Scrutiny

Scrutiny really pisses me off. 

I know most people don't do it intentionally. In most cases, it's meant to be "constructive". And sometimes, it's an open mouth, insert foot moment, that you can tell they immediately regret. Usually too, it's people who just don't "get it". Like the (amazingly strong) 90 year old lady at the nursing home who wanted W to apologize and wouldn't let go of a death grip on his arm until I explained, "He's mentally handicapped" (this was earlier last year- the only time I've ever said that- and I regret it to this day).

But I mean, really, who does "get it"? Do I? What is it like to live in Waylon's brain? Deep down, is he as carefree as an eight year old should be? Or does he battle with autism everyday? 

Maybe I should be harder on him. But maybe his life is hard enough?

So the thing is, usually, I really don't care about your scrutiny. I just let it fall on deaf ears. I shrug my shoulders and think, "Darling, you wouldn't last a day."

So why do I let it it piss me off so much sometimes?

Perhaps it is because, like a person molding a clay vase, I have spent my entire adult life molding my children. And just like you wouldn't tell an artist, "Boy, your vase looks like shit", I really don't want to hear your opinions on how to discipline my kid when he is acting out. (Exception: if you have a degree in child psychology or behavioral pediatrics, I'll take all the help I can get. Just as you'd welcome Monet's suggestions for your shitty art).

Perhaps too, it's because as much as I want Waylon to be treated equally and I don't want to admit that there could be anything "wrong" with him, the plain truth is- he has a disability. He has to go through his day flapping his arms and beating himself in the head and not being able to speak. And I just think that you'd be a lot less critical of his behaviors if you were required to spend your entire day flapping your arms and beating yourself in the head and not being able to speak. 

And maybe, just maybe, the reason that I hate scrutiny so much, is because I am also working really hard to teach my other three children to be respectful human beings. And when you show disrespect to any of God's children, let alone a child with special needs, I just want to bend you over my knee and spank your disrespectful butt.

Rant over. 

…...............................................

Dear Travis, 

Please bring home wine and chocolate today. Oh, and beans for the hambone. And milk.

Love, 

Your crazy wife

…...............................................

^ dead serious. 

The Lost Blog Posts of Fall/Winter 2014

Thank you. So much.

Are you wondering what you did? You did a lot.

This year I set an astonishing record for going an insanely long time between blog posts. Lately, I've had lots of people asking about the blogging hiatus- "Why don't you blog anymore?"

Well actually, I typed a lot on the blog, I just didn't publish it. In my moments of anger, fear, and joy, I turned to you to spill it all. But usually, before I had time to re-read and edit and publish, someone needed me, and my attention was pulled elsewhere. So, like my half-painted bathroom and most of the permission slips from school and my Christmas cards, it was left undone. 

But I had so many things to say and I needed someone to listen. You were always there for me. Even if you didn't know it. 

So, thanks to copy-and-paste, and taking three days off of work for absolutely no reason other than to salvage my sanity, I give you: the lost blog posts of Fall/Winter 2014.

 

October 9, 2014

I have so many things I need to tell you. I don't know where to start. The blog posts that spent the summer floating around in my head never made it to the keyboard. And like white shoes and the naked children in my front yard, summertime stories just aren't as acceptable after Labor Day.

 

November 15, 2014

There are so many things I've wanted to share with you this summer and fall. Life, well, I don't have to explain it to you. You know. Life.

Job change, schedule changes, a helluva summer break (I have three gaping holes in my walls as evidence), new medications, the only developmental pediatrician we've ever known moving to Denver, blood draws becoming "routine", an ambulance ride, a hospital stay, and lots of shots for pneumonia (Waylon in an ambulance= Hulk on the Avengers air ship).

Whoa. Life. It's a lot sometimes.

But guess what? He took swimming lessons and horse riding lessons. He wore a Halloween costume for the second year in a row. He says "That is really gross" when we change the baby's diaper (a comment!!!). He knows his new sister's name (although he can't say it yet) and he loves to give her kisses. He rides the bus with ease, he writes his last name, and he recognizes some words. And he has pooped in the toilet with astonishing accuracy lately.

Life. It's a lot sometimes. But it is good. 

