come hell or high water

We've needed a date night lately like we've needed air and water. We've been putting it off way. too. long. Finally last week TK said, "We're going on a date Saturday night COME HELL OR HIGH WATER". So I said, "Yes, please".

And wouldn't you know it- as we were walking out the door Saturday, we noticed our laundry room had flooded and soaked the 7,249 loads of unfolded laundry within and the basement below. (HELL OR HIGH WATER)

So we sat in Texas Roadhouse and ate marginal steak and ordered extra hot rolls and honey butter and laughed {and cussed some} about the small flood in our home.

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Every other Wednesday night since November, I've been sneaking to KC to meet with 10 other autism parents and a few other super funny people to plan the 2015 Evening with the 'Rents (a fundraiser for Camp Encourage). We talk about the hilariously funny things our {adorable} kids with autism have done, the tears they have brought us, and the joy. And we laugh so. freaking. hard.

So while working to plan a comedy show with parents of children with autism, I realized something very important. And I want to share it with you, too.

These are trying times for many. The burdens are heavy. The struggle is real. 

But when crap is hitting the fan (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally), if you can laugh with someone, you can get through it. Find the joy in everything. (It's there, trust me!)

Crap is so much easier to clean off the fan when you are laughing about it with someone.

If you are currently climbing uphill in your journey, you will get through these trying times, (COME HELL OR HIGH WATER). Trust me!

This Friday, February 27th, I am proud to be a co-host for the 2015 Evening with the 'Rents. Like last year's event, it promises to be a night of laughter and joy, and a celebration of those with autism that we know and love, who have stolen our hearts {and sanity}. Really- it's cheap therapy (and the only therapy program in the area with a full bar in the lobby).

Tickets are still available, and if it sells out you can bet that yours truly will be crapping herself (instead of cleaning up someone else's crap, for once).  Get your tickets here!

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Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

--Kurt Vonnegut

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I call BS on the "less cleaning up to do" part. 

    --Lindy Katzer

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And then it hit me

SO it all started when I swung into the gas station to fill up the guzzler that we are borrowing from my bro and sister-in-law (my poor sweet minivan is down in the tranny and my 28-year-old self is having minivan withdrawals- WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME). So anywhoo, we're at the gas station, and Waylon hopped out of the vehicle. Oh snap.
There is this feeling that an autism mom has when your child makes a sudden movement in a parking lot, it's sort of like staring at a ticking bomb that has two fuses: I might be able to dismantle the autism bomb and safely contain him. Or he might detonate right here and now in this very parking lot.
Eeesh. So many behavioral strategies running through my head.
But I'm feeling confident today. I say and sign, "Help me, Waylon!" and he proves all of my fears wrong. He helps me unhook the nozzle and plug it in the car. He is thrilled to be allowed out in the daylight- flapping his arms and eeeeeeeing his approval. For just a second I think my chest puffed out and my head swelled and I thought, "Look at me, teaching my special needs kid all these life skills and stuff!" Too soon, Lindy, too soon.
Rose hops out then, too. She starts singing about pumping gas and other silly things. The grumps at the pump next to me were less than pleased about the chaos unfolding. So when I turn to give her the devil-mom stare and say GETINTHECARNOW through my gritted teeth (I mean she is singing and dancing in front of a ticking bomb, remember?), he darts. Of-freaking-course.
But you know my sleek autism mom skills (i.e. cat-like reflexes) nabbed his hood just a few feet from the vehicle. Good thing, right? Right. He was safe from traffic. It just also means that I was next to the bomb when it detonated.
The grumps at the other pumps are highly unappreciative of how impressive an autism bomb can be when it detonates.

And then it hit me (no pun intended).
She just wanted to sing.

There was a time when Rose did everything Waylon did. It was very difficult to teach the toddler Rose right from wrong, when she was copying every move of Waylon's- who was still not talking at all when his younger sister was telling stories. It was a stressful and emotional time, trying to potty train my toddler when my four year old was still wearing diapers.
Once, when I wrote about the naive one, I didn't realize how fleeting her naivety would be. She isn't naive anymore.
She knows.
She knows she has an exceptionally awesome brother.
She knows she has been blessed with a healthy body and healthy mind (and that not everyone is so fortunate), and I have no doubt she will use them to do wonderful things someday.
She knows firsthand what it means to give freely of yourself for someone who needs you. Impressive.
Perhaps most importantly, she knows she is special.

These things are true for Caden, too. He was and is Waylon's first friend, first mentor, and first therapist. And Lucy- I can already see her watching Waylon, and Waylon watching her, and I can't wait to watch their connection grow. (At the current moment it's kind of stuck at a "her slobbering on his puzzle pieces and him screaming at her" phase).

So tomorrow morning- I am squirrel hunting with Caden (gross). Tomorrow afternoon, lunch date with Rose. I need to remind them how awesome they are. As if they don't already know.
They totally are.

That's my boy

His eighth birthday has come and gone, and as usual, I find myself measuring him up against other kids his age.

Talking. Reading. Making friends. Playing sports.

Why is it that I always seem to measure Waylon by what he is not?

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Waylon is:

Happy. Loving. Non-judgmental. He holds my hand and gives me kisses and takes out my trash every day (even if it's empty). He does not bicker or argue. He is never rude. He loves his family more than anything in the world (except maybe Lightning McQueen). He did not ask Santa for a Kindle fire or an iPad or a Playstation. He only wants my love and Nacho Cheese Doritos.

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How does your eight year old measure up? 

That's my boy.

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. 

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Dear Travis, 

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

Love, 

Your crazy wife

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^ 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.