with our children on a regular basis.

The one who knows which twin wants veggie sticks in his lunch, and which one wants cheezeits.

I’m the mom who makes sure the medicine gets taken every night and every morning.

I’m the mom who gets up early every morning for the snuggles on the couch, and holds Jack’s hand while reading him a story as he falls asleep at night.

Not a lot of room left to be cool.

But that’s ok.

Because the cool thing in our family is… they have two moms, so we don’t both have to be cool. I mean, we wouldn’t want to spoil them or anything.

To all the non-cool parents out there: I see you. Kudos on letting your partner bring the fun to the party. I’m with you on clean-up duty… because to us, happy kids and a clean house is cool enough, isn’t it? XO

Sink or Swim

Sink or swim?

I feel like when it comes to parenting, I’m constantly asking the question, will they sink, or swim?

Having worked to teach our twins to swim over the last two summers - yes, I said TWO summers, it’s left me reflecting on the concept of sink or swim- and how our parenting prepares them for life.

Raising differently wired children, one of the most comforting comments we’ve been told is that eventually, it will just connect. Maybe their wires aren’t there to begin with, the way a neurotypical child’s are, but the beautiful part about watching a child with autism piece their own wires together is how they study a situation, completely unaware they are in it, and work their way through it, to make it work for them.

Last year, we had asked a neighbor who taught swim lessons, to come by the pool, and work with us to get the twins off their floaties. Mrs. Pickle’s made it a game, which fascinated Jack immediately, as she threw all of his small little people plastic toys around the pool, encouraging he scoop them up the way you scoop ice cream, curling your fingers towards your palm, and rescue them to safety. This game intrigued Jack into participation, but simply did not impress Luca. We continued with Mrs. Pickle’s methods for the remainder of the summer, but were unable to get Jack out of the floaties, never mind Luca.

This summer, about half-way through, Luca became far more interested in sea animals, watching every video he could on them, and thrilled each time he watched a friend jump into the pool - particularly with the excitement in their eyes before they escaped under water. At first, he would jump into my arms in the pool, with his floaties on. And then one day, he asked that we just take them off. After about an hour of swimming, he had made the connection that had been missing last summer, and focused on the thrill of experiencing the underwater life.

But then, when Steph purchased new goggles, it was a game changer. Luca realized he could see under water, and then never wanted to come up for air. The first day he discovered he could swim under water and actually see the entirety of the pool, he began to hold his breath for 15 seconds, only coming up for a gasp in order to return to the water below. It took about a day or two of exploration before he decided he wanted to get from place to place, and worked on moving his body to get around the pool.

Just like that, we had a fearless swimmer, who was happiest under water like a scuba diver.

Jack watched his brother accomplish this quickly. He had taken his time learning the scooping method, and how to kick to go faster, but wasn’t quite ready to let go of his floaties. A week into Luca’s new freedom, Jack decided that he would like his floaties unbuckled, where he hung on to the vest of them like a noodle, staying by the steps of the shallow end. It took a few days to be comfortable with this new bravery, before he decided to stay on the steps without them. He also practiced with goggles to put his head under water, little by little, before he was comfortable enough to really swim. Just last weekend, he discovered that he enjoyed swimming underwater, and that if he stayed near the edges, he could pull himself up if he got tired. As he grew in confidence, he remembered to “scoop” the water like he had been shown, to help him swim further each time.

Two boys, born merely minutes apart, and completely different paths to the same out come.

Their little sister, neurotypical until we are told otherwise, has watched their aqua accomplishments, and has decided that she too, can explore the water equally. Although we accommodated by holding her in the water when we are swimming with them, she has not realized that she has yet to learn to swim.

Just yesterday, as she watched them joyfully splash, she walked down the steps of the pool. Both Steph and I said, “Alex stay there please” and “Stop” as we rose to our feet having not yet gotten into the pool, expecting to put her floaties on her. Her feet continued down the steps, and her head dipped under the water. Right behind her, I pulled her up, and looked at her blank expression of shock staring back at me. She wasn’t scared, as much as confused because as far as she could tell, she had done exactly as her brothers, but met a different result. One that ended with her fully clothed mother holding her waste deep in the pool.

In that moment, the concept of connecting wires on their own, vs having the wires set in the first place, really resonated for me. Alli learns by watching others. From the youngest age, she’s been able to naturally do things, without hesitation or question. Things that never connected for the boys, and some still have yet to. But in this moment, the boys flourished in learning how to do something at their own pace, in their own time, and with such pride and joy that she felt fully capable to do so too.

As parents, I feel like we’re constantly wondering - will they sink or swim? Do we give them floaties, or let them figure it out? Do we need to ask someone to help teach them, or can we do it ourselves? What’s the right balance? Throw them in before they are ready, or let them take their time?

Pretty sure the jury’s still out on that one for us. But I can say that in those moments that you get to watch a child flourish, it’s wildly beautiful, and completely satisfying as a parent. Alli may have learned that she wasn’t ready yet, but she believed that she was her brother’s equal, and we were a moment behind her to pull her to the surface, so that the lesson wasn’t a much scarier one. Maybe that’s the balance in it all. Teach them they can do anything, fearlessly and foolishly when necessary, and be there to scoop them to safety in the moments when needed to avoid detriment.

Here’s hoping balance finds you as you are helping your littles (or not so littles) to sink, or swim. Xo

Muscle Memory

CONFESSION: I’m hiding in my office. 

The lights are out so they won’t know I’m in here.

I can hear my sweet Jack telling our nanny about how great his day was while Luca chomps away at his snack of very crunchy veggie sticks.

