The Island of Misfit Toys*

(click image if you have never heard of the "the island of misfit toys")

On Friday, I went to the open house for my son, Oliver's preschool. He'll be in the afternoon class with the older kids, but the morning class for the younger ones was there as well, making it twice as chaotic and confused.

Everyone had questions about bus schedules, school forms and cafeteria lunches. Everyone tried to keep one eye on their children while maintaining appropriate eye contact with the teachers providing answers. Everyone forgot half the questions they wanted to ask as well as each other's names seconds after every awkward handshake.

And since I had to bring my two year old twins along for the ride, I was probably the worst of the overwhelmed, overstimulated bunch. But there was one conversation that didn't end with the tug of a small hand or the sudden realization that a child was no longer visible.

I met one woman who tugged at my heart with her obvious loneliness and her own perceived invisibility. Her need for connection and understanding was palpable. And I recognized all of this in her pleasant smile and bright small talk because I have felt all of the same things myself.

I too have a special needs child.

All parents of children with special needs have felt alone and confused. And we all need to find others. People just like us, who know what it's like to watch other children effortlessly join playground games and amaze grownups with their precocious conversation. We've all been on the other side of that social fence, blending in like chameleons. Hoping that no one notices our own child's challenges and questions them. Or worse - makes uninformed excuses for them.

I listened to this woman's story about how friends she's had since childhood now avoid her. They have typical children and no tolerance for her son's "bad" behavior. They either don't want to put up with it, or possibly they just feel uncomfortable around her. But the outcome is the same. She is alone. She doesn't fit in with them anymore.

I gave her my phone number and told her to call me any time. Maybe we could have a play date since her son and my twins are very close in age. My twins are what I've learned to call "typical," but I have no fear of exposing them to a child who isn't. They live with one already. And I know how much that little boy, like his mother will need friends who understand.

Oliver is four years old and has been in Fairfax County's special preschool program since he was two. Looking back, I realize how incredibly lucky we were to find out about his delays so early on.

He was our first baby, so we had no means of comparison. Sure, we have plenty of friends with children the same age, but when they're so little, those differences can easily be explained away. You can say that all babies develop at different rates (true) and that their very unique personalities would encourage different areas of strength (also true). But without that personal experience of watching another child grow and learn, you just don't have that instinct that tells you "something isn't right this time."

Some mothers claim that even without older children, they just knew. But I looked at my big (and I mean HUGE), healthy 18 month old and thought he was fine. In fact, I thought he was better than just fine. I thought he was beautiful, wonderful...miraculous. And he was...he is. But he does have significant speech and social delays.

He did then too. But he was so young. And so much could be explained away. AND he had just become a big brother to newborn twins.

What child wouldn't withdraw, act out and even regress a little? So what if he didn't quite fit in with the others? His whole world had been turned upside down. Of course it affected him. It all seemed pretty normal to me. But months later I had to admit that he just wasn't catching up. He wasn't like my friends' "normal" toddlers.

With some prompting from concerned relatives, we took him to a private child psychologist who established that he was in fact very delayed and would benefit from early intervention as soon as possible.

Then we got smart and started talking to people. We discovered that there were county funded programs for special needs children (although we weren't actually using that term yet...not yet...) And we contacted Child Find.

We learned that we never needed to pay for that first round of testing since our tax dollars afforded us free services. But of course this is the lot of special needs parents - to continually learn what we didn't have to do, what we should have done, what we could have given our child, but just didn't know...

But we quickly learn to move on from that and not beat ourselves up. Or at least we try.

It's hard to accept this inability to identify your child's need. Your baby cries and you feed him, change him or hold him. He gets sick and you take him to the doctor. He grows and you buy him new clothes. Your job is to meet these needs. Any and all needs. It is your new reason for being. The most important job you'll ever have.

And then, one day you find that you failed.

But these new needs allow no room for self flagellation. There is too much to learn and do. And to waste time on guilt seems pretty selfish.

So does the new source of anxiety for a special needs parent: the fact that you no longer fit in either.

Special needs don't start and end with the child. They are part of the family as a whole. You become a group of misfits. A band of intrepid explorers, thrust into uncharted territory without a map or a compass. All families are different, as are the journeys they take together - so no one gets a guide. Survival hinges on everyone doing their part. Loyalty to the team is imperative. There are no solo missions.

Unfortunately, the leaders rarely volunteer for the post. It's the lottery ticket that no one really wanted or expected. And not one of us could claim to be instantly skillful team captains. Basically - it all really sucks, and our initial reaction is to avoid ever leaving the ship.

Suddenly the voice mail from a friend wanting to set up a play date doesn't make you smile and run to check your calendar. It makes you begin the endless cycle of "what if" worrying: "What if he doesn't want to be there and cries? What if he plays rough and hurts the other child? What if he refuses to listen to me and I have to go through the motions of yet another ineffectual time out, just to look like I'm TRYING to be a good parent?" And the deepest, darkest of worries - the one we so rarely speak aloud: "What if he embarrasses me?"

