I Got Yer IEP Right Here: A Survivalist’s Manifesto

Recently, my husband and I went through a long IEP (that’s “individualized education plan”) process for our daughter. You’d think that, having done this a few times now, we would know what we were doing when it came to the IEP, right? Well, for reasons like stress, fear, worry, ignorance (but not the willful kind) and avoidance, it took us a (long) while before the light bulb in the attic finally flipped on. It also took the advice of some wonderful, giving souls who had walked in our shoes once, too. And, I promised each one of those wonderful souls we would pay their good deeds forward. So, here it is: Things You Should Know (and DO) Before Your Student’s IEP Meeting.

Educate Yourself

The IEP process is daunting to parents and caregivers for lots of reasons, but two big ones stand out for me. The first is that the IEP process is psuedo-legal. There are a lot of legal rules for what can and cannot be done to create, implement and change a student’s IEP. It is very important for you to know these rules. Make sure the school district provides you with the required IEP procedural safeguards for parents, then read it! But, don’t rely solely on district resources. Consult other reliable, parent or student-focused resources as well. I recommend the advocacy series of books written by Pam and Peter Wright. A student has certain rights, parents/caregivers have certain rights and school districts have certain rights. Every IEP team member also has obligations. Make it your business to know what those are.

The IEP process is daunting also because it involves making decisions about a student’s educational needs. If your student is newly diagnosed with a condition necessitating special education or learning accommodations, you may still be orienting yourself emotionally and intellectually. When IEP team members start talking about “generalizing” skills to the “mainstream” curriculum, using “reinforcers” to motivate performance, the “common core standards,” or providing a “slant board” for writing to assess “visual acuity,” this new, important-sounding vocabulary may reinforce feelings of inadequacy AND give the speakers an aura of trustworthy expertise. Don’t let this one-two punch take you down for the count or lull you into a false sense of reliance. There are many, many reliable resources out there — resources that don’t require a degree in cognitive psychology to read — that can help you become conversant in the vocabulary of special education and be an effective advocate for your child.

Plan Ahead

Ideally, a student’s IEP should be the product of a collaborative effort by the IEP team members. But, too often, a school-side team member hands the parent/caregiver-side team members the proposed IEP – already drafted and right before (or even at) the meeting. That doesn’t launch the IEP meeting on a collaborative note. I can’t say there aren’t circumstances where this is done deliberately. My experience, though, has been that a late-delivered IEP draft is the product of a lack of resources (read: only 24 hours in a day and too many IEP meeting clustered together). So be proactive and plan ahead. Tell your student’s classroom teacher that you want to help draft the proposed IEP, and set a meeting date to do that a couple of weeks before the IEP meeting. Come to this collaboration meeting prepared with a list of the things you think your student is doing well and things you’d like to see him/her work on. Then roll up your sleeves, open your mind and get to work. Be prepared to have divergent experiences when it comes to your student – you and the classroom teacher each see your student in a different environment for a good deal of time most days. This is also a very good opportunity for you to see and ask questions about the data your student’s classroom teacher, paraprofessionals and therapists collect over the year to determine your child’s present levels of performance. The data should objectively support the classroom teacher’s goal assessments, so it’s a good double-check against biases (good or bad / yours or the teacher’s)

Oooooh. Whole IEP. I thought you said whole PIE. My bad.

Care About the WHOLE IEP, Not Just the Services Part

For the first two years our daughter was in special education, my husband and I worried only about the part of her IEP that listed where she would be placed and what type of services or accommodations she would receive (e.g., self-contained classroom, speech therapy, occupational therapy, etc.) – the FAPE part. (That’s free, appropriate public education. Welcome to the land of alphabet soup …)

The “Present Levels of Educational Performance” (or some such variation) and actual goals/objectives section of the IEP barely registered with us. We figured that as long as our daughter had the services she needed, we’d leave the implementation to the professionals. This year, though, we knew our meeting wasn’t going to be about our daughter’s services, because those weren’t going to change. So, we finally sat down to really read the goals in her IEP. Imagine my horror when we realized we had it all WRONG. FAPE is important, but the most important of part of the IEP is the assessment of your student’s present levels of academic and functional performance, because that assessment determines the goals, and the goals (more specifically, the benchmarks for progress toward goals) determine the services.

With that wake-up call and the profoundly important support of my fellow IEP-meeting survivalists, here’s my best advice for scaling Mount IEP:

• Read and scrutinize the Present Levels of Educational Performance (PLOEP) section. Identify each skill described (good or bad) in the PLOEP, and write it in a separate line of notebook paper or type it into a line on a spreadsheet. When we did our daughter’s list, we typed progress in green and not-so-much progress or regressions in red. Then, analyze the list to determine whether it paints an accurate picture of where you believe your student’s educational performance is. (Trust me, you are absolutely qualified to do this.) if there are things missing, add them. If you disagree with parts, highlight those for discussion. If your student is old enough and capable / interested, get his/her feedback, too, and incorporate it. The abilities and skills identified in this section of the IEP are the foundation on which the goals are built and the services or accommodations needed to meet those goals determined. It is the first most-important part of the IEP. If the entire IEP team is not in agreement on the PLOEP, you cannot move forward. So, don’t stop until the whole team green-lights this section.
• Read the Goals and Cross-Check against PLOEP, SMART, Strangers and Dead Men.
  • PLOEP – Review the list of abilities and limitations the team agreed on in the PLOEP. Then draft or double-check that there is a goal in your student’s IEP to address each area of need. If the abilities your student demonstrates are improving but still not at grade level, is there a new goal that challenges your student to reach a little higher? If your student is missing an important functional skill, is there a goal to address it? There must be a goal to address EVERY area of need. For some students, that may mean 2 goals. For others, that means 32 goals. There is NO rule regarding how many goals an IEP requires except that the goals must address every area of need.
  • SMART, Strangers and Dead Men. Okay, not real strangers and dead men. First, goals should be SMART. Yes, they should be smart as in a good idea. But, SMART is an acronym for specific, measurable, action-oriented, realistic and time-limited. A good goal should meet each of these criteria. My husband and I created this chart to assess our daughter’s proposed IEP goals (or the ones we offered to the IEP team as alternative goals). The chart explains what each of the SMART criteria means:
    

• The chart also explains the Stranger Test, the Dead Man’s Test the Relation Back Test and the Educational Progress Tests. Any of these will help you determine whether a proposed goal is written clearly enough for ANYONE to follow it. (Except the dead guy. If the dead guy can meet the goal, no bueno.) Don’t underestimate the importance of this. Turnover for paraprofessional staff in special education classrooms is high, and unexpected events happen. Last year, our daughter’s classroom teacher was in a terrible auto accident that kept her out for a month. You want to be sure that the substitute (or substitutes) can read and immediately understand how to implement your student’s IEP. A month is a very long time when your student’s been around for only 48 of them. For a great primer on how to write meaningful, clear, SMART IEP goals, I recommend Barbara D. Bateman and Cynthia M. Herr’s book, Writing Measurable IEP Goals and Objectives.
• Determine Services based on the Goals. Once the team agrees on the goals, the services and accommodations nearly select themselves. Still, there may be accommodations or interventions your student needs beyond what is specifically identified in a goal. When looking at the goals, ask yourself what accommodation would make it more likely your student will accomplish this goal. For us, this was one of the more difficult aspects of the IEP, because we didn’t really know what was available. Call on every resource you have: your pediatrician, your outside therapists, your Regional Center case manager, other parents, social service agencies in your area, the Internet (cautiously), the bookstore or library. Think about the types of assistance you provide to your student at home and how that might be incorporated into the classroom environment. I found two books especially helpful: School Success for Kids with Autism by Dr. Andrew L. Egel, Dr. Katherine C. Holman and Dr. Christine H. Barthold and Understanding Motor Skills in Children with Dyspraxia, ADHD, Autism & Other Learning Disabilities by Lisa A. Kurtz. (P.S. If you’re in the bookstore, check the children’s book section for books such as these. Last place I would’ve looked … )

Don’t Be Afraid

It’s an unfortunate reality of the IEP system that it’s designed more to be antagonistic than to be collaborative. But, it is truly meant to be a project for the entire IEP team. YOU can make that happen.