November 18, 2014

This is what happened to me today:

I took three kids, one in high-waters (C grew a LOT this summer), one in dirty jeans (W wouldn't change his pants today), and one in zebra stripe leggings and high heeled boots (she's my diva), one grumpy husband, and one adorable baby (thank God for her), to the dentist. Seven cavities (yes I said SEVEN) later, I can't believe we were crazy enough to take them out for lunch (Hey, kids eat free on Tuesdays, you know). Then our dear lovely 80 year old waitress whispered "what does he have?" as we were walking out of the restaurant after we found out that kids eat free for SUPPER on Tuesdays. Ugh.

December 12, 2014

Guess what just happened? The school called, Waylon's barfing. Guess what that means? 

Free day!!!

I like to think that I take my nursing gig pretty seriously (I mean, I am changing peoples lives and such). And my husband (who is the bomb.com) recognizes this and rocks the mommy duty pretty well in these situations. However, today is a big day in the insurance biz. It is known as "open house day". He wore a sweater and he made a crock pot of soup. It would not be very nice or fair of me to ask him to leave the office on such a very important insurance biz day. 

So here I am, in the car, telling Siri about free day. 

This morning I told Facebook, "December: the month of the IEP, Waylon's 8th birthday, Christmas, and property taxes. I may or may not have just eaten five devil's food chocolate cookies for breakfast. Don't judge me." 

After my cry-baby bawl session in his IEP meeting yesterday, I was mentally, physically, and emotionally spent. I really wasn't in the mood to get up and put on my pants and a smile and face the world today. But I did. I ate my five devils food chocolate cookies for breakfast (because there were only five left in the box). Then, mother nature did me a solid (she saw me struggling) and gave W a stomach bug. 

Free day.
I love it.

 

December 22, 2014

For real, people. What gives? What is it about Christmas that is just so... exhausting? This time of the year, that is supposed to be so joyous and fun, and all I can think about is that we're shopping in a toy store and everything I think he really would like says "3 and up". I DON'T WANT TO BUY YOUR STUPID BABY TOYS FOR MY SEVEN YEAR OLD.  In five days he's going to be eight. And he won't stop licking his fingers. Ugh.

I need someone to say, "Lindy. Shut up. It's going to be okay." Would you do that for me? Say it. "Lindy. Shut up. Your kid is the bomb.com and he can play with baby toys if he wants. It's okay.” 

Fine. Fine. Fine. I'll shut up. Merry Christmas.


December 27, 2014
Dear Waylon,

"He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying."   -Friedrich Nietzsche

You taught me to fly.
Happy 8th birthday!
Love, Mom 

 

"Lindy says relaxxxx"

Lately, I feel like I've been thinking less. I know, I know, enter blonde jokes here. What I really mean is, my brain just hasn't been able to relaxxxx.
Having an hour commute gave my brain plenty "me" time. I had nowhere to be in that moment, no one to answer to, no one who needed my attention- I could just let my mind wander (as long as I could keep the mini-van between the white and yellow lines). And as much as I don't miss the hour long commute, I miss that time.

You see, this weekend, I had a nervous breakdown.

Well, clinically it was probably more of a grandiose pity party. But I'm pretty sure my husband thought it was a legit nervous breakdown. I'd rather not go into details, but there were plenty of things that "didn't go my way" this weekend that I could blame. Truth is, when it comes down to it, I'm pretty sure the whole thing was the direct result of a serious lack of "me" time.

Here's the thing: you can't give your all to others 24/7 if you don't give your all to yourself a little bit of the time.
Now I'm not going AWOL, I don't need committed, and I don't even think I need to leave for a week in the Bahamas or anything (although I probably would have taken a mimosa and a plane ride to anywhere in the thick of things this weekend). I'm just saying I need to spend some time each day giving my brain a break. Like coffee at the kitchen table instead of as I'm running out the door. Maybe I need to put down the Candy Crush and just gaze into my baby's eyes during early morning feedings. Maybe I just need to turn off onto a gravel road and take the long way home from work once a week. Lately, I haven't even had time for a good, long, mind-wandering shower. It needs to happen.

So, after I went ballistic in the church parking lot Sunday morning (at my best calculation I think there were only two innocent bystanders, P.T.L) I calmly sent my husband and children away, and Lucy and I (she's the only one who wasn't staring at me like I was off the rocker) went shopping. There's nothing wrong with a little good old fashioned retail therapy. We wandered Target for hours on end. Bought those jeans at Maurice's who's pricetag makes my eyes water. Ate lunch at 3:30 in the afternoon with not another sole in Jimmy John's (except the hipster delivery boys singing the Beatles). We went to visit our old pals on 2E at OMC. And then, we took the long gravel road home.