It's so tempting to go for the isolation option. To stick with your own kind.

But all of that changes when you meet other special needs families. It's so comforting to be with the other misfits. They get it. They don't look uncomfortable when your son is rolling around on the ground. Or kicking up dust clouds without any regard for the people next to him. Or pushing other children to get their attention. They don't assume that his age or size would make him more mature. They don't assume anything. They just smile and nod. There's no need for words. They just know. We all know.

And that is what special preschool has become for me. A safe haven. An oasis in a desolate landscape. A private island where no one gets voted off. Acceptance is mandatory. In fact, it's second nature.

The children get the special services they so desperately need, but they also become part of a community. They meet children with the same challenges, with worse delays, with higher functionality and with very limited scope for improvement. They are all misfits. All broken to one degree or another. But all deserving of love and appreciation.

They are safe on their island, and they are loved. Their needs are recognized and prioritized, and their triumphs - no matter how small - are celebrated.

The parents spend no more time in the special preschool classroom than do parents of children in private preschools. But our hearts are there every second of the day. And not just in the expected way that parents claim to leave a piece of themselves behind at drop off. For those of us with special needs kids, those classrooms aren't just a place for learning - they are a place for hope.

And oh - but isn't that the most beautiful, terrible, spirit lifting, soul crushing, incandescent word that a parent can say, feel, pray...."hope."

Because that's what it boils down to in the end. We sit on that island with our polka dots and square wheels and inability to fly and our...what exactly was wrong with that doll again? I never did understand that one... But we all sit there together. And we hope.

Together.

Which is the opposite of alone.

But it doesn't end there. It can't. Because hope isn't enough. You can't live on an island.

It's nice to have a port in a storm, but we all live in the real world where (to really beat a metaphor to death) it isn't always smooth sailing. People are unkind. They are busy and cranky, and they would rather gossip than research. The real world isn't perfect and neither are the people in it.

Which brings up an interesting point: no one is perfect.

No child is perfect. No parent is perfect. No family is perfect.

We're all flawed. We've all felt like outsiders at one time time or another. We've all felt lonely - even invisible. So in a way, we're all misfits. Atypical.

And what defines typical anyway? I think it's simply a majority rule. But a majority based on sweeping generalizations.

Which is fair. Because who has time for case by case living?

But I would ask one thing of the more typical misfits out there. Please try to make time for compassion.

Don't assume that a child is "bad" based on their behavior. Don't assume that their parents aren't trying. Don't assume anything.

You never know when you might be on that side of that fence. And when you are, you'll appreciate a little empathy. Not sympathy - never sympathy - but an acknowledgement that things are usually more complicated than they appear. Something that everyone knows from personal experience.

Your polka dots may not match my square wheels. In fact, you probably look like that totally normal doll (I think she may have had a psychological problem?) But we're all misfits in our own way. And you should make a little time to recognize this.

Because it takes one to know one.

*Oliver is starting Kindergarten on Tuesday, September 7th, and I'm devoting this and next week to posts I wrote about him and his special needs. It helps me to re-read these and see how far we've come. It gives me even more hope for the future and reminds me of why I'm so proud of my son. Worry about the future will always take a back seat to that feeling. I wrote this one in September 2009.

I Never Thought I'd Wear Sunglasses (Alternately Titled: Shooting Practice Starts Tomorrow)*

A few weeks ago when we were in Rehoboth Beach, my mother in law and I packed up the kids to drive over to Bethany where one of my friends has a house. She and her sister were staying there with their five children, four of whom were boys.

Once we all found each other, we spent most of our time by the water. We stood sentry watching all of our boys hurl themselves into the surf. And we counted heads in the foam while trying to hold a conversation between exclamations of "don't throw sand!" and "that's too far, come back here!"

My boy was right in the middle of this. This sensory overload of wind and water and squishy, grainy sand between his toes. He was in his element - in the elements. He needs to feel things and he needs to immerse himself in the moment without inhibitions. And what better place than the beach?

He also loved being in the middle of all of those boys. They were his people. They understood the joy of throwing wet sand in the air just to feel it splatter all around them. They wanted nothing more than to live in that moment with the waves crashing around them, drowning out the sound of their screams of laughter. They were just like him.

In that moment.

But only in that moment.

They called to each other and knew when to push and when to pull. They knew when to stop and when to start again (obviously when mom was looking the other way). They understood the rules of the game. They both made and discussed the rules. In bits and pieces of course - but still, they communicated. Communication came easily to them.

Communication does not come easily to my boy. He doesn't know when to stop. He doesn't know when pushing isn't welcome. He doesn't know the rules. He doesn't know how to join. He wants so much to join - to play. But he doesn't know how. So he just watched.