1. Make nice. Make a point to learn something about your student’s teacher, and let your actions show him/her you remember it. Did he mention a summer trip to India? Pick up a paperback travel guide and give it as a “just because” gift. Did she mention orange as her favorite color? Have your student make a special project and frame it in orange-painted popsicle sticks. You get the idea. Send a message that says, I value you as a person and teammate.
2. Communicate early and often. Nothing is harder than getting through an IEP meeting with a room full of strangers, because you are forced to talk about emotionally charged issues. Don’t let this happen. Collect email addresses, telephone numbers and office hours information for all the members of your student’s IEP team – then USE THEM. If your student has a communication folder (s/he should!), read the notes that come home and RESPOND to them, even if it’s just to say “thank you.” Ask for advice. For a while, our daughter was “chipmunking” her food in her checks. I wrote her OT a note asking for her thoughts. She was thrilled to respond to me, and she had some great advice. Send a message that says, I value the experience you bring to this team.
3. Assert yourself, but keep an open mind. Collaboration means there are not “sides” in an IEP meeting. As soon as you start to view the IEP meeting as a win/lose or us-versus-them proposition, it doesn’t matter how you score the meeting results – your student loses.. Without collaboration, your student doesn’t benefit from group’s collective wisdom on how to create the best environment for access to educational and functional skills. My husband and I went into our daughter’s last IEP meeting in agreement that we would demand and get a one-to-one aide for her, because we believed she needed one. We didn’t didn’t get one, though — not because we “lost” the argument — but because after two hours of discussion, we had a much better understanding of why our daughter was experiencing classroom anxiety, and we realized an aide might actually make it worse. If we hadn’t been willing to listen, we may have pushed hard for something believing it to be right for all the wrong reasons.
4. Don’t judge based on a first (or even second) encounter. You may not realize how often a teacher encounters a parent/caregiver who is very angry and embarrassed by his/her student’s need for accommodation. Remember that a teacher’s seemingly callous or cavalier initial approach to you in fact may be apprehension. Some teachers are really open and relaxed around kids; not so much around adults. Give him/her the benefit of the doubt until you get to know one another. Also, pick your spots. Don’t spring involved questions or start what should be a confidential conversation with your student’s teacher while she’s trying to corral the kids onto busses and can’t give you her undivided or personal attention. And don’t sandbag – as soon as you feel like something merits discussion, discuss it. Don’t hold on to “little” things until you have so many you just unload. Give team members a chance to address your concerns before you assign fault. By the same token, be prepared to swallow just a little pride when it comes to your student. Nobody is perfect. (Except my kid. She’s totally perfect. *ahem*)
5. Bring a comfort object and a support person. You thought comfort objects were only for our kiddos? Nope. When I go to my daughter’s IEP meetings, I bring coffee in a mug my older son made for me many years ago. It helps me visualize how the IEP meeting would go if we held it around my dining room table instead of around a U-shaped table outfitted with chairs about 10 sizes too small for grown people. That mindset helps me feel less like arguing and a lot more like listening — after all, that’s what I do at my dining room table over coffee. You may also bring anyone you’d like to an IEP meeting to act as a support person or an advocate for you. I highly recommend this. Even if your IEP meetings go smoothly, a trusted friend can take detailed notes for you during the meeting so you can give the team members your full attention. And, even if your student can’t really participate, bring him/her to the meeting. At one recent meeting, I brought my daughter due to lack of child care, but having her in the room really kept us on our best behavior, because her presence was a constant reminder that we were there for the best possible reason and with the same ultimate goal: her success!
6. Listen to your instincts. There are a lot of experts in the room during an IEP meeting, and that includes YOU. YOU are an expert about your child. So, if you’ve tried everything you can to set the tone for a successful, collaborative meeting but the process breaks down (or never really gets off the ground), call a time-out. Take a 15-minute break or a 15-day break. You never have to sign an IEP with which you do not agree, and you can leave the meeting at any time. It took FOUR separate meetings before our daughter’s IEP team finally reached consensus on her goals, and there was definitely some butthurt along the way. But, at the end, I believe our daughter’s classroom teacher, her speech therapist, her occupational therapist, and the principal shared our feeling of an enormous sense of accomplishment. We all feel invested in her success now, and we will all feel a lot less defensive if her next round of assessments don’t show as much progress as we’d like. It’s called buy-in, and its value cannot be underestimated. If you can’t get buy-in from where things sit at the moment, take a break, come back with a fresh perspective and try again.

I’m sure there are other things I’m not mentioning that I should. So, here’s a list of other blogs you might want to visit for more on the IEP process:

IEP Season, at Anybody Want a Peanut?

Ways to make your next IEP awesome!, at Mostly True Stuff (when you need a little comic relief from IEP season … and you will)

Are you new to autism? and My child needs an IEP, at Yeah. Good Times.

Pretty much anything ever written over at snagglebox.

IEP without Tears, at Pancakes Gone Awry

One Inch Closer, at Both Hands and a Flashlight

Integration – Why is it needed, and why is it so hard?, at Autism from a Father’s Point of View

The M-word, at Autism and Oughtisms (the m-word being “mainstreaming”)

Dear School District: My Son is Not Just Another Brick in the Wall, at The Connor Chronicles

Flashback Friday, at This Side of Typical (lots and lots of fun new vocabulary!)

What are IEPs made of?, at Maternal Instincts

I know there are more, and I will try to add to this list as I locate them. In the meantime, keep your head up. And, remember: just like every student is unique, so too are IEP meetings. Take every story of failure and success with a grain of salt. You will learn to cull from them the cautious optimism that will get you through each IEP season. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

It Takes a Village and ALL the Villagers, too.

When my son was born, I was the first of my friends to have a child.  I spent a lot of time reading books about parenting, because it is my nature to research the crap out of stuff.  But, there are a lot of details the books don’t cover.  So, when Nate was about a week old, and I took him on his first shopping trip to Target, I called a girlfriend to come with me.  I had no idea how I was going to carry him in his car seat and push the shopping cart.  My girlfriend, being childless, thought helping me sounded like a great idea, because - yeah, how are you going to handle the cart and carrier by yourself?!? So, there we went, wandering through Target, Nate’s auntie dutifully carrying Nate, shielding him from all potential harm, while I pushed the shopping cart.

If you’ve cared for an infant, you’re laughing at me now.  And, in retrospect, it is kind of funny.  But, you know what saved me from my ignorance about how car seats actually fit into and lock onto shopping carts?  Another mom.  One afternoon, I was struggling to manage Nate in the car carrier and a cart at the grocery store when a woman cautiously approached me.  She apologized for “intruding” but said it looked to her like I was having a hard time, and she asked if I knew the car carrier would lock onto the cart.  In my desperation and surprise, I handed this complete stranger my new baby and let her show me how to do it.  And then I cried and hugged her.  She didn’t laugh at me.  She didn’t make fun of me.  She didn’t think I was a terrible parent or an awful person.  She didn’t suggest that I wasn’t qualified to have a child or that I was abusing my son with my ignorance.  All she saw was a new mom struggling with the figurative weight of her world and an opportunity to lighten the load.  Maybe she even saw a chance to pay forward the help she received.

So, when the roles in my life reversed, and I had a child on the verge of becoming a young man while some of my friends and family were birthing or adopting their own kids, I fielded a lot of questions and cautiously offered advice.  Not everyone took my advice.  Some made decisions for their kids that I wouldn’t have made for mine.  Funny enough, we’re still friends and family.  These people even leave me alone with their children, and I leave them sometimes with mine.  Because – at the end of the day – we all have one thing in common:  a deep and unconditional love for our kids, no matter how they get from uterus to adulthood.

If I learned anything from my experience raising Nate, it’s that raising a child by yourself is not just hard – it’s impossible.  There are no instructions, there is no user’s manual, there’s no troubleshooting guide or index.  When you leave the hospital with that brand new life, the hospital will make sure you installed your car seat right.  The rest is completely on you.  It is – to put it mildly – overwhelming.  Because of that, I asked people I trusted for advice.  I asked people I trusted to pitch in.  I asked for help.  Why?  Well – try as I might – I couldn’t be in two places at once, I didn’t have eyes in the back of my head, I had only two hands when I needed three (or four), and I did actually need some sleep to remain a relatively sane person.  Unless you can simultaneously sleep, shower, and prevent a toddler from coloring on your walls while eating a house plant, it will, in fact, take a village to raise your child.  (Also, call me.)

As many of my readers know, my daughter is autistic.  Sometimes, I write about my experiences as a parent of an autistic child.  When I write about my experiences, I’m motivated by two things:  receiving advice from others and sharing so that others can benefit by trying something that worked or avoiding something that didn’t work.  These are the exact things that motivated me to seek advice about or help raising and caring for Nate.  And, I feel the same compulsion to pay forward the great advice or lessons I learned along the way.  The only variation between the story of raising Nate and the story of raising Helene is the degree of challenge.  And, yes, raising kids is challenging.  There’s nothing wrong with saying that, and it doesn’t mean I don’t love my children.  Marriage is challenging – especially the sharing a bathroom part – but I love my husband.  ”Challenging” is not a euphemism for “I hate it/him/her/them!”  The word actually means (among other things) “invitingly provocative.”

