Autism Awareness

I've had really great intentions to blog like crazy during April- you know, Autism Awareness Month. I know you've at least heard of it- pictures and videos are all over facebook and the puzzle piece is everywhere. (Even over there --->!) But other than braving Saturday morning soccer with a stimming, screaming kid, I haven't done much to spread the awareness.

This year marks our fourth Autism Awareness Month since Waylon's diagnosis. In the beginning, I started this blog to help my family be aware of what autism is, and to help them understand Waylon. Eventually, it expanded to friends, then facebook, and last month there were 737 blog hits of people who came here to learn about autism. Whoa. That's huge. And I love it.

Here's the way I see it. Waylon is six now, and although I've heard lots of great stories about the kid who just "grew out" of their autism, it's not looking hopeful for us. And every bit of awareness I can spread now, will help Waylon in the future. If the number of shared photos and videos to my facebook wall is even an inkling of an indication, I know Waylon is loved. And maybe I'm a bit bias, but when you read the blog and learn more about who Waylon really is (not just the stimming, screaming kid in the bleachers), you'll love him even more. And that's what awareness is about.

In nursing school, we learned the stages of grief- DABDA. (Well, that's how I memorized it for tests anyways). Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They work the same whether you didn't study and failed a test- (I 'm not going to fail this test, Crap I failed this  &*%$! test, Maybe she'll let me retake it for extra points, Now I'm going to fail this class, Oh well I guess I'll study better next time) or whether you have a child diagnosed with autism (I'm over-reacting he'll be fine, God why did you do this to my son, Maybe I'll pay for ridiculous amounts of therapy and it will go away, I'll never be able to have a life that doesn't include crappy pants again, I have a beautiful happy healthy son who I am proud of no matter what.) It's so true. But it's not like they're always in that perfect, neat order. Somedays, I find myself angry, and somedays I find myself in acceptance.

So I use this blog of awareness as my crutch. I hope you don't mind. When we are having a rough moment in the park, or the front of church, and I can feel a thousand sets of staring eyes come upon me, I think, "maybe they read the blog..." and I hope that they understand. Every one of the 737 blog hits last month were like fist pumps in the park, or the church pew, or the grocery store line, or the soccer bleachers.

 It takes a village to raise a child. African proverb

 Thanks for being part of our village.
 And happy Autism Awareness Month!



"Kids with autism are actually geniuses, you know. I saw it on 60 minutes."
#thingsIhearsixtimesaweek
Well, he doesn't play the piano like Beethoven or do math like Einstein.
The boy likes cars.
Future NASCAR driver? We'll have to wait and see.


As a sort-of Autism Awareness post-script, I want to mention: If you know of anyone who's child is not meeting the typical developmental milestones, and they are concerned, don't blow them off.  If I had a dollar for every time a well-meaning, kind-hearted person told me, "Oh, he'll talk someday and then you will wish he had never started!" Um, no. While many kids who start out with a language delay can catch up, there are many who don't. There are resources out there, like the Tiny-K program, for kids who are even just a little bit behind. It takes a strong parent to realize there may be something wrong with their child, and to do something about it while they have plenty of time.


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.