And I watched him from behind my sunglasses, happy to see him having fun even if it seemed a little lonely. Happy that he couldn't see the tears welling in my eyes. Happy that my friend couldn't see the tears either and only heard me talking about doctors and school and how well he's doing. Because that's really all I want anyone to see.

When I was a teenager, all of my friends wore sunglasses. but I never did. I didn't like them. They gave me "raccoon eyes" in the summer and felt out of place with my coats and hats in the winter. Not to mention the fact that they never did look good on me. Back then it was always about how I looked.

Now I'm the one doing the looking. I don't care as much about how I look. Sunglasses will never compliment my face with its long, slightly crooked nose - but I need them to see my children through the glare. I need them to see the road when I'm driving on a sunny day. I need them to be responsible. So I wear them. And I've found that they are pretty useful. They allow me to be the observer and they can hide what I don't want people to see.

I also wear my sunglasses at the neighborhood pool where I take my children most late afternoons. After the twins wake up from their nap, I load up all of our towels and waters and changes of clothes and snacks and push the double stroller uphill, calling for Oliver to wait for me at the corner. Which he always does - but I ask him to anyway, just in case.

When we arrive, we head straight for the baby pool. At two, the twins are still too little to stand in the shallow end of the big pool like their four year old brother. This suits me just fine since Oliver is still young enough to be satisfied with the baby pool and I can sit with a magazine while they play. Or at least I can for a few minutes at a time, since I frequently have to administer warnings and time outs for bad behavior.

One thing I like about this time of day is that the pool tends to be rather deserted. More accomplished mothers are thinking about cooking family dinners at 5 p.m. My children will only eat kid food and my husband and I don't usually have formal meals together due to all of the corralling required before their late, but "works best for them" bedtime between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m. When no other families are at the pool, only our own rules apply.

If Oliver is splashing, I can ignore it. That is, as long as his siblings don't mind. And they often join in. If Oliver is being too rough and pushing them as part of some inexplicable game of his, I can just watch and see how it goes. I don't need to stand or look alert as a show for the other parents. I can see just fine from my shady seat. My sunglasses cut the glare. Everything is crystal clear and I know exactly when to step in and when to let them work it out.

But more often than not we arrive at the tail end of another family's pool time. And I have to stand and administer twice as many time outs as I would if we were alone. I have to find ways to tell the other mothers that Oliver has a hard time knowing when to stop. In Oliver's mind, if another child seems to like being splashed at from across the pool, why wouldn't they like it at closer range? And at that point, why not cut out the middle man and just shove them back into the water? Sounds fun to him!

So I can spend an hour having the same one-sided conversation with him over and over. Telling him to stop. Asking him to be gentle. Pleading with him to listen.

He wants to comply. I know he does. He wants to please me and he wants to please these desired friends (he has the makings of "a pleaser" - something else that worries me - but that's another concern for another day). He wants to get it right. He just doesn't know how.

I always keep my sunglasses on when we're at the pool.

The other day, a few kids a year or two older than Oliver were in the baby pool during adult swim (everyone seems to call it "break" now - is "adult swim" no longer PC or something?) Anyway - they were being rowdy and Oliver was thrilled. They were pulling out the hose that was supposed to be filling the pool with more water. They were spraying each other with it and splashing and eventually ran to get their water guns.

As they stood there spraying each other and yelling unintelligible things about Star Wars, a movie that I doubt any of them has actually seen, Oliver decided to join in.

It didn't work. He didn't know the rules.

He splashed around in the middle of them when no one was splashing. They asked him to stop, but he didn't understand. If they were shooting water at each other, then why wouldn't splashing be allowed? A younger sister in the group, exactly Oliver's age, explained, "we're playing Star Wars now - you can play Star Wars too, but you can't play with us if you keep splashing."

So of course I had to intervene.

At this point, I didn't think I had ever said, heard and thought the word "splash" so many times within the space of five minutes. It had completely lost all meaning and was just a rude noise that made me feel decidedly uncomfortable. It was an expletive. A swear word. I wanted it to not exist anymore. I was done with it.

But Oliver wasn't. He didn't understand, and I had to pull him aside. No time out though. How could I when he had only the best of intentions? Instead I offered to drag him around the other side of the pool. Something he loves and I hate. He loves the feeling of the water rushing all around him from head to toe. I hate the feeling of hunching over to pull a 60 lb. four year old from one end of the baby pool to the other.

Meanwhile Star Wars continued, Oliver still didn't understand what was wrong with "splashing" (excuse my French) and I hid behind my sunglasses.

And I made plans.

Apparently shooting water at each other is generally okay at the pool. Or if it isn't, it's not unusual for kids to not know when to stop. Quite simply - it's not weird.

So while I pulled Oliver around the pool, I made plans to take the kids gun shopping the next day. We didn't own any water guns, but we would soon own an arsenal.

Oliver could learn to shoot a water gun. And the next time there was a game of Star Wars at the pool, we'd be ready. You don't need to have good communication skills to play shooting games.