The varied reactions people have to the statement “raising kids is challenging,” exemplifies the lightning rod that is child rearing advice.  Folks tend to have pretty strong opinions about what’s “wrong” or “right” when it comes to child rearing.  In the abstract, this makes sense to me.  As I pointed out earlier, the kiddos do not come with instructions — not even those crazy IKEA drawings.  Opinions will vary far and wide.

With isolated exceptions (are you mom enough?!), I’ve never experienced such outright hostility toward and among parents than I’ve seen within the autism community.  It feels to me as though there is a growing movement among people who identify as or with “autism self-advocates” to silence parents of autistics, and I truly don’t understand why.  I’ve heard these proffered explanations:

• Neurotypical parents are privileged and, therefore, should not complain about raising an autistic child who is not similarly privileged.
  • It is true – as far as I know – that I am neurotypical and my daughter is not.  But does that make me “privileged”? One of the chief arguments I’ve read advanced by autistic self-advocates is that autism is not a “disorder” but an innate part of the person’s being, like a personality trait.  The self-advocate embraces her autism.  Does not then the assertion that being neurotypical is a privilege contradict the assertion that autism is not a disorder?  I’m not asking facetiously.  I’m truly trying to reconcile these arguments, and that does not seem possible to me.  ”Privilege” connotes a special right or advantage that others do not have.  If the autistic self-advocate rejects neurotypicality, how is it a “privilege”?

• There are “too many” parent resources out there, and those voices are drowning out autistic voices.
  • I don’t understand this at all.  I’m pretty sure the Internet is big enough for us all.  I’ve yet to come across a parent blogger who advocates, encourages, condones or otherwise expresses a desire to silence autistic voices.  Yet, I’ve encountered several parent bloggers who actively work to silence other parents in some very petty, juvenile and counter-productive ways.  As a parent sharing my experiences, I’m trying to amplify the conversation about autism to increase awareness, acceptance, resources, and inclusion so that those things might be my daughter’s reality when she is old enough to start making decisions for herself about education, relationships, work and self-care.

• A neurotypical parent cannot understand an autistic person or see life from his/her point of view; therefore, anything the parent says is inauthentic.
  • If I wrote a blog about what it feels like to be autistic, that would certainly be inauthentic.  I can form an educated guess, having talked to autistic adults, but I’ve not experienced and cannot experience it first-hand.  But, I don’t write a blog about what it’s like to be autistic.  I write a blog about being the parent of an autistic.  More to the point, I write a blog that’s sometimes about being Helene’s mom.  And, you know what?  No one can tell me I’m wrong about that, because I am the only person in the world who is Helene’s mom. That’s a biological fact, Jack.

• A neurotypical parent who “complains” about raising an autistic person does not love that person and is actually “abusing” him or her.
  • Do parent bloggers “complain” about raising kids?  That’s probably a fair perception of some blog posts, perhaps even some of my own posts.  It’s hard to be excited and upbeat about negotiating a child’s public meltdowns, attending IEP meetings that are a constant battle of resources and personalities, staying on top of therapy providers who don’t return phone calls or show up on time, losing or purposefully jettisoning “friends” who just do not get it, feeling like you never know enough or do enough, and balancing a job that earns you enough money to afford insurance coverage and therapy co-pays while still maintaining some degree of presence at home for your kids – autistic or otherwise.  So, if I occasionally write a blog post that portrays my life as a mom as less than sunshine and roses, that’s a comment on my life.  It is not a statement about my feelings for my children.  I mean – for the love of Target gift cards and baby wipes – who would volunteer to become a parent (special needs flavored or otherwise) if there wasn’t a huge reward for your effort?  Scraping poop out from underneath my daughter’s fingernails is a very small price to pay for the sound of her voice saying, “I love you,” or the feel of her hand holding mine of her own volition.

So, here it is.  I am an unapologetic neurotypical mom of two great kids, one of whom happens to be autistic.  I write about my experiences as their mom in the various contexts of my life.  If what I write offers you some advice you can use, some insight you value, a laugh you need, or a shoulder to cry upon - great.  If you have constructive words of wisdom to share about your own experiences — as a mom, as an autistic person, as someone who just wants to help, I want to hear from you.  In case I wasn’t clear:  I WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU!  

If you cannot relate to my experience or have nothing helpful to say because you aren’t neurotypical, or you’re not a mom, or you’re not a woman, or you’re not a wife, or you’re not a lawyer, or you’re not one-quarter Greek and a potpourri of fractions of something else, or you have bad grammar, or you don’t like coffee, or you can’t stand people who actually value reason and common sense, or you think it’s okay to tell someone how she should feel, please go read a different blog.  That choice will be better for us both in the long run.  Why?  Because no matter who you are or what group you identify with, you and I have something very important in common:  a need for respect.  I respect the authenticity of the voices that speak from experience without dictating to others what his or her experience ought to be.  In turn, I speak from my experience, which is equally deserving of respect.  If we cannot find common ground there, I wish you well on your journeys elsewhere.

 

One Truth About Autism and the Sandy Hook Elementary Tragedy

My daughter is five years old.  She is in kindergarten.  She likes to wear a hat everywhere she goes.  As she falls asleep, she gently rubs her blanket with the tips of her fingers.  She is afraid of the vacuum.  She loves bacon and stealing sips of my coffee.  When she’s hurt, she’ll ask me to kiss her “boo-boo-owie.”  She’s watched “A Bug’s Life” so many times, she has the dialogue memorized.  When she’s tired, she’ll sometimes crawl into my lap and fall asleep curled up next to me.  She’s mostly left-handed, but sometimes she’ll decide to write with her right hand … because she can.  She gets into trouble and sits on time-out, which she does not like – not one little bit.  When she says, “I’m sorry” or “I love you,” she means it.

When I heard the news yesterday about the horrible tragedy that happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, my very first thought was, That could’ve been my daughter.  Why?  Not because we are in Connecticut; 3,000 miles separate us from the epicenter of yesterday’s heartbreak.  But that geographic buffer didn’t prevent yesterday’s events from hitting close to home.  My little girl has so very much in common with the 20 young lives cut short by a senseless act of violence.  Like those children, she goes to school everyday with no expectation other than the routine she knows — circle time, math, reading, art, recess, lunch, spelling, Papa waiting to pick her up.  The most violence she encounters in a day is a temper tantrum over unshared toys.  She doesn’t even know what a gun is.

So, when news reporters started speculating on what drove Adam Lanza to shatter the peaceful security of Newtown, Connecticut, I was heartbroken all over again by the implications or even bald assertions that Adam Lanza massacred 27 people because he was somewhere on the autism spectrum.  Why?  Because although my daughter has infinitely more things in common with the Sandy Hook Elementary students, she may share one thing in common with Adam Lanza — she is autistic. (And I say “may” here, because I have YET to see an accurate, authoritative report on ANY medical diagnosis for Adam Lanza.)

I don’t know what motivated Adam Lanza to do what he did.  As I said several times yesterday, we call such acts “senseless,” because they literally defy logic, reason or explanation.  What I do know is that Adam Lanza did not kill 27 people and himself because he was autistic.  Autism is a neurologic disorder; it is not a mental illness.  Even if autism were a mental illness, that does not mean that its diagnostic criteria include propensity for violence.  Compare the DSM-IV criteria for a diagnosis of autism with those for a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder.  Lacking an ability to express or engage social or emotional reciprocity is NOT the same as callous indifference to others’ feelings, a low threshold for discharge of aggression or the incapacity to experience guilt.  I don’t know how any reasonably trained psychologist or psychiatrist could look at the diagnostic criteria for autism and even speculate that it caused or contributed to a violent outburst of truly epic proportions.  Yet, we don’t hear the talking-head doctors speculating that Adam Lanza suffered from antisocial personality disorder.  Why?  Because that doesn’t have the same political sound-bite quality as “autism.”

I would like to say that I am shocked, but really I am just saddened and frustrated by the reports – many of which are now endorsed by prominent public figures proclaiming expertise in psychology or psychiatry – that attempt to establish a link between autism and yesterday’s horrific events.  I understand the need to search for some reason or explanation for why.  Having someone or something to blame gives a grieving person somewhere to direct anger, sadness, confusion.