I listen as Jack shares the details of his day, and although my heart is full that he can be so well-behaved and polite for her, my heart also hurts because I’m hiding in my office, with the lights off and the music low.

I’m hiding so he won’t see me.

I’m hiding because if he does see me, his polite manners that he’s practicing for Ms. S. will turn into whines for me and screams of meanness towards her.

No exaggeration.

Our Jack is the sweetest love bug you’ve ever met. 

He’ll grab your cheeks and say “Cute, cute, cute…” in a way that makes you melt and feel so loved. 

He’ll blink his long dark eyelashes over those adorable almond shape eyes, making you forget what he asked for and simply say “of course, my love, I’ll buy you some ridiculously overpriced you-tube endorsed toy that I can only find on e-bay.” 

Jack doesn’t fit your typically known mold of autism like Luca does. 

He does not line his toys up around the house. 

He has found the words that were missing at 18 months, and will have a full conversation with you, spouting them out with the cutest lisp from the two teeth that went missing six months ago. 

Jack will give you love, all day, every day, if you let him. If you are in his bubble, he will shower you with affection in the most contradicting way to what is known about certain ends of the autism spectrum.

Where Jack’s autism shows up is in moments like this morning, where just the change of Mama coming to help put him on the bus took all the confidence of the 5-year-old pro who has sprinted proudly onto those steps of the yellow chariot the last three days, into scared and frozen feet that had to be carried up the stairs as he was paralyzed in tear-streaming anxiety.

Jack struggles with transitions in a way that if something does not go as planned, a full-blown meltdown can ensue, where our boy simply cannot get a hold of himself. 

Our sweet boy will be brought to the floor in a roller coaster of emotions that to some would seem like a ridiculous tantrum - dramatic in nature and unnecessary. 

What we’ve learned is that when moments like this happen, he does not have the wiring to simply T-swizzle the moment and “shake it off”. He needs time, and the understanding to let the rollercoaster happen until it’s come to the roaring stop, and he can get off and return to the moment it left him in.

Jack’s magic is that he can feel things in such an intense way, but as he’s so young, he’s yet to master that magic. Where he’s so differently wired, the disconnect between understanding how to “just get over it” versus “it’s the end of the world as we know it”, is present. 

Each time it happens, I work with him to breathe through it, and to find a way to ground himself in the facts - something our last incredible nanny, Ms. K., taught us. We calmly explain, when he’s ready to listen, what’s real about a situation, so that he can learn to understand a situation better through what he knows about it, versus just what he feels about it.

The last three days when he got off the bus, and I stood there with Ms. S., he yelled and said how he hated her, and cried as he clung to my leg asking for her to go home. Yet, after we settled him, got food in his belly, and were able to remind him that he actually enjoyed his time with her, he opened up to her each time, asking to play. 

So today, I hid in my office when they got off the bus. I was ready to sprint down our long driveway incase he refused to get off the bus for her, but as I listened to him telling her about his day when he got off, like this was the normal and acceptable behavior of the afternoon, the bus driving off in the distance, I ran in my office and hid. 

Hiding allows him to build the muscle memory to know that he is safe with Ms. S., that it’s ok to feel safe with someone other than me, and provides a meltdown free afternoon until I re-appear.

If this situation feels familiar to you, perhaps your child merely suffers from separation anxiety, not finding themselves on the spectrum where this behavior is so amplified, I see you. I am you. You are not alone.

One of Jack’s teachers told me when I expressed concerns about his meltdowns that kids who are on their best behavior with others, but turn into emotional messes the moment they are with their person (whoever that person is) simply means that they feel safe enough to be their worst version of themselves while they are working to learn how to be their best. 

Remember: It takes time to build muscle memory. You are not a bad parent because your child can be a monster, overly dramatic, or completely ridiculous only around you. You’re doing an amazing job giving them the safe space to be their worst version, so they can learn how to be their best. Keep doing what you’re doing. Of course, with the permission to hide when necessary.

XO

Mixed Emotions

You know how people are always saying… “it’s with mixed emotions”, and fully aware of what they mean when they say it?

Today I watched first hand what it feels like to have mixed emotions, and try to process it… through the eyes of a five-year-old.

It was the first day of summer school.

This morning I relived that chaos of a hustle trying to get three kids under the age of 5 out the door to be on time for two different drop offs.

Alex needed a lunch.

The boys were confused why they didn’t need a lunch (they are used to 6 hour days).

Jack couldn’t understand why Ms. Nicole couldn’t pick them up on the bus, and spoke with sincere advocacy that he was a big kid who didn’t need me to drop him off.

I couldn’t find Jack’s backpack, but because they only needed masks and a water bottle, it wasn’t a big deal to combine their belongings into one bag, which logically appeased Jack despite that Luca’s name was on said bag.

When I had to wake Luca up, Jack declared with glee “Luca, come down stairs, we get to go to school today!”

Luca did join us in the kitchen shortly after, with a confused smile on his face.

My wife helped get all three kids in the car, and we were 8 minutes earlier to depart than I had hoped/planned.

After we dropped Alli at school, I explained to the boys what would happen, so they could be prepared. I shared that we would pull up to school, right in front of the door, like the bus would have. When we arrived, they would have their foreheads checked to make sure they weren’t sick, and then their new teachers would help walk them into the building.

Jack was excited. Luca, not as excited, started to get weepy eyed. I assured him that Miss K. would be inside and he would be safe (as his amazing teacher was also our nanny during the last few months, so we had scored fortunate familiarity to make this transition easier). It was as we pulled up to school that the tears started flowing.

