Picture this

Picture this:
3 kids in the car with Mom and everyone has to pee.
If you get out at a fast food joint, inevitably it is assumed to be supper time, regardless of the actual time of day. You leave $25 poorer than you were before everyone had to pee.
If you stop at a gas station you have to strategically maneuver past the pop and orange candy slices and pray there are no venereal diseases lurking on the toilet seats.
So anyways, pick your poison and stop the car for twenty minutes of torture.
Although we've really outgrown the likes of the small stall, if one wants to urinate in the big stall they must keep one hand on Waylon at all times and complete all other business with the other. One slip of the hand and he's got the latch open and he's headed for the orange slices. And you've got your pants down.
On rare occasions (okay, it only happened once, last Monday) you'll hear a cute little girl say "Mom I think there's a camera in the toilet" and you turn to see that alas, your phone slipped from your coat pocket during the pee rodeo and it's now sitting in three different sources of urine at the bottom of the basin.
But don't forget to keep a hand on The Wanderer at all times, even during phone retrieval, or he'll be at the orange slices and you'll still have a phone in the toilet.
Add to the equation his fear of automatic hand dryers, and you get to hear shrill screams and wince as he plugs his ears with germ infested hands every time an innocent bystander tries to dry their hands. Or during the entire time you're trying to dry the pee off your cell phone.
Get everyone back in the car and start passing the hand sanitizer. Drive to the cell phone store as fast as you can.
The end.

Hell-ooo?

Waylon's voice is completely adorable.

Maybe it's because hearing his voice is such a rare moment in the day that we stop and appreciate it.

Or maybe he just has the cutest freaking voice on the planet.

I'll let you decide for yourself.

 

 

He wore a coat

Either  it's the sensory thing, or he's just ultra stubborn, but Waylon doesn't wear a coat. Ever.
The rule is, if it's cold out, he can't leave the house without a coat. So he usually carries it. (Sometimes the battle is just not worth fighting, you know?)

Well we got a whopper snowstorm a few weeks ago, followed by another whopper snowstorm. And although I'm not up for any mother of the year awards, I knew I wouldn't get one if I let my kid out in 12 inches of snow without a coat. Or hat. Or gloves.

So after 30 minutes of bribery (also known as ABA), he was at the door with a coat, hat, and (gasp!) gloves!

And... it lasted about 2 minutes. Tops.

I'll let the pictures tell the story.











 



 



Look, Ma! No coat!



Here's an entry for the baby book-

First time he wore a hat, gloves, and coat outside- March, 2013. For two minutes.

 

Is it spring yet?



And we can't forget these cuties!

Love

My mom has 9 kids. For real. I'm not talking like 4 kids of her own, and 4 of her husband's kids, and 1 niece that has always been like a daughter. No. She has birthed 9 children. She was a girl scout leader, a 4-H mom, a farmer's wife, and a teacher. She is a God fearing woman. And she has two masters degrees.
She is the nutella of motherhood.
 
This woman survived crappy diapers and mucousy vomit and gum in her carpet and rocks through windows and smart-mouth back talking and bad grades on report cards and calls from principals and kids past their curfews FOR FORTY YEARS.
Now that is love.

It really doesn't matter if you are Waylon's mom or my Mom or Ghandi's mom. Parenting is hard.
But I love it.

I think it's really weird when people say things like, "I could never do what you guys do every day."
Uhhh, yes you could.
And you would.
See he's my son. I love him unconditionally. It's what parents do.

So I know I tend to go on and on about the crap on my walls or the kid on my kitchen counters or the homemade cake torn to shreds. I get a little wrapped up in venting and I forget to stop to appreciate the bigger picture.
I have three amazing, beautiful kids. They are healthy. God has blessed me in ways I never could have dreamed. And He has shown me the meaning of love.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. 1 Corinthians 13:7

When you become a mother, you bear all of your children's burdens. You believe in their innocence, and hope for their future. You endure all their hardships. And for this, you are given love.
Whoa.

Obviously the Katzer Valentine's Day party was a real hit.

I have a problem.

I am always late.
Always.

I know it's a problem.
I'd like to blame this partially on genetics (my sister has the same affliction), and partially on the fact that people hold their standards too high. (Hakuna matata, I always say!)
But mostly, I just like to chalk it up to the fact that I'm only human.
At the beginning of each semester, I respectfully explain to each professor that I really do value their time in lecture, and I will give 100% of myself to them once I get to class, but I will likely not won't be on time. I cite a "hectic home life" as my typical excuse, although I'd really like to open up about my kid's insomnia problems, cleaning up inches of poo water from my bathroom floor and the basement below, and hustling a screaming shoeless 6 year old out the door before I leave for class. But I don't.

This particular morning, 2 AM looked like this:

(Apparently he was thirsty for hot chocolate, mixed to the consistency of sludge).

4 AM looked like this:

(You can't hear Travis cursing into the pillow).