But I am furiously angry at the “professionals” who get on television – with all they know about grieving, post-traumatic stress, and the dangers of making a diagnosis without all the facts — and perpetuate falsehoods, myths, and misunderstandings about a community of people already struggling to achieve the recognition and acceptance from society so richly deserved.  I am furiously angry, because what I hear these “experts” saying over and over again is that my daughter – my beautiful, sweet, loving, funny little girl – has more in common with a cold-hearted killer than the 20 beautiful souls who perished and the hundreds more he scarred.

Please – I truly beg you – do not fall for the sensationalistic, irresponsible speculation about autism simply because the idiot who utters it has the letters  ”Dr” in front of his or her name.  Instead, go look at the picture above.  Tell me you don’t see a million other innocent five-year-old faces in her face.  Tell me you don’t see a world of possibility twinkling in those five-year-old eyes.  Tell me that you can look at the picture, knowing now that she is autistic, and see her gunning down her classmates in cold blood.  Because that’s what the media hype would have you believe about her.

This is just me, writing as a mom with a heavy heart.  Admittedly, I feel defensive. But, my voice is not the only one having this conversation.  Mom blogger and biologist Emily Willingham wrote here.  Disability rights activist Paula C. Durbin (who is herself autistic) wrote here.   Michael John Carley of GRASP (and father of two school-age boys) wrote here.  The Autistic Self-Advocacy Network released this statement.  Read these blogs and statements.  Share them.  Amplify the voices that tell the true story about living, loving and learning on the autism spectrum.

My heart, my wishes, my hopes and my sympathy go out to the entire Newtown, Connecticut community.  Like Paula Durbin, I just want to grieve for you without having to worry about another community.

My thanks go out to Liz Ditz (@lizditz) for leading me to the great sources linked above.

My love and empathy go out to all those in the ASD community.  May your voices be heard over the din of those who would perpetuate misinformation.

UPDATE:  Please see Liz Ditz’s blog, I Speak of Dreams, for an outstanding collection of commentary from the ASD community on the media’s (mis)handling of the Newtown, Connecticut tragedy.

UPDATE (12/18/12):  This story – right here – is one worth remembering.

UPDATE (12/20/12):  And this one.

Dear Santa, All I Want for Christmas Is a User’s Manual for My Kid

Dear Santa:

Yeah, I know. But drawing lessons are WAAAAYYY down the list.

Well, you’re probably surprised, right?  I mean – first off – I’m kinda old for this.  It must be at least, I don’t know, 30 years since my last letter?  And, we both know I’m a notorious procrastinator.  It’s practically breaking a law of nature for me to write you this letter before December 24.  But, I was in the grocery store the other day, staring at row-upon-row of Halloween candy and decorations (even though it was still summer … No, really, still summer), and I thought, I’ve been pretty good this year.  I think I should get something for that.  

Selfishly, I’d like a medal.  A great big, shiny gold medal that says “I’M A SUPER MOM.  SANTA SAID!”

But, selfish doesn’t get you on the “Nice” list.  So, here’s my one and only request:  I want a user’s manual for my kid.  I have a BIG question, and it would be marvelous if there was an actual resource for this one.  I tried asking a group of about 25 spectrum parents, and I got about 25 different answers.

(I’d give you their names so you could give them user’s manuals, too, but I’ve been sworn to secrecy on pain of never being allowed to eat bacon again.  Ever.  Seriously.  I know.  You can’t even wrap your mind around that, right?  It’s a tough crowd.)

You see, Santa, here’s my dilemma.  My daughter, Helene, is autistic.  She knows who you are — sort of.  You’ve appeared in quite a few animated videos, so she believes you are a cartoon character in some of her favorite shows, singing some of her favorite songs.  (Come to think of it, I’ve been better than “pretty good” this year.  Do you know how much patience it takes to sing Christmas carols in the middle of July when it’s 100° F and you’re sitting in traffic? GOLD. MEDAL. PATIENCE.)

… had a very SHINY NOSE!!!

But, Helene does not know everything about what you do.  She has no idea that you fly around the world in your sleigh to deliver presents anywhere outside of YouTube – particularly our living room.

I am torn.  Do I let her go on believing you are nothing but a cartoon character?  Or, do I encourage her to behave her best and send a hopeful letter to the North Pole, wishing for a magical delivery?  Because, Santa, my daughter (like many other children on the autism spectrum) has a very small circle of trust, and I am lucky enough to be in the circle.  Helene believes me when I tell her that her shoes are pink, that it’s warm outside, that I will pick her up after school, that I love her. Also, Helene’s mind is very literal – I have to be careful when I say things like “just a minute,” “hold your horses” or “keep an eye on it,” or I end up with a child who will wait only 60 seconds, ask “What horse?” or press her eye against whatever “it” might be.

Need an example?  I can do that.  One time, Helene was trying to walk around the left side of the dining room table to get something from me.  But, a chair blocked her way.  I said, “Helene, go the other way,” meaning walk around the right side of the table.  Instead, she turned around and tried to walk backward toward me.  Yep.  That was the other way.

Listen, one my life’s missions is never to break Helene’s trust, which is especially challenging when communicating with someone who doesn’t deal in shades of grey.  (No, not THAT grey, and I’ll have you know I doubly deserve a GOLD MEDAL for not reading that crap …)

At the same time, I have to balance Helene’s need for literal clarity against my responsibility to give her as authentic a childhood as possible by not depriving her of experiences because of my own fears about what she can or can’t handle.

It is fear from which my need for advice springs, Santa.  What happens if I convince Helene to believe in you — the realness of you — and someday, she doesn’t anymore?  Will she think I lied to her?  Will the circle of trust be broken?  Or, will she simply take it in stride because she’s outgrown you?  Will she be able to look back at memories of you and recall the joyful anticipation of Christmas morning, the comfort of falling asleep enveloped in the sweet, warm scent of fresh-baked chocolate chip and sugar cookies, and the thrill of finding an overstuffed, red-velvet-and-white-fuzz-trimmed stocking full of goodies and toys next to her bed on Christmas morning?  Or will she feel only as if I played an elaborate trick on her and start doubting everything I say?

I truly don’t know what to do here.  On the one hand, I could tell her that you’re not real; that you’re just a cartoon character like the Wonder Pets or Mike the Knight.  But, she will inevitably hear about you from kids at school or family members, each of whom will try mightily to convince her of the magic that happens each year in the North Pole.  Or, Helene could end up breaking the heart of one of her friends or family members by staunchly insisting that you are not real, because her Mama said you aren’t real and Mama always tells the truth.

WHAT DO I DO?!?

So, Santa, if you could please send me a user’s manual for my beautiful, sweet, complex, enigmatic daughter, I’d take that over pretty much anything else I could wish for this year.  The gold medal can wait.

Why I Wish There Were 500 Days of Summer

I’d like to say that I have no idea why I’m awake this early, because it is not a humane hour at which to be awake when one doesn’t go to sleep until 2:45 a.m.  But, I know exactly why.  And, it’s only going to get worse.

Summer vacation is about to be over.  I am trying my damnedest not to freak the hell out, but I can feel it bubbling right there under the surface of my very thin veneer of calm.

In rereading my posts of late, I realized that few of them are really about Helene or autism.  Why?  Because, we’ve been on summer vacation.  Because, despite all the articles and evidence and research and results that say that a child on the spectrum thrives in a predictable, structured environment, my little half-pint loves lazy, free-form days.  She gleefully moves about the house on zero schedule, randomly flitting from a television show to the trampoline to the sandbox to singing to playing with her new doll house.  She tells me when she’s hungry, and I feed her.  Sometimes lunch is at 11:30 a.m. and sometimes at 2:30 p.m.  The only time she gets grumpy or pissy is when I’m not paying enough attention to her (with “enough” being decided purely by her mood and whims), or when I announce we’re leaving the house (more on that part in a minute).  Yesterday, without a word, she went into the bathroom and used the potty.  ON. HER. OWN.  She even wiped (with about half a roll of toilet paper) and flushed.

Sure, the beginnings and endings of our days have routine.  We do the same things every morning:  use the potty, brush teeth, have breakfast.  We were pretty good about getting dressed, too, but I admit that we spend a lot of days in our pajamas.  Both of us.  This should be one of the benefits of working at home and it being summer, right?  (Right.  It’s a rhetorical question with only one correct answer.)  And, every night, we start getting ready for bed at 8:45 p.m. with the same flow of events.  But, between waking and bedtime, it’s a free-for-all, and Helene is totally down with that – as am I.

Admittedly, Helene’s willingness to be schedule-free at home has not translated into a willingness to venture outside the house.  Many times, getting Helene out of the house is a project, because she is convinced that we are taking her to school no matter where we say we’re going.  There are certain places we offer that we know she won’t fight – her aunt’s house, her grandparents’ house, Target (??!), the magical place that has frenchfrieschickensapplesmilk.  Other times, though, getting her out of the house requires some serious physical and emotional strength.