It caught me off guard because something was different about it. He was clearly happy to be at school, but something was upsetting him.

After the car was in park, I put my mask on, and made my way around to the back of the car to unbuckle their seat belts. Luca came out of his seat willingly, and even let the nurse take his temperature. He said “school” a number of times and you could see the joy and excitement in his eyes.

But then a teacher he has not met, in a mask, asked to escort him in side. He looked at me with those same excited eyes, and fearful tears escaped them. I reassured him Miss K. would be inside, but he stood frozen - the definition of mixed emotions. As he worked to process his choice- to stay with me where he felt safe, but miss out on what he missed so desperately - or to face the fear in the sincere want to return to the classroom, Miss K. appeared in the doorway.

That boy SPRINTED - with feet so fast it was as if the emotions evaporated in thin air- to the friend/teacher he trusted and needed so much. Tears continued to fall with each step he took, but you could see him choose the uncomfortable fear because he knew in that moment what he needed more than to be safe with his Mom.

Jack happily followed behind him, glowing smile from ear to ear.

I spent 60 minutes in the parking lot, listening to “Untamed” by Glennon Doyle, answering emails and getting work done at the same time.

When the hour was up, the boys exited the building, and Luca was still in his mixed emotions. This time, the tears that escaped his eyes were those of happy tears to have returned, but also sad to have to leave so soon.

It was so powerful. Miss K. reassured me he had been present, and working hard in the classroom without tears. Jack couldn’t wait to share the worksheet he proudly carried in both hands, and was simply elated.

One of the things I’ve learned with autism, for all those Big Brother fans out there, is you always must “expect the unexpected”. Despite that the twins have the same diagnosis, almost everything about them is different: the way they act, the way they learn, the way they grow- you name it. It’s almost as if they live life unfiltered - without care or comparison.

While they were in class, and I listened to Doyle’s audio book, she spoke about how at age 10 we learn how to categorize ourselves, and determine how it is we expect to act. I hope my boys learn to live life unfiltered with such muscle memory, that it becomes a strategy, and a tool they use to be true to who they are. Never finding a box to fit in… never learning the embarrassment of judgement from others. I hope that both because of and despite their diagnosis, they continue to live this life untamed, as Glennon titled her novel, as Luca had just as we arrived in that parking lot, feeling every emotion as strongly as when he was asked to leave it.

As we exited the parking lot, I too had mixed emotions.

I have been publicly advocating that our twins need to go back to school, to receive the medically diagnosed assistance deemed necessary by the doctors and administrators from the moment I learned school would not open. My grateful heart was thankful for the little summer school opened, providing an hour a day three times a week, but still felt that the 6 hours 4 times a week their IEP stated explained this wasn’t enough.

Today, however, after watching Luca work through his mourning of the school time he had lost, and his joy to be returning, my grateful heart is merely that. I am thankful for today, and for the time they will be in the classroom. I am hopeful that sharing our story will continue to open hearts and minds to understand why children like ours, both those with special needs and those who are gifted, are among a smaller population who need the classroom more than others. I will continue to advocate on their behalf, because I know in my heart they need it to erase the regressions we’ve witnessed over the last 6 months.

But today, with mixed emotions, my heart is smiling and grateful for these boys, and for their ability to be in school at all.

The Special When

When we found out we were pregnant, we started to imagine their futures. We started to think about what could be for them one day. 

When we picked out their names we looked to reflect a path we hoped would be possible- providing them strong, dependable, serious and relatable names.

When we pictured what their paths may look like, we thought about this close bond that they’d have as twins. They’d grow up always having each other… a partner in crime… a shoulder to lean on… someone who would always have their back. 

When we navigated those sleepless nights of newborn twins, juggling breastfeeding and pumping, diaper changes and tight swaddles, we told ourselves… this too shall pass.

When they rolled over for the first time, we thought, “A milestone! we hit a milestone!” and anticipated so many more milestones to come.

When we talked about their futures, we gushed over the endless potential sports they would play, the potential jobs they would have, whether or not they’d want to go to college or just jump into learning about the family business… We promised each other we’d support whatever dreams they might have… 

When the boys were diagnosed with autism at 18 months, we were in denial. We thought their speech was delayed because they were twins without older siblings and had never been in daycare. When doctors said they weren’t sure Luca would ever talk, we responded with determined disbelief that the experts had no idea what they were talking about. 

When the boys hit age two, and we started to really learn about what autism would mean for our family, we started to understand how severely unknown our road ahead was, and how all those assumptions of hopes and dreams we had for our boys shifted…

When the sleepless nights returned, on top of bringing another newborn in our house, we started to wonder if we’d ever sleep again.

But then, something clicked… 

When we learned about the magic of autism, we dropped the self-pity and the potential doom autism could mean for our children, and focused on the incredible road that had yet to be paved would look like.

When they started to make significant progress in school, finding words we weren’t sure we’d ever hear out of their mouths, we leaned in hard to asking for help, being open to whatever autism may bring and researched wherever we could to learn about how to be the parents they needed.

When Jack went to his first birthday party of a classmate, played with friends, and even sat down to sing before cake, we began to see glimpses of that life we thought may be ahead for our boys, both despite autism, but also because of it.

When COVID hit, and they took away the routine and resources the twins received from their school, we thought it might be temporary, but stayed open-minded to our ability to show up for them.

When the weeks passed, and the sleepless nights outnumbered the ones with sleep in them, our tired bodies began juggling the chaos and anxiety the pandemic left on our family. We began to have a hard time keeping perspective that the regression happening before our eyes with the twins wouldn’t be permanent. 