 

I think it's ok for a good solid pity party every now and then, so long as you pull your head out of it pretty quickly and get over yourself. And on the long, relaxxxing, mind-clearing drive home, I think I got His message loud and clear:
"Ok, Lindy, you made your point. The sun always shines after the rain. There is a beautiful little family who loves you very much waiting for you at home. Now pull your head out and get there."

Simming.

Poor guy.

He threw a screaming-mimi-meltdown fit on Sunday when we stopped at a friend's house and didn't let him get in their pool (He had just gotten his new life jacket, but we were in a hurry to get back home- I mean I would be pretty ticked too).

This morning I came out of our bedroom at 6am and found him like this...

He looked up at me with those sweet blue eyes and said, "simming?"

And it took every ounce of being I had to not load him up and head to the pool right then.

"Thursday, buddy. Thursday swimming."

"Simming." he said.

Come onnnnn, Thursday.

Three things

Today Waylon, Lucy and I went to Walmart and bought three things.

1. A life jacket, because he scared the bejeezus out of me yesterday (and spending money is my coping mechanism).

2. A king sized bag of skittles, because making it through Walmart is a king-sized accomplishment (and because I can't say no when his first purposeful word of the day is "candy?" when we pulled into the parking lot).

And 3. A box of baby wipes, because Lucy had a blowout and the Griswold's forgot to pack any. (Walmart gives that girl the runs... Me too sometimes).

Tonight I give thanks for the sunny day, Walmart receipts totaling less than $30, whoever invented seatbelts (there's nothing quite like the peace of knowing your child is strapped in a seat right behind you), and a day where forgetting wipes and Lucy having the runs is my biggest worry.

I'll take it.

Guardian Angel

 

A good little friend of mine turned 14 today. But unlike many other teenagers, he spent his birthday looking out for others. He gave instead of received.

Also unlike many other teenagers, he spent his birthday in Heaven.

Although I miss him and think of him every day, I am eternally grateful that my special boy has a guardian angel who knows every nook and cranny of Grandpa's farm. 

This afternoon at the farm our wanderer took wandering to a new extreme. We let our guard down for just a few minutes- he crossed a road, went to a pond, was missing for over 20 minutes... there are so many "what ifs" that keep playing through my head right now. 

I wish I could take these emotions and write something really moving with them. Something that will help you understand how scared I was today. Something that will help the world understand how serious wandering and autism is. But the thoughts in my head are spinning and I'm still trying to untie the knots in my stomach.

 

We are very very very lucky that we were able to bring our little boy home tonight.

Not all moms are so lucky.

 

Thanks for bringing him home to us today, Wes.

And happy birthday. 

 

Ever this day be at our side,
To light, to guard, to rule, to guide.

 

Well, should I?

I'm applying/pleading/begging for Waylon to get into an ABA therapy program. There are three (yes, you heard me, three) in Kansas that are in-network with our new insurance. One I'm pretty sure is not a possibility. One has a rather long waiting list (that we are on) and the last one has eight slots, of which one comes open every two to three years.
So when they said, "Tell us a little bit about Waylon" I felt like his personal spokesperson.
I mean really, who could turn this kid down?

"First of all, Waylon is adorable. I know you probably hear this a lot, but I am dead serious. He is all boy- he loves dirt, rocks, water, Lightning McQueen, and being ornery. He is seven years old, and I suppose he is technically "emerging non-verbal"- his speech is improving leaps and bounds, but he still only speaks one or two words at a time when prompted, or echolalia. Waylon mostly communicates by staring into your eyes and smiling great big. He is very independent- he would rather make his own snack than have to use words to ask for help. He is usually sensory seeking, and loves to be active- jumping, running, high-fives, and especially hugs and kisses- he is very affectionate. He is never mean, and never hits or bites, but he can get very excited and flappy."

But here's what I need to know: Should I include the picture of him naked in my dryer?

 

POW

Sorry I've been totally MIA lately.
If I am MIA, I guess you could say I'm also a POW.
I am a prisoner of this stupid war to get my kid some help.

We were thrilled, I mean we are thrilled, that we finally have insurance that will cover his therapy. Trust me, I am immensely thankful. But I got a little caught up in the celebration and now I am rather annoyed that I forgot that having insurance doesn't solve all my problems.

Can I step into a horrible, selfish bubble here for a second? How come a kid who is sick with any other illness can go to the doctor, pay a co-pay, get a treatment plan, a prescription, and a sticker?