Sigh.

In a few short weeks, school starts again, and with that comes the end of the break in Helene’s anxiety and mine.  School ended on July 20.  Every morning since, Helene starts her day by shuffling blurry-eyed to the bathroom, telling me, “Mama, no school, no friend.”  If I don’t assure her right away that – no – we aren’t going to school to see “friends,” she will launch into a meltdown of gargantuan proportions.

I cannot begin to explain how much I dread this.  And, I hoped with all my heart that Helene would be through the Regional Center process and have seen the developmental pediatrician BEFORE school started, but it hasn’t worked out that way.  Her development-pedi appointment isn’t until the end of September, and we just learned that Regional Center accepted Helene and assigned her a case manager.  So, the morning is coming where I have to answer the “no-school-no-friend” statement with an artificially positive, upbeat and comical, “Yes! School and friends! How fun!” while bracing myself for the anxiety that will overtake her (and then me).  I have no better approach to this than I did the day school ended.

My anxiety about this is hard to control, because I am conflicted.  On the one hand, I do believe that Helene benefits from school.  Part of her resistance to school and schedule is because she’s a bossy five-year-old who likes to do things her way, and life just isn’t going to work like that forever.  I know she needs to learn about expectations and limits, and in the moments I allow myself to be objective and honest, I can admit that I am not the best person to teach her those skills.  I cave to her too easily because I don’t have the mental or physical fortitude to resist her for more than an hour or two at a time.  (Of course, I also don’t have four aides here with me at home … just sayin’.)  I also know she’s learning essential skills through OT, PT and socialization with peers.  I love Helene’s occupational and physical therapists — they are really bright, engaged young women, and their attitudes about and approaches to Helene make clear that they have a genuine desire to see her succeed.  And, although Helene’s teacher and I butt heads from time to time, she is very well-qualified for her job and has the absolute best of intentions.  So, there is nothing about the school environment I can point to as harming Helene outside of her clear anxiety about it.

On the other hand, Helene clearly HATES school.  What we discovered over the summer – quite by accident — is that what she may dislike most about school is the other kids, because it wasn’t until this summer that Helene added the “no friend” to her “no school” statement.  I arranged a play-date for Helene with a girlfriend from high school who also has a special needs child a little older than Helene.  When I was getting Helene ready to go, she kept at me with the “no school! no school” chant, and I said, “No.  No school.  We are going to the park to meet a friend.”  You would’ve thought I whipped her with a switch but for the scream that she unleashed from her toes.  ”NO FRIEND!  NO FRIEND!”  I had some kind of out-of-body experience that let me get Helene out of the house, into the car and to the park.  She ended up having a great time as soon as she was visibly convinced that we were NOT going to school.  In the process, I discovered that Helene is less than thrilled by her classmates (a/k/a “friends”). What to do about that?  I cannot control who is in Helene’s classroom.  Helene also needs to develop social skills with peers (although she does pretty well with most people who are at least a few years older than she).

Also, Helene’s verbal skills seem to have exploded this summer.  We get “yes” and “okay” now in response to questions, instead of just “no” or “nope.”  She rarely pulls me to what she wants anymore; instead, she tells me or uses a combination of words and gestures.  She is frequently using verbs now.  She’s starting to get a handle on pronouns.  She’s even started putting (appropriate) words to some of her feelings, especially mad and sad.  A couple of days ago, she had a four or five-sentence conversation with the Hubs.  It was astounding.

So, here I am at this crossroads again, the person charged with making decisions about what is in my child’s best interests.  And, yet again, I feel completely ill-equipped for the task.  I don’t know.  I know what’s easier.  I know what’s less stressful.  But, I know that sometimes what’s best for you is what is hardest to do.

Where an I going with this?  Maybe I want advice.  Maybe I just need to write this down and get it out of my system.  Maybe I just want someone sending positive thoughts and energy for me and for Helene out into the Universe.  And, at least there’s this: my anxiety about Helene going back to school allows me not to think too much about the fact that Nate starts high school on Wednesday.  Yep.  One in kindergarten and one in high school.  Because that’s the way I roll.

Spectrum Parenting Pitfalls: Wishing for “Normal”

Today, my friend @jillsmo of Yeah. Good Times. wrote a brave and thoughtful blog post that resonated with me.  I started to leave a comment on it, but my comment got too long.  (I know, right?)  So, I left her a quick note and came over here to say the rest.

*DEEP BREATH*

I sometimes wish Helene were “normal.”

*EXHALE*

When I wish for “normal,” what I mean is that I wish Helene could have the same sense of humor, the same loving disposition, the same sweet smile, the same strong will that she now has right now — without speech delays, motor skills deficits, sensitivity to noise and stimuli, obliviousness to or irritation by her peers, tremendous anxiety attacks that consume her,  a paradoxical need to hurt herself again (and again) after she feels pain, or the rollercoaster sleep schedule.

When I wish for “normal,” it is a short-hand way of saying I would gladly trade Helene’s doctor’s appointments, therapies, “social skills” classes, IEP teams, agency services, and rigid daily life for soccer games, dance classes, music lessons, the ability to travel and the freedom not only to have, but to enjoy, spontaneity and flexibility.

And, yes, I want these things as much for me and for our family as I do for Helene.  Why wouldn’t or – more to the point - shouldn’t I?

But, wishing for “normal” does not mean I wish Helene wasn’t autistic.  If someone handed me a pill tomorrow that would “cure” Helene’s autism, I would be simultaneously terrified to give it to her and to not.  How do I not magically remove her challenges if it is within my power to do so?  But, what if – what if – giving her fluent speech, gracious movement, regular sleep, a neurotypical response to pain, peer-aged social engagement or emotional stability, I simultaneously removed everything about Helene that makes up her personality – the very essence of what I love so much about her it hurts?

Why don’t I utter a desire for “normal” aloud?  Why do I get upset when other people say to me, “Don’t you wish your daughter was ‘normal’?”

When I don’t say it, it’s out of fear and guilt.

I have two fears.  First, I am afraid for myself.  Second, I am afraid for the parents and children whose lives are touched by ASD.  I am afraid that if I express this thought out loud, people in the ASD community, who have very strong opinions about what is “right” or “wrong” when living as or with a person on the spectrum, will attack me.  I already feel so excluded and marginalized – on my own behalf and on my daughter’s – I don’t think I can take being rejected by the only community in which my daughter and I belong – objectively speaking, anyway.  Second, I am afraid that if I express this thought out loud, I inadvertently send the wrong message to parents and children touched by ASD.  My wish for “normal” is not a permanent state of mind for me.  It’s not what I desire when I throw a penny in a fountain or blow out birthday candles or even when I read articles on developments in treatment of ASD.  It is a recurring but fleeting thought that crosses my mind particularly when Helene is frustrated or hurt (physically or emotionally) by the challenges that life brings her.  It is the manifestation of desire that I think most parents have in response to the difficulties confronting their children – I want to make it better / easier / safer.

Now, the guilt.  My introduction to the autism spectrum community came with a barrage of messages about acceptance and advocacy:  accept your child for who she is, and never stop pushing for her acceptance in and by broader society.  These are good, important messages, because much of what I want for Helene will come from others understanding, accepting and integrating Helene into all aspects of society.  I believe that these are my responsibilities as part of parenting a child on the spectrum.  But, what I didn’t hear (or hear enough) about was how to address my own feelings about being a parent under these circumstances.  Intuitively, I know that I am entitled to have feelings about this – both positive and negative.  Being a parent is not a walk in the park under even the most idyllic of circumstances, because it inevitably involves the desire – or even the need – to control another human being.  Still, the message I heard more often than not was that anything other than total and complete acceptance of my role and my child was failure – as a mom, as an advocate, as a human.  So, when I find my mind wandering toward the forbidden wish that my daughter not face so many challenges and obstacles, I immediately feel shame.  I feel as though I’ve betrayed her.  And, I feel as though I betray the broader ASD community.

But, fear and guilt are not positive, healthy emotions.  Walking around with that darkness does not make me a better parent for Helene – or Nate.  It doesn’t make me a better member of this family.  Quite the opposite, it makes me less effective, less convincing, and less able, because fear and guilt diminish the psychic energy necessary to be the advocate I do need to be; those feelings undermine my ability to create a positive space for Helene both within and outside the ASD community.

In fact, when I read Jill’s blog post, I burst into tears, because I felt relieved.  I felt redeemed.  I felt successful.

Yessssssss.