When I reached out to their academic team, and then the administration above them, as well as the Super Intendant begging to know what plan lay ahead this summer, when only the students who were in serious need like our twins would be in the school district, limiting exposure for the virus with plenty of resources to get our twins back on track, we found very little perspective left to focus on, as their optimistic promises to put a plan in place continued to fall flat.

When we learned, just last week, that the summer school their medical diagnosis, and assessments of their incredible academic team assigned them, would be limited to hourly increments daily, we started to feel defeated. 

When we look at the magic in their autism now, we see it being buried by their anxiety, need for routine, longing for their peers, and regression that has shown to potentially have permanent damage.

When we look ahead to their future, we worry that the lack of what we can provide for them right now, during however long this pandemic keeps them out of school, will seriously effect who they could be, the life they could live, and the choices they will have when the time comes - forget what sports they will play, if they will want to go to college, or what jobs they may want.

The special “when” for children with special needs is being ignored with the severity of everything going on in the country right now, and although it may fall low on the priority list for so many of the talented decision makers out there who could do something, it remains at the top of our priority list as their parents.

So I ask you, WHEN will the medical diagnosis that outlines what our children need be enough to get them back on track, so that their many special whens of the future can remain bright, full of hope and possibility.

When?

What do you need?

“What do you need?”

The question is banging at the door I’ve closed in my mind as I lock myself away in my mental closet of a pity party, sitting on the cold dark floor, letting the tears continue to fall.

“What do you need?” It demands from me.

Like my four-year-olds, I sit in the time-out crying, ashamed, and unable to find the words. 

“I don’t know!” I want to shout back. “Don’t you think if I knew, I’d know how to ask for it? Or better yet, get it for myself? I’m fully capable.”

As I breathe, I can feel the weight in my chest and I whisper… “I need this pandemic to be over.”

The lack of response confirms what I already know, that it’s not over, not even close, and it may get far worse before it gets better.

“What do you need?” The ask is softer this time, almost with more patience and understanding.

As the tears continue to fall, and I find a steadier breath, I try to think logically, of actual problems I’m trying to solve, not just the overwhelming feeling of weight… What are the little things that could help? 

The obvious come to mind: I need a break. I need sleep. I need to not answer to someone long enough to get myself from the 10 level of breaking, back down to a 2 or 3… that livable weight of reality that is easier to manage… When I’m at a 2 or a 3, if a twin pulls the other’s hair, or throws their cereal, a simple “whoops, we need gentle hands”, or “oh no, our cereal escaped our bowl” is my automatic response. When I’m at a 10, or a 12 like I feel like I am now, after another sleepless night with autism, my responses are not quite as kind. I’m a shadow of the parent I want to be, unrecognizably cold and shut down.

“So, what do you need?” it probes again.

How do I get to a 2 or a 3? How did I before COVID?

I had scheduled time… scheduled time that was mine… mine without interruption. Yes, there was a list of things to accomplish, but it was my choice in how they were done. 

It’s been months since my children went to school, or could be taken on adventure for a few hours so I could find quiet. Yes, I could leave, but where would I go?

“Last time… what do you need?” I know my time is running out. The violins are quieting. And reality is calling. Game time decision. Wash your face, girl, or let the world see you crumble.

The truth is… I’ve operated on less sleep. I have three children, and survived through breastfeeding twins. I’ve done this. My muscle memory is already trained and built. I think I’m just resentful that I thought this chapter of my life would be over by now, but instead, plays on repeat.

The truth is… I do have help. I have an incredible nanny who comes five days a week to help me navigate what lately feels like impossible moments of parenting autism during a pandemic to navigate. 

The truth is… I find breaks. We gave up working on the twins’ school weeks ago when the baby napped so I could take the break. And on the nights I really don’t sleep, those two hours are enough of a power nap to keep me on track.

“Think”, the voice smiles, “What do you need?”

And then it hits me.

I need to know it gets better.

I need to know we’re not alone in this, and that someone else has survived it.

I need to know that this type of chapter in raising littles with autism, or twin boys, or just three kids in general didn’t destroy someone else’s marriage, turn them into a cold, shut-down and mean monster of a person, or kept them from giving up completely.

I need to know that someone else’s special needs children who were up all night every night, (we’re going on 17 out of 22 nights right now) eventually slept through the night.

I need to know that kids will go back to school, and that the administration responsible for making that happen is aware of the repercussions this time is having on children who’s needs can’t be met with remote learning.

If I can find the lighthouse to focus on, I can weather the storm, and ride the waves. I can refocus, and celebrate the small wins that get us inches closer to that brighter destination. Not sure what it is yet, but anything is possible when you are willing to work for it, harder when necessary, never giving up.

I can feel my body rise, my hands find my cheeks to wipe the dampness, and my feet find the steps before them that walk me back to reality. 

This may not be over anytime soon: the extra strain that this pandemic has placed on so many of our realities. But if I can’t control the uncontrollable pandemic, I can choose to accept it, and only focus on what I can control. 

Dear reader… if you’ve been there, and gotten through it… share so that those of us who are in it, know we are not alone. And if you are in it with us, if any of this resonated, know we see you, and you are not alone. I have no idea how to fix it, but I promise to keep sharing in case it helps in any small way. 

Here’s to the lighthouses that make the waves of any storm feel possible to weather. May you find yours soon. XO

Our Village

“It takes a village”, they said.

I can remember when the twins were born, that first day in the hospital, how we disrupted the maternity wing with so many visitors. Our phenomenal nurses kept trying to limit the amount of visitors, despite my dismissal of their concerns, when finally I had to say “they are our village. We just had twins, we will need them. Let them enjoy this moment too.”