I never thought I'd like sunglasses. And I never thought I'd encourage my children to play with toy guns. But I guess I never thought I'd be doing a lot of things.

I have a friend who also has a son with special needs. His are very different from Oliver's but there are so many parallels to our lives... I love this girl. She speaks my language. The language of mother grief. Of future worry. She worries that her son will wear all black and write dark poetry about death and Japanese anime. I worry that Oliver will be Tommy Boy. We have to laugh. It's necessary - and we both understand this.

It's nice to be understood. And that's probably what most breaks my heart about Oliver. No one really understands him. So I'll give him a water gun if that helps. And I'll laugh, and I'll hope. And I'll always wear my sunglasses. Just in case.

*Oliver is starting Kindergarten on Tuesday, September 7th, and I'm devoting this and next week to posts I wrote about him and his special needs. It helps me to re-read these and see how far we've come. It gives me even more hope for the future and reminds me of why I'm so proud of my son. Worry about the future will always take a back seat to that feeling. I wrote this one in August 2009.

I Cried Yesterday*

This statement in and of itself isn't exactly earth shattering - at least not to my husband... I'm actually quite the cry baby when I'm really upset.

But the truth is, I'm not "really upset" very often. I'm one of those even keeled types who needs time to process bad news before reacting to it.

I'm also an excellent companion in an emergency: "Oh dear, it appears that your arm just fell off...why don't you call 911 while I get some ice..."

No - I'm not one for the drama. And if there is one thing that I NEVER cry about, it's my children. Oh sure - a stray tear escapes here and there as the result of pride or nostalgia. But never tears of sadness.

I'm just too lucky for that. I have three children while many have none. My children are healthy, they are kind to each other and they are loving to us. And at the end of the day, they are here. I have heard far too many horrible stories about the loss of a child to not appreciate that. Mine are here with me, and I can hug them as much as they'll let me. For this I am truly grateful. I'm grateful every day for every day I have with them.

But yesterday I cried. About Oliver. And I feel the tears well up again as I type this. Because no matter how grateful I am that he is here, I'm also sad and worried.

I have to reiterate - I NEVER feel sad about Oliver, even though I'm very much aware of his challenges. He is four years old now, but his two year old siblings are quickly catching up with him in communication skills. Oliver has made so much progress over the past couple of years, and I am so, so proud of him. But he's still so delayed... And I hate to see the puzzled expressions that other people give him.

Even more so, I hate to imagine what that will be like when he's older. I wish he wasn't the big brother. I'd like him to have a sibling who could stand up for him on the playground. Because I can't. Aside from the fact that I can't always be there - it would just humiliate him to have mommy fighting his battles. I can only hope that his size (he's HUGE) will work in his favor. If some smart ass bully starts in, Oliver can just sit on him.

But his size isn't just a joking matter. It's ANOTHER concern. People think he's older than just-turned-four. And because of his delays, he is far more like a just-turned-three year old (and one with speech delays at that). I worry about what this will mean for him in the long term. Will people always expect more from him?

But none of this is anything new. What really makes me sad is the fact that he now has a label.

We took him to a developmental pediatrician after meeting with a neurologist who couldn't make an assessment (other than that Oliver didn't appear to be mentally impaired, autistic, etc.). I mentioned this in a previous post. He recommended this particular developmental pediatrician and after a bit of a wait, we had our appointment last week.

The doctor did play-based testing that is now very familiar to me and I could see the areas in which he was not "typical." If not by his actions, by her reactions.

It was after a phone call from her yesterday that I cried.

She gave me the short version of his assessment, but then I got the official report via e-mail and cried again. It said that his "delays and quality of interaction and learning are consistent with a child on the Autistic Spectrum. Qualitatively I would label him as Pervasive Developmental Delay Not Otherwise Specified and meeting the following DSM criteria: delayed communication, delayed social interaction, somewhat restrictive behaviors and symbolic thinking."

Here's the thing though - how is ANY of this news to me? I know all of this about him. We've been working on it with his preschool teachers. I see it at home every day. He's just different. Wonderful and amazing and miraculous as he may be - he's still different.

I've written about this before and was very clear about the fact that I don't care if he's different. I love him for exactly who he is - quirks and all. So I wasn't upset to hear more about what I already knew.

I think that the real reason I was so upset by this news was that Oliver was finally given a label. A label that doesn't say that he's wonderful and amazing and miraculous. Only that he's different. A label that changes all of the "what if" questions into "if then" statements.

This is a good thing - to have concrete "if thens". If Oliver is on the Autism Spectrum, then we have a direction to take with his treatment. If Oliver has an actual diagnosis, then he will qualify for all sorts of special services that we would never be able to afford otherwise. If Oliver has a label, then we can give others an actual reason for why he acts far younger than his age.

But if Oliver has a label, then all of this is real. It won't resolve itself or go away.