Why?  Because, I happen to think Jill is a wonderful mother.  I think she is an outstanding advocate not only people on the spectrum but for their parents and caregivers.  And, because I respect her, hearing her say that she sometimes harbors the same feelings made the weight of all my bottled-up guilt and fear so much lighter.  It made me believe that I am not alone.  It made me believe that I’m not a bad parent.  Do you know how empowering that is?  Just think about that for a minute.  Whether you are NT or on the spectrum, what motivates you more toward success:  fear or positive reinforcement?  If you are on the spectrum, did you find your relationship with your parent(s) more productive when they were anxious and filled with fear and worry or when they were able to just be with you?

So, what’s with my double standard?  Why do I get upset when people ask me whether I wish Helene were ‘normal’?  The most basic explanation is that I know what I mean by ‘normal’; I don’t know what you mean.  That question is so very loaded by the vagueness of “normal” that I cannot possibly answer with a simple “yes” or “no.”

That makes me defensive, especially when talking to someone I don’t know.  I feel like I have to explain and justify my daughter’s existence and my part in it.  If you ask me this over a cup of coffee, when I’ve invited you to talk to me about raising children, I will feel comfortable enough to tell you the answer is “yes” (if you mean to ask me whether I wish life brought Helene more rewards than challenges); the answer is “no” if you mean to ask whether I wish Helene was not autistic or whether I am ashamed of, embarrassed by or angry at my daughter for being anything that she is.  If you ask me this while she’s in the middle of a meltdown caused by too much sensory input or on her 55^th rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to stave off the anxiety, I’m not going to take the time to make sense of ambiguities, I’m going immediately on the defensive, I will assume you mean “don’t you wish your life didn’t suck so bad,” and I will unleash my inner advocacy-mom-ninja. No, my life doesn’t suck, and neither does Helene’s, just because sometimes our lives are more frustrating than others’.

Remember me?  Yeah.

Which brings me back around to fear and guilt.  Do you know when people ask me the “normal” question the most often?  It’s not over coffee.  It’s not a question asked out of sympathy, empathy or even good will.  It’s asked more like an accusation, making me simultaneously wish that you perceived my daughter as “normal” and feel shame that I have, in fact, wished for “normal.”  It’s a horrible, confusing, depressing feeling, and instead of being able to reflect and answer that question in a way that would really advocate for Helene, I just lash out at the inquirer, which kind of proves his/her intended point.

So, I don’t say it.  You don’t say it.  It doesn’t get discussed.  Until people like Jill are brave enough to put it out there — to risk the disappointment and anger of vocal members of the community, to risk being misunderstood – for the sake of reaching the parents out there who need to talk about it so that we do a better job of taking care of ourselves and parenting our beautiful kids.

Thank you, Jill, for making me brave enough to post this.  Thank you to everyone brave enough to share in response.

The Nail Hole and the Accidental Fourth of July

There is a LOT of routine in parenting an autistic child.  But, don’t let that fool you.  Routine ≠ predictability.

Image Credit: Bill Watterson

Take today, for example.  (Please.)  There is a nail hole in the wall above my bed.  It’s been there since the day we moved into this house, which was years before Helene was even born.  (Look, this isn’t about my to-do list, okay?  Quit judging.)

It’s not particularly big or all that noticeable.  But, ever since Helene was able to stand on our bed (which has been for several years), she would get on her tip toes and stare at that nail hole in complete (but silent) fascination.

Until today.

This afternoon, I sat here at the computer, enjoying the fact that I had absolutely nothing I had to do today.  (Never mind that I have seven unfinished blog posts pending.  Never mind the three piles of laundry on the floor or the baskets of clean clothes yet to be put away.  Never mind the mess upstairs in Nate’s room despite (or perhaps because of) his absence.  You smell what I’m saying.)

Anyway.

Helene is upstairs playing, and I’m putting a decent dent in my Safari Reading List.  Suddenly, I hear the most painful cry with the words, “OH NO!  IT’S BROKEN!”  I shot out of my chair and up the stairs so fast, I think I left one of those colorful but blurry trails in my wake.  When I got upstairs, I fully expected to find Helene’s leg all Joe Theismann-style or some other such calamity.

Did you really expect me to put a picture of Joe Theismann’s broken leg here? Ewww.

I thoroughly examine Helene as she tearfully shouts “FIX IT!” and “IT’S BROKEN!”  I find no bumps, no (new) bruises, no bleeding, nothing broken.

“What’s broken?” I ask, scanning the room for some obvious sign of damage.  She’s in full melt down, so she can only repeat my question now; she can’t answer it.  Nothing is jumping out at me as “broken,” so I say.  ”Show me.”  I’m hoping she will – literally – point me in the right direction.  She does, accusatorially thrusting her extended index finger toward the nail hole.  ”FIX!  IT!  FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIX IT!!!!!”

I would like to say that I did not laugh at her.  I really would.  I would feel so much better were that true.  She was obviously in very, very real distress, and I would never, ever mock my daughter.  But, my relief that the nail hole was the cause of her crisis — as opposed to the ER visit I girded myself for before my foot even hit the bottom stair of the staircase  – wouldn’t let me stifle my chuckle.  The look on Helene’s face confirmed that this particular one of my reflex responses does not endear me to her.  Not one little bit.

I straightened my face into sincere concern.  ”Oh, honey,” I said, “the wall is not broken.  The hole has been there a long time.  It’s always been there.  It’s fine.”

“FIX!  IT!  MAMA!”  I may be imagining this, but I’m pretty sure she also said, “OR ELSE.”  I’ve seen “or else.”  I do not like it.

Image credit: Bill Watterson

I lumbered down the stairs and into the garage, hoping and wishing with all my being that there was somewhere out there a container of spackle that wasn’t completely dried out and that I could find the right tool so that I wouldn’t be spackling with a cooking spatula.  Miraculously, I located both. However, it took me about 10 minutes to locate these items in the garage.  By the time I came back into the house, Helene was downstairs on the couch, eating the pizza I made for her.  No mention of the nail hole.  Just, “Mama, Goofy’s Petting Zoo, please?”

I snatched the remote control of the couch, and put on her show.  Exasperated, I trudged back upstairs and spackled the nail hole.  At least it’s off my to-do list.

I tell you this story to give you context for our Fourth of July.

First, Fourth of July is the Hubs’s favorite holiday – not because he’s particularly patriotic, he just really loves the fireworks.  The bigger, brighter and louder the better.  If you want to see what someone’s face looks like after you kick his puppy (without actually having to kick a real puppy), take him out on a boat in the San Francisco Bay to watch fireworks, and let the thickest fog EVER roll in about 5 minutes before the fireworks start.  (I know, I didn’t see that coming a mile away, either, right?!)  That look you see on his face, as he’s standing there staring at fog changing color like some vague memory of discotheque lights dancing in his retinas, is the puppy-kicking look.

Fireworks and fog do not mix. Just say no, kids.  Just, no.

Anyway …

When Helene was two months old, we took her to Disneyland with Nate, my best girlfriend, my two god-daughters (her daughters), my mom and my girlfriend’s mom (my “other” mother).  I mean, doesn’t EVERYBODY go to Disneyland two months after giving birth, when it happens to be the dead of August and the hottest fucking week in the history of hot?  No?  NO?!  Thanks a lot, Phil Simms.  Bastard.

While we were there, we somehow finagled more or less front-row seats for the fireworks.  Disneyland doesn’t do anything half way, so this was quite a show.  It was also ridiculously loud – almost painfully so.  Helene fell asleep in the middle of it.  I mean sound asleep.  The kind of sleep that made me pinch her so she’d make that constipated face that let’s me know she’s still breathing.  She was so asleep, in fact, that everyone sitting within a five-foot radius of where we were was astounded.  Except the Hubs — he was not impressed.  I think he was actually a little disappointed that Helene’s apple was not gonna be sitting right next to his tree on this one.

For a while, Helene’s reaction to fireworks pretty much remained one of ambivalence.  But, the Fourth of July that followed her third birthday completely undid her.  We were sitting on the lawn of a local park, watching a decent fireworks show in our neighborhood.  When the first few went off, Helene was fine.  They were small, the explosions weren’t all that loud, and she liked the lights.  Then, the first really big boom came.  Helene looked at me with a face I will not forget as long as I live.  Her eyes were as round as they could be and glassed over with the beginning of tears.  Her lips were taut and trembling, but no sound was coming out of her mouth.  The sound was building deep in the well of her soul, until her throat and mouth were so full with it, there’d be nowhere for it to go but out.  And, out it came.