Our village, both the extended, and the intimate, has shown up in ways for our family that I don’t know many of them realized they signed up for, even more so since the twins’ diagnosis. Having three small children, two with particular needs, we threw our pride out the window two years ago, and learned how to ask for help when we needed it, sometimes too often. When we’ve had to lean on the shoulders of our village, we’ve had to lean in hard, sometimes placing an unwanted burden.

Our immediate family, particularly my in-laws and my sister, have shown up with such repetition and selflessness, it’s almost become an expected appearance, and one we have to remind ourselves to vocalize gratitude for, because their efforts are offered and by no means required. Granny & Pop-Pop, the Saturday date nights, and continued drop-ins when we need a moment to breath, are sometimes the only way we can recharge enough to be present for our family. Auntie Sammy, your energy and love you shower on our children is not only reciprocated, but clear in their adoration for you as their favorite person. We are eternally grateful for the three of you, and the rest of our family members - THANK YOU for always being our life-line.

Our chosen family, the friends who continue to show up time and time again, that are weaved into the framework of our lives in such a strategic and permanent way, shower us with love and support in ways that I hope we can live up to deserving one day. They sacrifice their time, energy, and more often then not, physical labor, to help us during our times of need - and this is just one moment of public praise and gratitude I thought appropriate to take - THANK YOU! (You know who you are.)

Yesterday, when I asked for help from our extended community, you showed up in ways that I didn’t know possible. Friends from grade school to college, neighbors and community members, and new friends that I’ve never met in person, but continue to follow our journey through this platform, went out of their way to try to help us in our time of need. The support that came after the request was simply heartwarming, and one of the most beautiful moments of this journey for us. THANK YOU all. Not only for following our journey, for sharing this blog with others when you’ve found something helpful, and for messaging, calling, texting ideas that you think may help our family. We will continue to welcome any and all suggestions with open and grateful hearts.

I just needed to take a moment, to say “Welcome to our Village.” We are so glad you are here, and fortunate to be part of yours. Call on us when you need us, and we’ll continue to show up as you have for us.

Sincerely, Christina. XO

We Need Your Help

It still haunts me… the moment when our son ran into the house, tears streaming down his face, screaming as his scratched at his face furiously. It paralyzed me. I found a way to move toward him and try to comfort him, but it required following him for a matter of 10 minutes trying to calm him down.

I had watched the scene that sent him spiraling before he entered the house. The neighbors had a small fire going, about 15 to 20 feet from our yard. Although Luca stood in his “trees” which are really just large weeds that have grown to create this super cool path for the kids to play in, I thought he was a safe enough distance. The wind that day, proved me so very wrong. He watched the fire intently, trying to understand it, listening to it crackle. But then a large gust of wind took the smoke at him, and as he watched it like a rushing wave on the sea shore, it’s current taking him under with out warning, the smoke attacked his small body, with sensory over load. He couldn’t breath, and you could tell it stung his eyes, as he raced inside in a panic.

I wet a facecloth and held it over his tear stained face to try to stop the burning. I sang quietly and held him, rocking back and forth, hoping to calm him down. My wife was outside mowing the lawn, some where in the front where I couldn’t reach her. I wasn’t sure if he was allergic to the smoke or whatever was burning, or if he was simply scared and just couldn’t tell me.

That’s one of the hardest challenges we face, while Luca is still finding his words. He isn’t able to communicate what he needs as well as Jack, and it requires an elimination game of sorts. As I was parenting solo, I did the only thing I could think of to find answers that might help. I hopped on Facebook, posted about the situation, and hoped someone in my network could give me the words to explain how he was feeling when Luca couldn’t. There was instant support and things to consider, and it helped me triage faster than I ever expected.

Luca calmed down, his eyes relaxed and the puffiness and redness faded. He drank water and calmed his body on the couch. The tenseness in his muscles subsided, but the fear in his face remained. We kept a close eye on him all night, as he flinched at certain sounds, his eyes always searching the outside with caution, clearly traumatized.

I think, as parents, we’re always watching out for what could potentially harm them, trying to either shield as best we can, or hope we’ve given them the tools to face it head on, feeling prepared and capable. One of the most challenging parts of Autism with littles, when they have a sensory processing disorder, is that many of the things that could trigger them are foreign to us parents. The way they also process trauma, without the ability to talk through it, can seem equally foreign.

Luca stayed inside for three weeks. Our boy, who I imagined living in the mountains one day, due to his need to be in free open space as often as possible, had now trapped himself in the walls of his home, rushing to close any door when open, and crying in fear anytime you asked if he wanted to go outside. He would watch from the windows for any glimpse of smoke, and studying our neighbor has he continued to chop wood in the same place he had for months. About a week after the experience, he had some how found a video on youtube of a crackling fire, and had started to play it repeatedly for comfort. I kept expecting enough time to pass where he would eventually just go outside. But after three weeks, I was starting to get really worried.

I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t find a way to help him. I asked his teachers for help, and had even reached out to a friend who is a psychiatrist for a referral to someone local who could help us.

We took a chance of bringing him to an open field with his siblings, as I had hoped to take their annual photo with the apple blossoms. Although we weren’t able to get any image to be compiled in photoshop of the three kids, we were able to get Luca to run outside again, after parking in two different areas before he was interested in exiting the car. His feet hit the ground, the sun shined on his face, and you could see his body breath a sigh of relief. It was such a win for us. We let him run until exhausted, packing the kids back in the car with renewed hope.