Ok, I'll get back out of that horrible, selfish bubble. That is wrong.
I am so glad that he is healthy. I don't wish upon any child that they should have any illness. I just wish I could take him to the doctor and they would tell me what to do.

Is that so much to ask???
Getting your kid some help should not be so complicated.

This is 'merica, people. Ugh.

Insurance companies are stupid.

The mom has been trying very hard to get everything to come together in time for the son to start therapy by Summer break. But it's not as easy as she thought it would be to get it all figured out.
Sometimes the mom spends an entire morning on the phone with insurance companies (who are stupid) and therapy centers and is exhausted and teary-eyed and just thinks life just isn't fair.

What she wants to say is:
"To #*%! with you, stupid insurance lady!"
But what she knows is:
"Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be men {a momma} of courage; be strong. Do everything in love." (1 Cor. 16:13)
Ugh. Fine. Ok.
So she doesn't curse at the insurance lady.

She remembers her blog post about how incredibly blessed she is.
She sucks it up.
The sun shines through the window.
The baby smiles and coos.
And life goes on.



P.S. She is so in love with writing in third person. She thinks you should try it sometime.

Change

Once upon a time, a guy and a girl fell in love. They got married, and became a husband and wife. They had babies, and became a mom and dad. They had jobs and a minivan and a cute little house with a big oak tree in the backyard. And they dreamed of the day they'd finish their dream home in the country. They lived a ridiculously normal life.

Then one day, everything changed. A doctor told the mom and dad something was wrong with their son. He had autism. He said their son would need 40 hours per week of therapy if they ever hoped he could someday live on his own, or have a job, or a family. Therapy that would cost thousands of dollars a month. Therapy that their insurance company would not cover. He wished the mom and dad luck, and sent them out the door with a few brochures and two broken hearts.
Wanting the very best for her son, the mom quit her job, enrolled their son in therapy, and began to drive back and forth to the big city everyday. Their home construction loan turned into a therapy loan, and one day, while in the big city, the mom realized that she was going to have to figure out a way to repay it. So she enrolled herself in college. 

Eventually, the mom's college classes became more intense and demanding, so the dad, wanting the very best for his son, quit his job. He found a job in the big city, just down the road from his son's therapy center, and began to make the drive with his son every day. Other people said, "Why do you drive so far every day? You need to move to the big city." But they couldn't leave their family and friends that loved their son so much back home. And on days that they couldn't make the trip to the big city for their son's therapy, they had friends, and cousins, and aunts, and grandparents that made the trip for them.  They were very blessed.

When the mom finished college she searched for a job who's insurance would cover the expensive therapy. After months of searching, the mom found a job in the big city that she loved, but the insurance would not cover her son's therapy. Facing mounds of therapy bills, the mom and dad made the hard decision to stop taking their son to therapy in the big city. They enrolled him in school.

When their son started school, he started getting picked up by a special school bus. They did not have to drive to the big city anymore. So the dad, wanting the very best for his son, once again quit his job, so he could work closer to home and be there to send their son to school every morning.
Their son came to love school and his teachers. At school, he learned to write his name, and count, and recognize colors. He learned songs, and how to ask for chocolate milk. He amazed his mom and dad with all of the new things he was learning and doing. They were very blessed.

But the mom and dad knew that even though their son had shown how amazing and smart he was, the doctor was right. If he couldn't overcome his autistic behaviors, he may never live on his own, or have a job or a family. Even if he could write his name and ask for chocolate milk, he couldn't answer questions, or sit in a restaurant, or follow a simple direction without screaming.

He needed to be in therapy.

So the mom and dad searched, and hoped, and prayed, for a long time, for an answer. And as had happened so many times before, their prayers were answered.

The mom, who loved her job in the big city so much, got an unexpected job offer back home. Hoping and praying, and wanting the very best for her son, she called the insurance company and inquired about benefits. When the insurance company told them that they would cover their son's autism therapy, once again, they knew they were very blessed.

So today, because she wants the very best for her son, the mom will finish her last shift at the job she loves in the big city, and next week, she will start the new job with amazing benefits close to home. She is sad to say goodbye to her first dream job, and her coworkers, who became friends, who became family.

She knows that change is hard. But she knows that they know, this change will change her son's life. 

She is very blessed.