We had walked to the fireworks from my mother’s house, which was about a mile away.  So, my choices were to try to run to my mother’s, carrying a squirming toddler in the middle of a full-blown anxiety attack or to wait it out, knowing the fireworks would last only a short time.  I chose to wait it out and sat helplessly on the lawn, Helene wrapped around me, a blanket wrapped around us, and my hands clamped as tightly over her ears as I could get them.  It felt like the LONGEST seven minutes of my life; I KNOW it was the longest seven minutes of hers.

This year, the Hubs wanted to try again.  He bought Helene a pair of headphones that target shooters wear to muffle the sound of rifle fire.  She willingly put them on, which wasn’t a complete surprise, because she likes to wear headbands and hats, and she will also occasionally wear headphones while watching her iPad.  Once she had them on, we tested them by turning on the hand vacuum.  Not even a FLINCH.  Sweet!  Of course, the hand vacuum doesn’t quite reach the decibel level of an exploding M80, but it seemed at least a positive sign.

As the day progressed, I felt less and less optimistic about this event.  The fireworks wouldn’t start until 9:30 p.m., and we’ve spent the past couple of weeks dedicating ourselves to a 9:00 p.m. bedtime.  (That’s for another post, another day.)  Helene had gone the whole day without a nap, and she’d spent a good portion of the day away from home — very big events for her in the stimulation department.  When we asked her if she wanted to go see fireworks (a concept we think she understood – at least in the abstract), she was a clear, “No.”  So, to the Hubs’s disappointment, we decided to bag it.

We drove home from my sister’s house, where we’d barbecued.  It was about 9:00 p.m. and getting dark enough for fireworks shows to start.  As we crested the hill to turn onto the main road to our house, we saw people parked in the open-space parking lot, which is odd after dark, because the open space is technically “closed.”  (I had to type the sentence very slowly and read it again …)  We realized that people were climbing the ridge to see fireworks.  Clever!  But, the area was already crowded and we were in the wrong lane to head that direction.  Suddenly, Helene piped up from the backseat.  ”Fireworks?” she said.

On a whim fueled by hope, the Hubs turned the car into the parking lot of a university near our house.  It sits on top of a hill – a pretty tall hill.  Sure enough, there were a handful of other people up there with the same idea – Maybe we can see some fireworks from here.

Helene willingly got out of the car.  Thankfully, we had a blanket and a couple of folding chairs in the trunk, in anticipation of going to the “real” fireworks that evening.  We grabbed them and trudged up the hill, through the dried grass and a sea of crickets.  At the crest, it immediately was apparent that we could see fireworks not only coming from our intended show but all around the bay.

We unfolded the chairs, holding onto a slim reed of hope that Helene would enjoy this.  I settled Helene in my lap, and the Hubs wrapped us in the blanket as a chilly wind picked up.  A moment or two later, Helene saw the first of the twinkling lights.  ”Look!  Red!” She pointed out in front of us.  Then, all around us the sky exploded with beautiful lights — some close, some miles away.  But, it happened almost without a sound save the chirping of crickets.  The booms were muffled by distance and the wind seemed to carry them away from us.

Helene sat through the whole thing, cozily snuggled into my body, occasionally calling out the colors of the lights or saying, “Oh, pretty!”  And, much to our delight, she stayed awake through the whole thing.  At the end, we asked her whether she had fun.  We got a resounding, “Yes!”  Happy accidental Fourth of July!

Beserker Ninja: An Illustrated Guide to My (Lack of) Autism Parenting Skills

Crap.

I’ve been in a mood since last Wednesday after I left my therapist’s office. It looks like this:

Why do I never have a fucking umbrella when I need one. Rhhhhhhiiiiaaaannnaaaa!!!

I’ve started – I don’t know – three different blog posts? But, I haven’t been able to finish any of them, because while the posts are about topics that matter to me, they aren’t really what’s been on my mind. I showed at least enough restraint not to delete them, because they’re probably worth finishing when I’m not such a Crabby Crabberson.

Little Black Cloud Syndrome happens to me in cycles. I hit what seems a sudden and unpredictable week that feels wholly unbearable. My bed feels too comfortable to exit, but not comfortable enough in which to sleep. My clothes feel like a straitjacket. Everyone’s voice is too loud, and people are annoying because – I don’t know – they breathe. The sun feels like someone is stabbing my retinas with a thousand needles. I’m starving, but nothing seems appetizing or tastes good. I’m tired but my body will not hold still. Concentrating on anything other than menial, repetitive tasks is OUT of the question. I just want to hide in my room with my laptop and a book. If Helene will “hide” with me – and she often will – all the better. (Except for the iPad volume control issue. Apple, if you’re listening, could we get on that please? Some kind of parental lock for the volume would be bananas amazing. Thanks.)

The last time Little Black Cloud Syndrome hit me, I knew for sure this wasn’t a PMS-y, hormonal thing. It was serious, and I needed to call my doctor.

(Aside: I have one of those doctors who thinks everything that’s wrong with me is stress or hormone related. For example,

Doctor: Well, yes, I see that you’ve been bitten by a rattlesnake. It probably sensed your stress. Let me refer you to Mental Health.

Me: Uh, I’m no doctor, but I think I actually need like an injection or something that’s the opposite of deadly poisonous venom?

Doctor: You’re right. You’re not a doctor. Here’s the number for Mental Health.

Or,

Doctor: This x-ray shows you’ve broken your hand. I’ll send you over to casting, but then you should probably have your thyroid tested.

Me: I broke my hand in a car accident, Dr. O. The other driver hit me. I was stopped.

Doctor: Well, you were probably gripping the steering wheel too tightly due to stress caused by hormonal imbalance.

Me: Yeah, there was “stress!” It was the stress of seeing the other guy coming at me in the rearview mirror at 50 miles per hour and having nowhere to go. I mean, call my ‘crazy,’ but I think that’s a pretty normal non-thyroid-y reaction to the circumstances.

Doctor: Mental illness is not a joking matter. Please take this order to the lab, Ms. A.

Me: That’s Professor A to you, Doctor O. Or, if you prefer, Counselor as in legal counselor. Not the touchy-feely shit you’re sending me down the hall for. FYI.

So, you can imagine the sick, I-told-you-so satisfaction he got out of me finally letting him refer me to Mental Health. He pointed at me with a big-ass grin on his face, dancing around the room, going “Uh-huh! That’s right! I’m the doctor! I’m the doctor! I’m the doctor!,” spiked his stethoscope and did a Tiger Woods-esque arm pump. Or maybe just the corner of his mouth curled up in the slightest of smug and self-satisfied smirks. Whatevs.

The day was moving along. I was properly caffeinated. I’d been adequately fed. As I exited the parking lot of a shopping center, however, my mood ring went from blue to black in less than the lifespan of an ice cube on hot asphalt in Georgia in the middle of July.

I know it is difficult to imagine, but my description of the relative locations of the parties involved would actually be worse than my drawing of a diagram. So, I’m going to draw a diagram. Now is not the time for complaining. First, you haven’t even seen it yet. Second, do you really want a beserker-ninja beat down?

Yeah. I thought not.

Cool. So, here’s the diagram:

Okay. I’m driving along main artery of the parking lot. (Orangish-square with the “1″ in it, above.) Bad Driver Lady (Orangish-yellow square clearly about to t-bone my car) runs her stop sign but manages to hit the brakes before she hits me. It’s cool. I’m not perfect behind the wheel by any means. (It’s true. This one time (not at band camp), a parking column actually jumped right into my car. It was some crazy shit, man. Did like $5,000 in damage. (And to this day, I wish I had an audio recording of my conversation with the GEICO adjuster.)) Any-who, I was just gonna let her roll on.

But.

BUT!

Bad Driver Lady flips me her middle finger.

OH. NO. YOU. DIDN’T.

(For my readers from another land, this is the Charades equivalent of “Go Fuck Yourself.” It is sometimes called “Flipping the bird,” which has nothing to do with flipping or birds, so I cannot even begin to explain how that little colloquialism was born. Apparently, someone else figured it out, though, so here you go. I don’t know. Something to do with bows and arrows. It sounds a little too Monty Python-ish to me. Not necessarily a bad thing, mind you. But…

Like this, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t winking – twitching maybe – but not winking.

Worse, I could also see her mouth moving around some words that probably everyone is better off for me not having actually heard. The expression on her mean-mug face said all I really needed to know.

Then, I heard something snap. It maybe was the tendons in my ankle ripping under the force I used to hit the brakes on my car? But the likelier culprit is my mind.

I threw the car in park, flung off my seat belt, and before I really knew what I was doing, no plan whatsoever, I was outside my car about four feet from Bad Driver Lady’s ridiculous SUV. (This surprises you?)