We had opened the pool the last week of April, but decided to turn the heater on earlier than planned, just to see if he would go through our backyard to get to it. I went swimming first, sending him a video through my wife who was inside with him. He giggled, but still refused to go outside. The second day, we decided to just bring him out to the pool. My wife carried him, reassuring him he was safe, until he was in the fenced in area with 30,000 gallons of heated delightful water. That boy’s smile lit up ear to ear, he stripped out of his clothes, asked for his puddle jumpers, and jumped in with glee. It’s been 5 days now, and there hasn’t been one he hasn’t spent hours swimming.

The thing is, unless he’s swimming, he still won’t go outside. I still can’t understand it. A swing set that was donated by another family, and stained by my wife’s team, is sitting in our yard. I’ve worked, with the help of an amazing friend, to clear the area, removing hundreds of large obnoxious weeds, and level the ground. I enlisted my sister to help me pick up all the large, heavy, half-assembled pieces from my wife’s shop when the stain was dry, to get them to our back yard. (We did have to ask for muscles outside our own to get two crazy pieces- thank you friends who lifted those!) I even have 50ft of turf rolled beside it, ready to be laid out. Today I’ll spread a few yards of loam to finally level it, roll the turf out and hope we can start building the swing set this afternoon.

What worries me is I don’t even know if that will be enough to get him to play outside again. And what if it isn’t?

As a parent, I feel like I ask myself what-if’s so often, I miss being present, or at least as present as I want to be. I’m so worried about the potential, that I forget to live in the what is. I feel like lately, I’m always worried about what I can’t control, and now that I’ve found myself in a situation with real trauma, it’s testing my ability to show up and be the parent our child needs.

I’m working every possible answer I can control, by giving him highly preferred tasks in the hopes he can rebuild his muscle memory of feeling safe outside. If that doesn’t work, we’ll most likely need professional help, which may not be the easiest thing to obtain during these crazy pandemic times. Anything to shape the fears he has of going outside to be saved as a single memory, not the current reality of what being outside really is.

If you have any ideas, please share. I don’t typically ask questions here, but as I’ve connected with so many incredible parents who have walked in these shoes, or are on the journey as we speak, as well as phenomenal teens and young adults with autism, I am hoping someone might have something I haven’t thought of. Some way to understand what may click for him and make him feel safe again. Because if this swing set doesn’t work, I’m not sure what to do next. Thanks in advance. XO

The Decisions We Make

Have you found that you find kindred spirits in the strangest places?

Just recently I took on a new endeavor to try to help bring some money in during such a strange time of this pandemic. In that I found the most amazing teammates, incredible women who are also trying to provide for their family and create opportunities for other women to do so as well. Introducing myself and sharing my story, I found a mom who I connected with right away, as her son too, has autism.

She was warm, and kind, and that kind of person that if she lived on your block, you would be asking for play dates every day just so you could become best friends. She has been so supportive of the way I share our families story, that I when she asked my advice on something, I knew she would be comfortable that it inspired the following post.

As parents, particularly while our children are little, we are faced to wonder what of our bigger decisions, and the domino effect of their results, our children may have an opinion on when they come of age to form them.

There have been decisions Steph and I have made as parents that we know our children may have opinions on, from the serious to the insignificant. Some serious decisions, like that we used an anonymous donor to form our family, or that we only chose to have three children despite that we had additional frozen embryos we could have continued trying to give them the next partridge family with (we are pretty musical after all), tend to keep us up at night. Smaller ones like that all their pictures until the age they can handle Going to a barber will showcase haircuts done by Momma Steph with her best skill, and one or two by myself that had a little more Jim Carey feel with those awful straight bangs, or that I let Alex have two Oreos instead of one when she asks because it makes her happy, or that we were dog people and never let them have a cat (or a lizard, snake, spider, etc because that is NOT happening) might be something they hold against us for whatever silly reason.

Truthfully, one of the hardest parts of sharing our story, isn’t just how scary it is to be vulnerable, but is actually the intentionally it takes to make the tone represent something the boys will be proud of one day. I know one day they hate that people know so much about them. My hope is that they understand the intention behind it is to help others like us know they aren’t alone, and to shed light on the magic behind the diagnosis, reminding people that no one is merely one thing or label. Any one little thing about us, is simply that: one thing. It’s one part that makes up so much of the unique beauty we bring to the world; ever growing and changing to be who we want and need to be.

In short, if one day my children question the decisions we made, I hope my heart is just proud to have raised children who can think for themselves, and can form, defend, and believe in their opinions with enough conviction and passion that they aren’t afraid to disagree with someone they love. Maybe they’ll teach me a thing or two one day, that shapes the person I will become because of them, as we know the decisions we make for them today, shape them to be the person they will inevitably be.

I believe if we lead with love, patience, humility and grace, making every decision with good intention, then we can simply let the pieces fall where they may, and everything will be alright in the end. Good humans raise good humans, it’s as simple, and takes as much work, as that. Xo

Next Mother’s Day

Next year, for Mother’s Day, my kids will sleep in, letting us sleep in, and when they finally get up, will play together nicely, working extra hard for calm hands and quiet voices because they know it’s their moms’ day. They will take baths after breakfast, and get dressed in whatever matching spring outfits I found at Jcrew weeks earlier, so that I can take their annual photo in the Apple Orchard where the blossoms that have just begun to bloom make the perfect setting of white gorgeousness.

Next year, for Mother’s Day, when we get back from taking photos, we will put tables out on the lawn, decorated with gorgeous colored clothes, and have flowers everywhere. The kids will have made cards and gifts, and will be on their very best behavior, playing in the yard while we set up for our guests.