Gooooood Friday

Things that are happening in the Katzer house this Good Friday morning:

Walking to the bathroom to help Waylon, I reached down to pick up what I thought was a candy wrapper on the floor. The hallway was kind of dark. Hint: it was not a candy wrapper. I picked it up. I moaned for a while. Rose said, "Well that wasn't a very smart thing to do." I'd have to agree with her. While floor scrubbing, I hear her chasing Waylon through the house and yelling, "Waylon if you poop on our floor again you won't get kisses from me for a whole week!" I called Travis to yell at him, because that seemed like the only rational thing to do while washing poop off my fingers. He didn't answer (which ticked me off even more) so when the phone rang immediately back and I assumed it was him, I answered with a pretty grumpy "HELLO." The recorded voice on the line said, "Congratulations! You have won a Bahamas islands cruise!" And I thought "Sweet heavens as least something has gone right today." 

When I finished cleaning up the bathroom and the floor and Waylon, I came out to sit down and Rose had drawn me this picture of two people farting on each other. Lovely.

So today I'm counting my blessings. No matter how big or small they seem, my troubles are really trivial, thanks to the one who gave his life for me today. I saw a sign the other day that said, "Life is good. Eternal life is greater."

So true.

Hope you don't get poop on your fingers today.

And don't forget to count your blessings!

This is who I've become

The world of autism is so vast... and confusing... and overwhelming.
I spent the afternoon making phone calls, because I'm still trying to come up with a summer therapy plan for Waylon, and trying to figure out how to pay for it.
Insurance companies, in a word, suck. Sorry to be so harsh, but it's true. You know it is.
Well I was needing one specific bit of information this afternoon- a simple request that I knew would take for-ev-er if I tried calling the insurance company. I knew just the person who could help me. Only problem was, I hadn't seen/talked to her in ages. Nothing a little facebook stalking personal investigation couldn't handle. Seriously though, I facebook stalked her.
I found her, and she answered my question in a heartbeat. She didn't even seem that freaked out that some random woman from her past could figure out what company she worked for and her extension's phone number. (Ok I'm really sounding like a creeper now). She was really glad to be able to help out, and she even let me have her cell # in case I needed help again and didn't want to re-stalk her. (She must not have been too scared).
Anyways, my point in all of this is: when I got off the phone with her, I felt as though "it takes a village" couldn't be more true. We have met so many people on this journey with hearts of gold that we wouldn't be privileged to know, if it weren't for Waylon. I've said many good-byes and given many hugs to therapists, teachers, and paras through the years that have always been followed with, "If you or Waylon ever need anything, let me know." Maybe it's one of those cliché phrases, I don't know. But I like to think that these people are offering their support because Waylon is freaking adorable and everyone who gets the opportunity to work with him falls in love. And since these people have made it their career, they are usually fountains of knowledge when it comes to all things autism. If you have a kid with autism, these are people that you want to have on your side. We are so blessed to have each and every one of them in our village.
So I don't care if it's a cliché or not. If you are one of those people, please know that I haven't forgotten your offer. However, if you did not give me your business card or your number scribbled on a cocktail napkin, when the time arises that I need your help, I will probably facebook stalk you and your company and hunt you down. It's what I do.
This is who I've become.


PS- Megan. Thanks for your help today. Seriously, you are awesome, and I am so glad I found you. (Wait... does that sound creepy again?)

April 2nd Thoughts

 

Well our 5th Autism Awareness Day since Waylon's diagnosis has now come to a close. I hope he can feel the love that I know was spread for him yesterday. My heart swelled a little more each time I saw a profile pic turn blue. Amazing. Just amazing. And our family "lit it up blue" proudly. Including our trusty minivan, who, under the circumstances, did the best she could.
 

I mentioned on Facebook on the eve of Autism Awareness Day about the hellacious weekend we had, that had given me writer's block and kept me from writing my official Autism Awareness Day post. Our water line burst and we had to have it repaired, I got a speeding ticket during a long road trip on Sunday, and Travis hit a deer in the minivan on the way home from soccer Monday night.

The truth is, I was having a hard time writing about April 2nd anyways- after 5 years, I still don't really know how to feel about it. It's really not a day I want to have to celebrate, for us or any other family out there. So although I don't have some mind-blowing, philosophical post for you to read about what this day means for us, I do have a few random thoughts.