And 6 AM looked like this:

Good morning kids! Time for school!

And that's just not something you can explain to your professor very well.

Let's be honest. I was late for everything before I had a kid with autism. It's just, well, I guess you can say it's my dirty little habit. Some people bite their nails, some people drink too much. I am late all the time. And the kid jumping on my head at 2 AM doesn't help anything.

Ah, but tomorrow I get to wake up very early and sneak out of the house for my day off.... At work. Bliss.

We ate dinner in the dark

 

This is why my blog posts are a month apart. I start typing and the heathens annihilate a cake.

Living with Waylon lately, well it's kind of been like living with a nuclear bomb.

I haven't figured out if it's the change of weather, getting back into routine after Christmas break, or if he's just trying to send us to the nut house, but it's getting old.

His sensory system has been just totally off kilter lately. You know, we all have sensory issues here or there, like I click pens incessantly. I bet you have a favorite kind of socks, and maybe you hate the noise of fingernails on a chalkboard, or the texture of marshmallows (that one's for you, Jennifer).
But Waylon's sensory system, well it's just all jacked up.

Someone told me once that everyone has a magical red solo cup that is filled to the brim with our sensory system. When we take in a new sight, smell, sound, taste, or touch, it drops into our cup, maintaining a perfect balance at the rim, and we continue on in an ignorant sensory bliss.

My Autistic Kid Will Lick Your
Honor Student. It's true.

But for Waylon, somedays his cup is only half full, and he spends his day searching for anything that will give him sensory input... Hitting (touch), licking (taste), screaming (sound), he's trying to fill up his cup.



Other days, his cup is overflowing, and he can't get rid of the overload of senses coming in. So he spends his day with his ears plugged and eyes closed, usually in our laundry room, changing clothes repeatedly, looking for the shirt that feels just right.


The mall is sensory overload at it's finest, and of course the day we celebrated Waylon's birthday he was in sensory overload to the hilt. I used to be the nervous nilly, germophobic new mom. Now, if Waylon is happy plugging his ears on the floor at the mall, so am I.

Other times, his sensory processing difficulties are really scary. He didn't notice when he touched a scalding hot fish fryer a couple summers ago (hence the scar on his right arm) and his tooth abscessed before we realized he had a cavity last fall. Coupled with the fact that he can't talk, I'm always paranoid that the kid is really hurt and just doesn't know it, or doesn't know how to tell us.

So if living with Waylon is like living with a nuclear bomb, dinner time is usually comparable to Hiroshima. Shrill screams, chairs flying through the air, children running for their lives (okay maybe I'm being dramatic).
Waylon's teacher told us that his behavior has improved since they changed the lighting in the classroom. So last night we ate dinner in the dark. It didn't really work. It was like Hiroshima at night time.
But it was about as romantic as it gets around here. I guess I'll take it.

Oh wait, I take that back. Speaking of romantic, Travis and I spent date night this month (our 7th wedding anniversary) at a couple wineries, a bed and breakfast, and we stumbled (quite literally) into an awesome underground bar. Take that, silly studies.
I just love that guy.





 

 

 

 

Birthday Hostility

December 27, 2006. Six years ago today, what I knew about autism could fit in a tea cup. It started with an A and ended in -utism. Wait... Did I even know how to spell it? Not sure.
Today, what I know about autism could fill a million tea cups. You should see the library of books I've read, and counted the hours I've spent searching the Internet for answers.
But what I know about Waylon? Next to nil.
Today, December 27, 2012, my boy turns six. And I want to scream at the blanks in the baby book that glare at me each time I get the courage to open it. 'My favorite color' or 'My first friend.'
Who is this kid who lives in my house? Where is he at? If he woke up one morning without this invisible cloak of autism, would he say, "Mom, not oatmeal again! You know I hate oatmeal!"?
I want to ask him who he wants on his birthday cake. I want to know if he likes grape or strawberry jelly. Recess or lunch. Chicken nuggets or a hamburger.

I wish instead of delivering a placenta minutes after Waylon, I would have delivered an instruction booklet. I think it would have said things like,
"Don't let Waylon eat anything red before you go out in public."
Or "Don't leave the toilet paper on the roll so he can spin it all out."
Or "Don't punch the lady who says, 'And how old are you, little man? Did you tell Santa what you want for Christmas?'"
Have you heard him squealing for the last hour, lady? He can't talk.
She just doesn't understand.
Or maybe it would say, "Start a blog so you can vent all your frustrations instead of taking them out on Waylon.
He just doesn't understand."

So here's the thing. I'm really not a negative person. I think my glass is generally half-full, but sometimes just barely. And unfortunately, Waylon's birthday is usually one of those days. Another year has gone by, the clock is ticking. I want to meet my son someday. And I want you to, too. He is a really cool person, I just know it.

Floor puzzle heaven. Proof that you don't have to be able to talk for Santa to know all your wishes.