Next year, for Mother’s Day, I want to host a big brunch outside in our back yard. I want my mom to drive up and feel spoiled for making the trip, because all her children and grand babies are there to be with her. And when she and my mother-in-law sit together, laughing and watching their grand babies shower them with love, they will get along like old friends, without any awkward conversations or family drama that holiday gatherings typically endure, because we will all just be grateful to be together.

Next year, for Mother’s Day, we will grill deliciously marinated meats, paired with roasted vegetables, and pasta salads. We will make fruity drinks, and have an array of desserts that inevitably the kids will want to eat before dinner, and because it’s a happy day of celebration- we will let them. We will eat too much, take a break, and then eat again, while still having more than enough tasty treats to send each of my siblings home with some for the next day.

Next year, for Mother’s Day, I will sit on my deck after an amazing meal, and watch those same siblings teach their niece and nephews how to play croquet, and bocce in the yard, making memories that will last the lifetime of my children until they are old enough, and fortunate enough, to have littles of their own to teach as well. 

Next year, for Mother’s Day, after the day is done, and the kids have been bathed and put to bed, I want to be able to give my wife a card that enclosed in it, tells her I have booked us a weekend away, where there are no children, and we can just be us for a night again.

This year, for Mother’s Day, it will feel like every other day lately, and that’s OK. We will laze in our pajamas during the morning, and only change into clothes (or a clean set of pajamas-don’t judge) when we are ready. As soon as Luca finally goes back to bed, since he has been up since 2am, I will too, and we will both rest our bodies for a couple of hours before officially starting the day.

This year, for Mother’s Day, we will get take-out from our favorite local breakfast place, and our pup, Piper, and I will enjoy the ten minutes of silence the car ride there takes us, while we wait for curbside pick-up, without anyone else in the car. It’s the only quiet we find since schools closed and the house no longer holds that solace for either of us.

This year, for Mother’s Day, my siblings and I will hop on a Zoom Call with my mother, to send her our love virtually, and safely, in this new normal, because she is of the at risk, who has done everything she possibly can to stay safe during this pandemic. As a breast cancer survivor, and someone who knows first hand what it means to fight for her life, she values every day since, and is taking every precaution to not have to fight again for a very long time.

This year, for Mother’s Day, the second virtual FaceTime call we will make will be to my father. First, to wish my step-mom a Happy Mother’s Day, but second, to see how he is doing on his the first one without his mom, who we lost to this pandemic less than a month ago.

This year, for Mother’s Day, as the day goes on, we will watch movies, and play indoors, because oddly enough, it snowed yesterday, and not conducive for yard games, or a photoshoot. We will most likely have to make up some of the school work we have missed this week, because sleepless nights with autism have made it hard to do much more than survive- working to keep all the kids happy, and safe from aggressive behaviors, let alone meet the homeschool requirements.

This year, for Mother’s Day, we will eat something from the crock pot or air fryer, or some sheet pan recipe, like we do on most days during quarantine when it’s not warm enough to grill. If we take a ride anywhere for take-out or drive-thru, we will make sure to bring happy Mother’s Day cards with the kids scribble drawings on them, to give to any mothers working on a day they should be home with their families, giving them with extra heartfelt thanks for everything they are doing to make sure our families can get what we need. Particularly because like many kids with autism, there are days our twins rely on nuggets and a happy meal to get any protein for full bellies. 

This year, for Mother’s Day, when my in-laws makes it over for dinner, I will have a glass of Chardonnay waiting for Granny, and two open arms for a hug, because as she is in our immediate circle, and someone we see every day helping with child care, she is someone we do not have to social distance from, and such an important lifeline I will be grateful to celebrate the important day with. We will makes sure to overly thank both her, and Pop-Pop, because without them during this pandemic, I am not sure we would be making it through with the grace and patience they make possible through their support.

This year, for Mother’s Day, when the kids are bathed and finally in bed, I will give my wife a hand-picked card, with as much love that I can write in it, telling her that whenever this is over, we will get time for us again. With the card will be boxes of her favorite movie candy, and an invitation for date night, where we rent a movie and put away our phones for the duration of it, pretending for two hours that no one needs us so we can just enjoy each other.

Mama, if you are like us, and preparing to spend this Mother’s Day in an unusual way, I hope my dreams of next year’s Mother’s Day help to inspire you to think of yours, in any of the moments when this years don’t feel like enough. Because there will be next year if we all do what we can to stay safe, continue to social distance, wash hands, and slow the curve.

And to all the incredible mamas who have to work this year, whether it be on the front lines in our hospitals and ERs, or as first-responders, and fire and police woman... to all the incredible mamas who are essential workers, and required to work in order to get that paycheck to feed their families, as delivery workers, mail service carriers, grocery store employees, pharmacy staff, gas station employees, and restaurant employees- thank you. THANK YOU from the bottom of our hearts for all that you do. Happy Mother’s Day to all the mamas out there- whether you birthed your children, or earned the title with every diaper change, life lesson taught, tear-stained cheek wiped, and open-armed hug- if you hold the title and meaning for someone today- may your day be filled with as much love as you have given to those who made you a mama. Until next year... XO

PS: I’d be remiss if I didn’t send a special Happy Mother’s Day to two additional women who shaped my life in ways that are instrumental to my ability to be a present, happy, and respectful mother. To Ma, up in heaven, who always gave me a home away from home, without question or expectation, I hope one day to have the house all my children’s friends want to be at every weekend. And to Anna, who continues to teach me about the mother I want to be, I’m so grateful to be able to ask the question: what would Anna do, and instinctually know the answer.