*You know, there are adults living with autism out there who say, if there were a cure, they wouldn't take it. They wouldn't change having autism because that's who they are, and they use April 2nd as a day to celebrate being who they are. I don't mean to undermine their feelings, and I really hope that Waylon can feel that way too, someday... But it's still really hard for me to understand.
Because I think autism sucks.
Waylon, God bless his mighty little soul, walks around everyday in a body he can't control, hearing sounds and not being able to respond, feeling pain and not being able to tell anyone... This is something he has to live with that I wish no child would ever have to experience. And I think he deserves this outpouring of support everyday of the year, not just April 2nd.
He is my hero.

*You may have noticed I have been asking for your support every Spring, to call and email legislators to get an insurance mandate for autism passed. Every year, it has fallen short. But this was the year. It passed yesterday in the Senate, and is headed to Governor Brownback's desk. Finally, after years of paying ridiculous amounts for therapy, our insurance will be required to cover a portion. Not only is this important for Waylon, but for thousands of other kids in Kansas who have never received any therapy because of the ridiculous costs. It's not a perfect bill- the coverage still falls short of Missouri and other states' insurance mandates. But hey, it's a start. Hopefully it makes a difference for the future of these 1 in 68 kids. Best Autism Awareness Day gift ever.

*Travis put Waylon in his car yesterday to go to his school, and as soon as he got back inside, I said, "Hey, what shirt did he wear today?" When Travis told me which one and asked why I cared, I reminded him that it was Autism Awareness Day, and he was supposed to wear blue. Trav just smirked and said, "Are you serious? He doesn't have to wear blue, he lives it."
So last night, in honor of Autism Awareness Day, I had a glass of wine. Because we live it.

*My original post was going to be 30 things you could do this month- Autism Awareness Month- in support of people living with autism. But this is as far as I got, so here goes:
1. Be a friend to someone living with special needs.
2. Thank God today for the gift of communication.
3. Get down on the floor and spend 15 minutes engaged in conversation and play with each of your kids- harder than you think.
4. Spend 30 minutes of your day without words.

Call it a challenge, call it some random thoughts from a crazy hormonal woman, whatever.
 

Lucy's first selfie, wearing blue for her
 big brother.

 

Flooded.

Ahhhhh... Where to start.
Well let's begin with the reasons for my emotional turmoil:
1. It was the end of Spring break week. He had been walking on my counters and peeing on my floor and eating my nutella with hint of lime tostitos for a whole week.
2. My biggest baby was gone for the week and this momma was missing him something fierce.
3. I carry a (sweet adorable precious) baby around all day and provide her sustenance every three hours all day and all night, and thus can't shake the bags under my eyes and the need to hear the coffee pot continuously percolating.
 4. I've still got that postpartum funk going on so I spend most nights plotting ways to murder my snoring husband. (Just kidding, kind of. It's just a funk, but postpartum depression is serious. Please don't murder your husband. Get help.)

So anyways, we had spent the final Saturday of Spring Break veg'ing out on the sofa, watching movies, eating corn dogs for lunch, and snacking on those delicious oatmeal sandwich Little Debbie's the rest of the day... every kids dream day, right? Who am I kidding, this is my dream day.
Well Waylon has a bit of an obsession with toilet paper, and he tends to clog the toilet with an entire roll, oh like, every other day. So when Rose came in and casually mentioned that the master bathroom toilet was clogged, Travis and I, in our exhausted stupor, took note- guess we'll have to use the kids' bathroom until one of us gets in there and unclogs it. No biggie. Right?
Wellllllll round about 4:30 in the afternoon, we decide we should probably get up and around- maybe head to town for church- Travis comes back from our bathroom and says, "I don't think we're going to church tonight... the bathroom's flooded."
I started to say "Oh dear, better check the basement" but he read my mind and opened the basement door mid-sentence, whence I was drowned out by the sound of Niagra Falls coming out of my basement ceiling. Real life. True story. Ain't making this up.
I suppose that is the 5th reason I was in emotional turmoil.
Travis started crying and I called my Mom.

So by about midnight, after hours of shop vac'ing the bathroom and closet carpets and basement floor, squeegee'ing standing water, renting an industrial sized dehumidifier, setting up fans, moving the basement sofas and rugs and totes and bags of clothes and soaked carseats.... you get the point..... anyways, around midnight, I started sifting through a box of photos I found that had gotten wet and laying them out to dry. (Here's a good place for me to advise you all to not store your photos in shoe boxes.) This box happened to be from about 2007 and 2008- Waylon's first year and a half. So I'm looking at photos of him opening his first Christmas presents and hunting for Easter eggs. He's reading a book on my lap and playing with his brother; cheesing for the camera and soaking up the interaction like any typical toddler. For pete's sake he's even wearing hats. I look in these pictures and I see his personality. And I remembered back then, when I felt like I knew the boy behind those eyes. Back when I still had Waylon.
And that's when I really felt flooded.
So I guess that's reason #6 for my emotional turmoil.
And the straw that broke the camel's back.