The report says that his label is "qualitatively" based on his behavior. And I know that no matter how much help he gets, he will never "qualitatively" be like other children. This is just the way it will always be.

And while I still wouldn't change him and I still think he's wonderful and amazing and miraculous, I am now feeling sad and worried. To some extent this is also the way it will always be. And I suppose I wouldn't change that either.

My love for Oliver and my appreciation for his fabulous individuality is a constant. One that can't be affected by any amount of testing or labeling or restraining myself from physically assaulting playground bullies who try to pick on him. It will never change.

I know in my heart that Oliver will be okay. More than okay - I mean how could he not? We've already established that he's wonderful and amazing and miraculous. But sometimes I will be worried. Sometimes I will be sad. And sometimes I will cry.

No matter what though, I know that I will always be proud of him and I will never want to change him. And that is exactly how I know that I will be okay too.

(then a few days later, I wrote...)

It's Okay - I Didn't Jump Off the Ledge...I Just Climbed Down When You Weren't Looking*

First of all, I'd like to say that I really have meant to personally respond to all of the kind comments left on my highly dramatic mind dump last week. But time has gotten away from me - so it might take a while.

Needless to say, I am feeling much better now.

The truth is - nothing has changed. But we now have a "point A" from which to work. "Point Z" is very far down the road, a road that I've heard is a hard one at that. But it's far from being the one less traveled. Many people out there with similar experience have offered advice and encouragement, as well as tan, toned virtual shoulders to cry on (is it just me, or does everyone else have a much better body online?)

That said, I have learned a few things since my uncharacteristic breakdown last week:

1. It's okay to feel sorry for yourself for short periods of time - but never longer than necessary.

2. There are always worse problems to have, so you have to focus on everything that is good and right about your lot in life.

3. Feeling sad is a waste of time unless you know WHY you are feeling sad - how else can you learn and recover?

4. Little pitchers DO in fact have big ears (though no one really knows what baseball has to do with anything) and if a child has a delay or disability, they are still far smarter and perceptive than you could ever know.

5. I often lose track of my thoughts and have no idea where I'm going with this list.

RIGHT - so I know that I had a point beyond platitudes...unfortunately, it now eludes me.

But what about Oliver?

He's fine. In fact, he's great. Still wonderful and amazing and miraculous. And still very delayed and on the Autism spectrum.

But like I said last week - that's just a label. It defines his current behavior and challenges. But it doesn't define him. And it certainly doesn't define me.

I knew that things had shifted for me when one night in the dark, a disembodied voice (don't worry - it was just Chris) asked me, "Oliver will be okay, won't he?"

I answered without hesitation, "of course he will. Because I'll make sure he is." And I knew that was absolutely true.

So if you got scared when you noticed that I had disappeared from my angst ridden ledge - don't fret. I just crawled back in the window while you weren't looking.

It was a bit too breezy for my liking. I get cold easily, so I thought I'd better go get a sweater. And once inside, things didn't seem quite so dire anymore.

There were sweet little babies who needed my attention and several pleasant hopes for the future that needed dusting. Someone was making dinner, and I realized that I was ravenous. I can always be distracted by snacks. And shiny objects. And if you haven't noticed, I'm a little obsessed with my blog life.

Frankly, I'm just too busy to hang out on ledges with the pigeons. They aren't the best conversationalists. And they eventually flew away when they tired of me hogging their spotlight. You know pigeons - it's always all about them and their problems...

Right! AND (I just remembered) because:

6. Self pity is for the birds.

*Oliver is starting Kindergarten on Tuesday, September 7th, and I'm devoting this and next week to posts I wrote about him and his special needs. It helps me to re-read these and see how far we've come. It gives me even more hope for the future and reminds me of why I'm so proud of my son. Worry about the future will always take a back seat to that feeling. I wrote these two in May 2009.

Special Needs*

I don't know if I've mentioned this before - but my three year old son, Oliver is weird.

This is at least partly due to something called SPD (sensory processing disorder) that causes him to engage in activities that "feed" his need for a lot of sensory input. His teacher explained this to me by saying, "remember that kid in your class who just couldn't stay in his chair? The one who would fidget so much that he'd actually fall out of it sometimes?" Well yes actually - I do.

I remember several kids like that. They were the ones who ate paste in kindergarten, fell into the pond on the second grade field trip and consistently got in trouble for "touching people" in more or less every grade through middle school. And now, as it turns out, I've given birth to one.

This shouldn't be too much of a surprise since we speculate that my father was like this as a boy, AND after reading up on the subject, my husband says that he was definitely a sensory seeking SPD child. Thanks guys - you're the best. The inability to walk past a puddle without lying down in it was one of the qualities I prayed for every night when I was pregnant with Oliver. Right up there with ten fingers, ten toes and the immediate ability to sleep through the night. (I'm just kidding about that last one of course. No first time pregnant woman worries about something as silly as their child sleeping through the night. They're too busy obsessing over baby names, nursery themes, and important registry items like educational mobiles.)