And to my love, my children’s Mama, and to the only reason I knew I could be a mom in the first place, because you promised to always be by my side… our parentship is the thing I will always be most proud of - despite that COVID19 is challenging it on a regular basis, forcing us to grow and be better every hour of every day for our children. Thank you for helping to leave a legacy where the best is still yet to come. Happy Mother’s Day. 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.

Are you grieving?

The five well-known stages of grief are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Until recently, I didn’t realize what I was feeling was grief, but now that I’ve made my way through all five, I thought I’d share in case helpful for anyone else…

I can remember hearing people say “this isn’t a big deal”… and “I’m not taking it that seriously.”

I mean- yes, I agreed on the toilet paper ridiculousness. Milk, bread, cheese- sure, but toilet paper? Still don’t get it…

But those first few weeks, I feel like we were all in denial. I know I was. 

I thought, “this is temporary, everything will go back to normal tomorrow.”

For me, it lasted about two weeks- and only a week of homeschooling, since our school gave us the first week “off”.

After the first week of filling out forms, taking photos, working on apps, and ignorantly believing I could create the school day in our home in a way that our autistic twins would find comfort and confidence in the routine that ended without warning. 

And then, the second stage hit: anger.

Granted, I had every right to be angry. I lost my nana, the matriarch in my family. But, I found that I started blaming anyone for anything because, quite simply, I was really mad.

I was not alone- my four-year-olds were with me. They yelled and screamed, and stomped their angry feet (calming tactic in this household). They were sick of doing the bear hunt, or practicing the letter “C”. And they started to take it out on each other. 

At one point, not that I’m proud to admit it, I was even mad at their school. How could they think that our autistic toddlers could actually get the services they need from home? (Clearly unfair of me to say, their administration is amazing, but I was mad, and needed to stomp my angry feet).

This lasted about a week for me. My practical self found it’s way to bargaining, and started to wish for any hope of summer school, claiming that if only this was happening to me ten years from now, when zoom calls could work for our kids… or if only I had arranged for services in the home to help the boys with OT and speech, then maybe we’d be able to provide a similar structure to what their used to… or if only I could set up an outdoor playground, complete with trampoline and a swing set, the boys would have everything they need to fill their days which means they’ll sleep at night…

I’m not going to lie… I did convince my wife to let us get the trampoline, and it was worth every penny! (If you need one, check this one out. Our friend did a ton of research and got it, and when I researched it, couldn’t agree more, and it’s SO amazing for the kids and their energy needs.)

And a swing set is in her shop, freshly painted, ready to be assembled thanks to an incredible human being who not only gave it to us for free, but kept it in his garage all winter when we forgot to pick it up last fall. SERIOUSLY incredible human being.

And then, last week… I hit the depression stage. I let my anxiety get the best of me… every time I read a headline that said school was officially done for the semester, that summer school wouldn’t happen for our kids… and that some areas were going to stay at the current status quo until August… I just got sad. Unbearably overwhelmed and sad. As it was raining, I gave our crew permission to quit school that week, saying if we got anything done at all it would be too small a win to count. The drama got a hold of me (and my kids, mind you) where I started to feel like this was the end… the end of all that was good… and how on earth could we ever get through this?

Thank heavens this week I found acceptance.

It’s like out of no where, it hit me. Snap out of it, Christina! Yes, we don’t know exactly when this is going to end - but it will end. Yes, it may be almost a full 9 to 12 months of school the kids have missed, but they will go back to school. Yes, the really tragic loss in this country will continue on, but eventually, it will stop. 

If you find yourself in any of the other stages before acceptance, maybe this mindset will help you give yourself a little grace, because whether or not you’ve physically lost something, you are experience grief. You are grieving what you thought your life would be right now, and the reality that a loss of that size has had an earthquake of an impact on your life. On what it was, what you thought it would currently be, and what it is to become. 

Defining moments are happening around you, and if you are like me, stuck in any stage but acceptance, you might be missing them. 

Moments I’m now paying attention to include: 

• Letting Jack need to hold my hand to fall asleep at night, and only mine. As exhausted as I am, he’s not going to want to do that forever. And as much as it’s DRIVING ME BONKERS that he literally needs me all day, it’s a humble reminder that one day he won’t need me, or even want me, and that will be the moments I’ll wish to have back. 

• Mustering up the energy every time Luca locks eyes, and excitedly begs “two eyes, nose, sharp teeth”, waiting with such sweet anticipation for me to make a scary face, raise my hands up with pretend claws and say “It’s a bear!” and chase after him for the 100th time that hour because he’s fixated on “The Bear Hunt”. I know it’s because it’s a world in which he and I understand each other, where I’ve gotten to his level, and listened and validated what he needs, despite any communication barriers. 

• Having a toddler during quarantine has been such a unique blessing. Alex lights up my day every time she barges through a room, shifting her hips in excitement, without a care int he world. Her smile and giggle just melt your heart. And as I watch her love her brothers, with such unfiltered admiration, learning from them, and teaching them at the same time, it gives me such needed perspective. And the moments when I feel her learning from my wife and I, like how when she’s really tired, and just wants to be loved, or give love, she will let you hold/rock her, and will softly rub your back, almost like she knows you need it, but with an equal encouragement asking you to rub hers in return. 

My best advice, after making it through all five stages, is to just hang in there. You’ve got this. Look for the facts in the situation that will help ground you in reality. Just make it to acceptance where you can remember that although this is hard, awful, sucks, and even unbearable at times, there’s such incredible collateral beauty in all of it. XO