Can I be honest here? It really pisses me off.
What are those "stages of grief" I learned in nursing school?
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
Anger.
Anger.
Anger.
I am really angry. Angry that I had a boy. A beautiful boy. For such a short period of time. And I had no clue. I didn't cherish it. I didn't realize that those piercing blue eyes staring at me with such love would soon be precious to find. No clue that that would be his last Easter egg hunt for years. No clue that it would take him six more Christmases to open presents with that much gusto again. How should I have known that he would soon "come down with something" that would keep him from being able to do something as simple as putting on a hat?
I had no clue.

And you know what else pisses me off?
That no one can tell me why.
The CDC is having a press conference today to announce their latest estimate of the rate of kids being diagnosed with autism. Again, we're making a big production of the prevalence but not getting to the root of the problem.
Please, will someone just tell me where my son went?

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I can hear you optimists out there. There's a little optimistic angel sitting on my other shoulder, too.
He's a beautiful boy. He still has those beautiful big blue eyes. He's a wonderful, unique person who has made our lives so much more rich and fulfilled than I could have imagined.
I'm aware of that.
But sometimes, I just have to grieve a little. For what was. It's ok.
Because it's that anger that keeps me going. Going to IEP meetings, and reading food labels, calling insurance companies and service providers, state representatives and senators, and keeps me sane while scraping the hint of lime tostitos crumbs out of my nutella.
And it keeps me praying that someday that Waylon will return, and he'll rip open his Christmas presents and say, "Cool, that's what I've always wanted, Mom."
And you know what? I don't care if he ever wears a hat again. But just to hear those words-
that's all I've ever wanted.

All things new and wonderful

My oh my. I'm on cloud 9.
What an eventful month it's been around here.

Let's see, I think the last time we left off, I was feeling kind of like this:

 

But then something wonderful happened, this:

She is adorable and perfect and wonderful and amazing and lovely and sweet and adorable and perfect and wonderful and...

 

I won't drone on about her birth story (even though it was beautiful and perfect and I could tell it a thousand times), but I will tell you I was just plum tickled that everything went just as I had hoped. I was so worried that I would need to be induced. In usual Lindy-fashion, I freaked the hell out. For no reason.
And then she came. Just perfectly. All on her own.
(Well, I did eat Mexican the night before- the taco salad with shredded beef, in case any of you overdue pregnant mommas out there are wondering).

And as evidenced by the outpouring of love and support and texts and phone calls and facebook messages and likes and meals showing up at our house like Ed McMahon and the Publisher's Clearing House... I'd say she is one pretty loved little gal.
I really will be sending out the good old fashioned paper thank you cards to express my dearest thanks, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be a bit before all that gets done. So in the mean time, Thank you all.



I totally took this screenshot to put in her baby book, so I can whip it out someday when she's a teenager and says, "Nobody likes me!"

You know, my mom always told me that when she had another child her love was never divided, but instead it multiplied. Funny how each milestone in your life makes you value your mother's wisdom even more. My mom is so freakin' smart.
I am so in love.



With all of them.

So, we have set out on this fascinating new adventure. A family of six.

Of course, with all new family adventures, it is the mother's job to freak the hell out. For no reason. Right?
So I watch the way she responds to our voices and I watch her eyes as they follow the light coming in the window. I google "How to bond with your newborn" and I sit and talk with her in my willy nilly little baby voice for hours on end.

You see, it's just me and her everyday while the big kids are at school. We're becoming old pals, Lucy and me. I know everything about her. And she is learning everything about me.
So we talk, we sing, we cuddle, we coo. Travis says I'm just creating a monster. He's probably right.

I know I'm probably going overboard- I'm just so scared of being a refrigerator mother.
I will hold and coddle her all the days of my life, if there's even just a one-in-a-million chance it will keep her from getting autism.

I know, I know, it's just me being paranoid. It's just me freaking the hell out. For no reason, right?
I hope so.

Lucy and I sat down and had a good, long talk about how to crap in the toilet instead of her diaper, and she was like, "Huh?"