Oliver also has very delayed speech, and adds a lot of jargoning (the official word for jibber jabber) to his special needs quirkiness. So yes - I have one very odd little duck as my first born. I have of yet to meet any almost four year old like him. And the truth is - I love him for every single bizarre behavior he throws my way.

I don't just think he's "special" - I think he's FABULOUS. No one - and I mean no one - shows enthusiasm for preferred activities like Oliver. He doesn't just hug you - he flings himself at you. He doesn't just watch DVDs - he acts out the stories. He doesn't just finger paint - he body paints. He doesn't just say "please" - he proclaims PLEASE! He loves to be tickled and will beg you to keep going until even you can't stand it anymore.

His exuberance makes me smile, then laugh, then cry from laughing so hard. And I think my heart might break when I worry about the people who won't understand him or appreciate him. The people who will hurt him or bully him. Or make him feel any less than the very sweet little soul than he is. Because that will happen.

Instead of wasting my time on worries though, I prefer to plan for tomorrow, next week and next year. I work with his teacher on figuring out where this speech delay originates and strategize about how to correct it in the short and long term. We have more or less ruled out autism with a pediatric neurologist and are on to having his ultra-waxy ears cleaned out for a hearing test so that he can be assessed by a developmental pediatrician. As Miss Erin (or as Oliver calls her, "Miss Smerin") likes to say, he is a bit of a puzzle. There seem to be several issues at play and all are fairly elusive...

But I really don't spend too much time thinking about the problems and the boy that he was "supposed to be." I'm far too busy enjoying the boy that he is. I recently spoke with a close childhood friend who has an autistic son and we agreed that not only is this better for them, it's better for us. In describing her own son, she said, "every day, he makes us laugh. He's just his own little person. While the other boys are in time outs for fighting over what to watch on TV, he's busy figuring out the remote controls."

This makes me happy just thinking about it - the fact that it's okay like our kids for being different. Who got to decide that there is only one way to be anyway?

But the hard reality is that there is a standard for "normal." That's the reason that there is a special needs label. And it is our job to take our special needs children and try to teach them how to navigate a world that wasn't set up with them in mind. It's hard. And it's scary. For all of us. But it's not impossible.

I could so easily fall into despair over the "what ifs" associated with Oliver's future - but what good does that do either of us? He deserves better than that. I'm the grownup and I set the tone for our house. If I am an emotional wreck over the things I can't control, then everyone suffers for it. And at the end of the day, he's not responsible for my feelings - but I am responsible for his.

So if he finds a ball of yarn entertaining, and wants to spend his quiet time unraveling it and then lashing all of the furniture together...fine. I'll clean it up later (but only after he's gone to bed since its disappearance could usher in "the end of the world"). If he wants to bring 12 straws to bed with him - or possibly all of the kid toothbrushes we own - who am I to judge? Perhaps this is soothing to him. Maybe he likes the way they feel in his hand - or just the fact that he can hold "all" of something in that one hand. He jargons reasons to me and I just say "fine." I may do a little struggling first, but in the end, I let him decide. No one ever died from bringing straws to bed.

And every day I see progress - and his beautiful smile. And I know that it will be okay. Even though I understand that he'll never be the easy going child that glides effortlessly through life. Or...maybe he eventually will. I'll never know if I don't do everything I can to help cultivate his self confidence. And his confidence in my own unwavering support.

My son is the greatest gift that I have ever been given. All of my children are. And I refuse to squander any of this fleeting time with them on anger or ingratitude.

I'm not a particularly religious person, but I consider each one of my children to be miraculous. And their current challenges and oddities just make them all the more unique and special. I need all of them as much as I need food and water. I need them to be safe and I need them to be happy. I need them to grow and laugh and love and know that there is nothing more important in this world to me than their existence. And if they have their own special needs - then I will meet them. I will be there from the time that they are unaware of these challenges to the time that their own personal demons emerge. I will always be there for them. Because in the end, I need them far more than they could ever need me.

*Oliver is starting Kindergarten on Tuesday, September 7th, and I'm devoting this and next week to posts I wrote about him and his special needs. It helps me to re-read these and see how far we've come. It gives me even more hope for the future and reminds me of why I'm so proud of my son. Worry about the future will always take a back seat to that feeling. I wrote this one in February 2009 and consider it the first of my "Special Needs" posts.

UPDATE: Nothing Has Changed - I'm Still Lazy and Avoiding Reality

I'm feeling a little guilty for ignoring The Big Piece of Cake and Wishing True lately... Not that I think anyone is really reading blogs right now (or maybe it's just me?) But still - my lack of motivation is at an all time high. I have almost no time to write and little inspiration beyond cute stories about my children (yawn); and the "what's the point of it all" voices are creeping in. Therefore, I fall back on being lazy. So much easier, you know.

I often have to remind myself of why I started a blog. It was just for fun. Just because I liked to write and had enough family and friends with an interest in reading it.

Maybe it was going to BlogHer and being surrounded by so many movers and shakers and marketers and self promoters - but it's made me look at the big picture and seriously ask myself "why?" It's pretty time consuming and I'm not saving the world or making money or anything. Is "for fun" enough of reason to devote so much energy to something so small?

But before you think I'm going down that angsty, self absorbed path (define me! define me!), know that I actually do now have an answer to my own question. It came from a recently made friend.

Oliver is in a little social skills group and in our hours of waiting room sitting, one of the other mothers and I have done a lot of talking. I ended up telling her about my blogs while explaining BlogHer and the trip I was making to NYC. She seemed interested, so I offered to e-mail her links to the posts I've written about Oliver.

Since then, she's mentioned how much she relates to my stories and even sent I Never Thought I'd Wear Sunglasses to her mom. The fact that something I wrote could help one person I know (and possibly even someone I don't know) feel just a little less alone in the world seems like a good enough reason if any for continuing to blog. In a sea of voices, a little fish can still be heard and maybe even make a difference.

Or at least that's what I tell myself since it's an excellent excuse to prolong this narcissistic pursuit.

I think the real reason that I've been so off lately is that I'm kind of terrified by the idea of Kindergarten. There are a million reasons - and no reason. I operate best not worrying about things in advance - so I think I'll just stick with that.

Instead I'll re-read everything I've written on the subject, know it got better then and will now. And more importantly, that I'm not alone.

So next week I'll be re-running posts on Oliver. Ones that made me feel better - or helped me work through things. Maybe someone else looking down the barrel of a special needs entry into Kindergarten will read them. And maybe they'll feel better too.

Summer Ennui

I don't know about you, but the last thing I feel like doing right now is blogging. Last week was easy because I was basically chronicling my every move for the three days I spent at BlogHer. But now that I'm back and spending my days at the pool, herding children and trying to catch up on everything I need to do before Labor Day, I'm feeling decidedly boring. Or bored. No - not really bored with my every day life...but I wouldn't want to watch a movie about it either.

I'm taking the kids up to NJ for the weekend to stay with my aunt and then we'll have two full weeks of daily auditory processing therapy for Oliver. While the therapy itself is only 1.5 hours, adding the hour+ commute there and back makes for a rather grueling day. And of course the twins get dragged along for the ride.

As much as I am looking forward to an end to the seemingly endless days, I do feel sad about September. No more afternoons at the pool, no more lazy mornings and no more pretending that my oldest isn't starting KINDERGARTEN this year. With the bigger bus, and homework, and working with his IEP. Oh how I dread thinking about that IEP... AND that the twins are starting co-op preschool (meaning I'll probably be there fifty percent of the time). Life will be busier and full of immediate responsibility.

I've never been good at standing on the edge. I do best just jumping in. So I think I'll just spend the last two weeks of summer vacation with my ears plugged and my eyes closed to the impending season of "have to." I'll sit in the sun and watch my kids continue to teach themselves how to swim (seriously - they're doing that) and keep meaning to get to that mountain of laundry folding tomorrow.

It won't hurt to stay wrapped in my summer cocoon a little longer. To get to the "have to's" later. Because tomorrow is right around the corner. It's soon enough. And just because I can, I'll channel a strong Southern spirit of tomorrow being "another day."

BlogHer is a lot like... (Part III - The End)

I have to confess. As much as I really loved BlogHer, even I'm finding my super long recap posts a little tedious... I'm trying to fit too much in - much like I did now and again at the conference. I woke up in a cold sweat last night when I realized that I forgot to mention a few friends I saw at the Mouthy Housewives party, like Carolyn who calls me "KATE COVENY HOOD!" and Debbie who always seems to magically appear when you need a friend.

I'm not kidding. Okay - except for that "waking up in a cold sweat part." It was probably more like "while I was watching the first season of Glee on Netflix" - but that doesn't have quite the same dramatic impact.

SO instead of trying to follow an exact itinerary, today I'll just go with highlights. Not to worry though - it will still be long and tedious.

(Oh yeah - and don't forget to read Part I and Part II. Or at very least, the disclaimers I included at the beginning of each since the same applies here.)

Saturday:

On Saturday morning I slept in a little and really just wandered around on my own, catching up on e-mail and visiting exhibit hall booths I missed the first day. I mean - there were all those great contests to enter. I could have won a Balenciaga bag! Or an ipad! Or...well there was a lot of good stuff to win. Unfortunately - my luck wasn't in and I didn't win anything. But hey - I have all of those marketing e-mails to look forward to!