So, she is one month old today. And, like all of you perfect little pinteresting first time moms out there, Lucy and I are going to have a little "I'm one month old" photo sesh this afternoon.
But I am pretty freaking proud of myself for even remembering she turns one month old today. Let alone the picture thing. So don't get used to this.

Oh, and as you may have noticed on facebook or youtube, other amazing things have happened this month. And I'll be back to blog about them soon.
But now I have a baby to coddle and love and take pictures of. So I'll see you again soon, k?
 

 

A few things worth mentioning

Yeah, yeah, I know it's been a while. You see I have this parasite adorable blessing sucking life from growing gracefully within me and I have a hard time sitting down to type without zonking out and waking up with drool in my keyboard.
But regardless of my current state, I thought I'd jump out of my blogging hiatus with a few things worth mentioning:

Numero Uno: He lost a tooth.
O.M.G.G. (ohmygoodnessgrief) I know he's seven and all, but he's my baby. I rock him to sleep and cradle him when he is upset. He is not old enough to be losing teeth. But actually he is. And that makes me sad.

The loose tooth discovery went down like this-

 

So for supper that night, mom-of-the-year made corn-on-the-cob. Oops.

Reason #252 that non-verbal kids with autism rock. They can't complain. Even when their mom makes food that they literally can't eat. And even when their mom says, "Wait, let me get the camera" instead of helping the poor child out with his corn.


And so the removal of said tooth went down like this-

 

So my hands were a little full trying to help pin him down in the dentist chair and I didn't get to snap any pics, but this is actually a rather accurate depiction. When he realized that his spit was red he was so excited he could hardly contain himself. It was like those little art kits that have splatter paint, only his paint only came in red and was a serious biohazard for all of the employees/children/poor innocent bystanders in the pediatric dentist's office. I was covered in red splatter paint, as was the rest of southern Johnson County, within a few short minutes.

 

Numero dos: As previously mentioned, there is a beautiful little lifeform growing inside me that isn't coming out.

Ok so, today is my due date. It's not like I've been pregnant forever, (just kidding I actually have). But it's time that this baby makes an appearance.

I've drank pickle juice and castor oil, eaten Mexican food and coated myself in essential oils. I've rubbed the little spots on my ankles that the girls at work "swear made them go right into labor". I take the stairs at work. I walk, walk, walk. I pray.

And yes, I did the things that you are thinking of that I can't type or else I will giggle and blush.

And it's not working.

I know I won't be pregnant forever- (this baby has to come out sometime, right?) but I really don't want to be induced. I just want to have a good old fashioned labor and delivery, where a adorable/handsome girl/boy pops out with big beautiful eyes and a perfectly healthy brain.

Is that so much to ask?

So I thought it might be worth mentioning that tomorrow, when I come waddling into 3rd and 4th grade biddy basketball, with my three adorable little offspring in tow (one, no doubt, bouncing around the gym in mismatched clothes and a side pony and one, no doubt, banging on the water fountain to watch the water splash), you should not be offended when you ask me when I'm due and I look at you like this:



You're welcome for the warning.

And Numero tres: Someone out there thinks I'm funny or something.
I thought it might be worth mentioning that I happen to be making my stardom debut next month as a stand-up comedian at the Mission Theatre. It's true. I'm scared spitless.
I don't think I'm actually funny, it's just that my kid craps all over the place and the story surrounding it is usually good for a laugh or two. And, BONUS- by the time February 28th rolls around, I will have TWO kids that crap all over the place. More bang for your buck!
So if you're up for a night of comedy for a good cause, come check it out. And bring your tomatoes.
You can get tickets here! http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/549916

Reasons our speech path is better than yours

There are about a thousand reasons our speech path is better than yours. 

But this is one of them: 

The girl has been begging, pleading, bribing the boy to say her name spontaneously for over four years. (She started coming to our house to work with Waylon before he turned three, and has remained his primary speech pathologist through preschool, kindergarten, and now first grade. How lucky are we?)

She taught him to make noises- ("ba ba ba") before she worked for hours/days/weeks/months to get him to repeat "Daddy", and then "Mommy". She taught him to sign and eventually say "more", then "my turn", then "help me". Who am I kidding- she has worked tirelessly to teach the boy virtually every word he knows. 

And all of the obligatory Christmas ornaments and plates of brownies and you're-the-best-speech-path-ever thank you's don't hold a candle to the gift she got today.

Kudos, Miss Jennifer.