After only making it to one session the day prior, I was determined to do better. And there was no way I was missing the "How to Edit Pictures and Make Them 10x Better" panel. Mostly because two of my girl crushes, Amy and Pauline were speaking, but also because I need some serious help in this area. The session was maybe a little too advanced for me (since I'm on the below novice level), but it did give me some ideas for what is possible. AND Amy talked about Windows Live Essentials beta software. It allows you to write, edit and schedule blog posts without actually being online. Amazing! I've downloaded it and can't wait to try it out.

Other take aways from the session included...well everything that you can find in this link to to Amy and Pauline's presentations (too much to list here) and their co-presenter Ryan's photoshop demonstration and down to earth advice that you should just "try to take a good picture" before starting the editing process.

Later that afternoon, Anna and I had an hour shift in the Serenity Suite. It was more crowded than the day before and felt more like a party than a quiet place for escape. But no one was complaining - especially not when the cupcakes were delivered. It was then that I finally got a chance to meet my longtime, twenty-something blogger friend LiLu!

LiLu and two other twenty-something bloggers (aren't they cute?)

That's her in the middle wearing the unicorn tee-shirt (it's tooting "magic"). I didn't take that picture myself - I pulled it from her site. To be honest, I really didn't take any pictures all weekend... Luckily others did, so everything you see in these BlogHer posts is pretty much stolen from elsewhere. *Photo credit: not me.

The highlight of the afternoon BlogHer events for me was the Humor panel. Since we had to go straight there from the Serenity Suite, Christy and Jill saved us seats. Thank goodness since the room was packed and I didn't want to miss seeing one of my very favorite online friends, Jessica Bern. Since I'm not currently a humorist nor am I trying to break into that, this session was straight up entertainment for me. With three hilarious speakers, two of whom are professional stand up comics, it was like an evening at the Improv. And I loved meeting Jessica when it was over. I only wish that we had actually found some time to sit and talk (something I find myself saying about many people...)

After the panel Anna, Christy, Jill and I all grabbed a seat at the hotel bar and that was another one of my favorite conference memories. Someone (other than me) actually captured it on film (or memory stick? what are we saying these days?)

Me (apparently offering you my paw - good doggie!), Christy and Anna

Me (new and improved with E.T. hands), Christy, Anna and Jill

With no plans for the next couple of hours, we were happy to join a group going out for Chinese. This included Stacey, Issa, Kari, Jonna, Lisa and a nice young girl who only stayed for a drink. I was going to write about this, as she ended up being a speaker from one of the more, um, splashy sessions...but Anna beat me to it. All in all it was a perfect way to close out the day before running back to the room to change for the evening parties.

We ended up at Sparklecorn, which was kind of a blur. For some reason, I never made it to the dance floor which is too bad because there is nothing I love more than an opportunity to embarrass myself with drunken misconceptions that I'm an awesome dancer. I think I was just kind of tired. So no dancing - just a lot of talking and laughing. I especially loved meeting Cara who thinks I look like a famous TV/movie star. I don't get that very often (or, you know - at all) so it was a nice bonus to an already super-fun night.

I also had another chance to see Gwen, Nora and Deb, which also kind of made my night. Especially when Deb complimented my navy and white ensemble, calling it very "nautical." How did she know I've always had a thing for sailor suits? My head was getting quite huge.

Christy finally had to collapse in her room. Mothers of three month old babies need to embrace uninterrupted sleep whenever possible, so we didn't hold the Cinderella act against her.

Jill and I wanted to go out, and Anna said she could rally - but in the end, we found ourselves lounging in the lobby with a big group including both old and new faces for me. Jorja had joined us along the way, and the four of us pretty much agreed without discussion that we weren't going anywhere. It was the perfect way to wrap up the night. Why go out when the party is right in front of you?

Just one more picture from the night (via lovely lady on the left, Pauline):

When everyone started to scatter around 1:30, I knew I was done. Even though I was tempted to stay up a little bit longer when I saw Amy and others on my way to the elevator, I really didn't think I could make it one more minute.

Other than some schoolgirl laughing in our beds with Anna and some quick goodbyes the next morning (and a REALLY long trek home), that was it. The End.

So how did I like my first BlogHer conference? I loved it. Truly. Even though there are a number of things I would do differently the second time around, I can't really regret much because I probably would have felt like that no matter what. Sometimes I over scheduled myself...sometimes I was at loose ends... But I took responsibility for all of that, learned my lesson and moved on.

Which kind of brings me back to the issue I brought up twenty years ago at the beginning of my first BlogHer post. Everyone is right - BlogHer is just like highschool. Because just like high school, it's simply what you make of it. Like anything else in life. Focus on the nice people and give the rest the benefit of the doubt. Live in the moment without concern about what you may be missing. And when you see a random opportunity that doesn't fit in with the schedule you are following, grab it - because it's those moments that keep things interesting.

I absolutely regret not making more of an effort to spend time with some (and you know who you are since I keep telling you...), but I couldn't be happier with the rest. In fact - I wouldn't change a thing.