Me: Hey! Let me ask you something. Are you illiterate or just a really bad fucking driver? (Gesturing to the large white letters painted on the ground. See the spectacular diagram above.) S. T. O. P. For Christ’s sake, even my four-year old can read that!

Bad Driver Lady: (With a lingering Valley Girl accent, which means she’s likely from Southern California, where driving is a whole other level of Atari.) Whatever. You totally saw me coming and sped up. You know you did. And you don’t have to get out of your car, ’cause I can get out of my car, too.

Me: Sure, get out of your car. Spare the rest of us your shitty driving. Maybe we can stand here and chat about how stop signs work and why you probably shouldn’t wave at people with your middle finger.

Bad Driver Lady: I can totally get out of my car, too. I can!

At this point, some semblance of sanity returned to replace the adrenaline rushing through my body. I think the flow of adrenaline was stemmed by the satisfaction of calling Bad Driver Lady “illiterate” despite quickly realizing Bad Driver Lady had no fucking idea what “illiterate” meant. The recaptured sanity also made my brain finally register the presence of a large German Shepard in the backseat of Bad Driver Lady’s car, which my eyes had seen but my mind had not really considered as a variable in any of the possible outcomes of this little tete-a-tete. Plus, she was really leaving me no place to go other than: “Get out here so I can kick your ass,” or “I know you are but what am I?” I believe this is what’s known as an “impasse.”

So, I got back in my car and drove away. In the direction opposite my house, of course, because things are now starting to occur to me that were nowhere to be found a mere 60 seconds prior. What if this was the mother of one of the kids’ friends? What if I end up in line behind her at the coffee place. Holy Angels and Target Gift Cards, what if she works for the district and is at my kid’s next IEP meeting!?!? This is not a big town.

Moments later I pulled over — in all places, the parking lot of my high school — and broke down in tears.

Because – yes, right now it’s a funny story – but it might not have been. What the holy hell was I thinking? Stupid question. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking. And THAT is the problem. Every now and then I feel like I am losing control of my brain, which freaks me the hell out, because besides some pretty nice feet, my brain is my BEST asset. (I do have really nice feet, though. Organ pipe toes and everything. Eddie Murphy would approve.)

Look. I want to make something very clear before anyone gets an itchy 911 finger. I had NO — I repeat NO — intention of actually starting some kind of physical confrontation with Bad Driver Lady. I’m pretty sure the only human being I’ve ever hit in anger is my sister. (But, she started it.) I confronted Bad Driver Lady because I was so overcome with the urge to defend myself — to prove that it was not I who should get fucked in the scenario.

The rational part of my brain fully comprehends that this is unnecessary and – frankly – impossible. The facts are what they are, and Bad Driver Lady will ignore them the same way she ignored the stop sign. I can neither fix nor be responsible for stupid.

Also, so what? I don’t know her. I don’t want to know her. What the hell does it matter that I’m “right?” Why – despite that I am a grown woman, the mother of two children (who I like to think are better off with me), a wife, a lawyer, a professor – does the rational side of my brain lose control to the emotional side like that?

I would not describe myself as some road-raging lunatic who confronts people in parking lots. When kids at school would all crowd around two people in a fight, I ran away. I couldn’t stand to see real-life violence. Except, there I was, without a moment’s hesitation — without a second of thought about the possible consequences until I was already knee-deep in the proverbial shit — acting like a road-raging lunatic in a parking lot.

What if Bad Driver Lady did get out of the car? What if she hit me? What if she’d had a gun? None of these were wholly unrealistic possibilities. These realizations and my embarrassment at how I behaved are what triggered the tears as I sat in front of the building that was so ridiculously symbolic I kept waiting for Simple Minds to come on the radio and Justin Henry to come around the corner carrying a birthday cake.

Why am I confessing this? Because I know the cause, but not the remedy. Because I need help.

Every day, my morning starts with a beautiful, now-five-year-old face staring into my sleeping, mascara-smeared, slightly wrinkled eyes. After we stumble to the bathroom and use the potty, we get back into bed. I hold my breath, because I know it’s coming.

Mama. No school today.

Except that it’s Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. Or Friday. And there is school.

I don’t answer. I get up, smear a pea-sized amount of toothpaste on a Cinderella toothbrush, and start singing. When we’re done:

Mama? No school today?

I don’t answer and slip down the hall to get a clean outfit. As soon as I reappear in my bedroom, the wild rumpus begins.

No, Mama! No school! No school! I want covers! I want to go to bed! I don’t like school! Please, Mama! No shirt! No pants! I don’t like it! Get off! Get off of me! Please! I want to go to bed! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

It is usually somewhere around 8:15 to 8:30 a.m. when this starts. It continues through getting dressed, trying to get breakfast down, fighting about putting shoes on, kicking and screaming to the car, singing 400 verses of Itsy Bitsy Spider from the driveway at home to the parking lot at school, sitting in the office to wait for a classroom assistant to retrieve Helene, and matching her tearful and fearful goodbye with an artificially cheery, “Have a GREAT day!”. The time is now 10:17 a.m.

All morning, through the crying, begging, pleading, hiding, escape attempts, hitting, kicking, thrashing, screaming, I have to maintain a calm, even voice. (Imagine Dora the Explorer on speed and speaking in a voice about one octave lower than a dog whistle before reading the next quotes.)

Helene is mad. But, it’s time for shoes! Let’s put on our shoes!

Helene doesn’t like school. That’s too bad, but we’re going anyway!

By the time I leave campus to plod back to my car, my nerves are so frayed – my senses are so overloaded – my spirit is so broken, I can barely stand to be around myself let alone anyone else. I have about three hours to collect myself AND get some work done (you know, so that we can do little things – like pay the mortgage) before Helene gets home from school. There will be a short reprieve and some snuggling until 3:00 p.m., which brings the commencement of the witching hour, ripe with meltdowns over food, television shows, iPads, falls from the sofa, snacks — you name it. Each meltdown is met with my same psychotically artificially calm voice the ABA therapists are so convinced will redirect or “extinguish” unwanted behaviors.

I imagine that now you may have an inkling why Bad Driver Lady got a full-frontal of my beserker-ninja personality. If it’s still unclear, drop a roll of Mentos candies into a two-litre bottle of carbonated soda, put the lid back on, and shake vigorously.

That about covers it.

So, my parents of spectrum kids or my adult followers who are on the spectrum: What do you do to check yourself before your wreck yourself? How do you let it out in an appropriate way as opposed to calling people out in the mall parking lot?

My therapist made me go I finally went to the Mental Health department and am now taking anti-anxiety and anti-depressant meds. I started running again. Both of these things are very helpful, but they aren’t enough.

Is it the behavioral and emotional meltdowns that are stressful? I know that’s true for Helene. When she has a really big loss of control, it is usually followed by a good long nap.

Or is the real stress (for me anyway) in suppressing my natural responses to Helene’s behavioral and emotional meltdowns?

Does the answer to that even matter? I’m not being facetious; I truly don’t know, and I would be thrilled to hear any advice you’re willing to share.

Happy Fifth Birthday, Helene! A Love Story.

Tomorrow, Helene turns five years old.  It seems impossible that five years passed in the blink of an eye.  Tomorrow, we will hug and kiss her a ridiculous number of times, let her sing her own birthday song (because THAT’s the way she rolls), help her blow out candles, let her stuff herself with frosting, and try to convince her that she’s now “Helene FIVE Years Old” instead of “Helene FOUR Years Old.”

Today, though, I thought I’d relive those fleeting moments and celebrate publicly the little girl who challenges me, inspires me, moves me, surprises me, humors me, snuggles me and lets me love her like a fool.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, little Leni Lou-Lou:

Happy Birthday.  Mama wrote you a little story.  Pull right up here with your frenchfrieschickensapplesmilk and let’s read it together.

Your Birth Day

Fresh from the oven.

You came screaming in – all 8 pounds and 4 ounces of you.  Your left ear was so smashed against your head, I thought for a moment you had only an ear hole – no lobe.  I find your tiny earlobe tucked under that odd-looking beanie they’d placed on your head and laughed, because the morphine wouldn’t let me cry with relief.  The nurse then whisked you and Papa away.  My body was so numb that – at one point – the doctor held my legs up in the air so that I could see them over the drape blocking the view of my belly.  I thought, That’s odd.  I wonder whose legs those are?

The first year of your life went by in a whirlwind.  You grew like a weed.  We spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to get you to smile, because you did it SO WELL!  But, what you really liked more than smiling was showing off your drool-y little tongue.

Here’s what I think of you and your damn camera in my face all the time

Your First Birthday

You had cake for the first time on your first birthday.  You had no idea what it was, but that did NOT stop you.

Holy crap! What IS this stuff. And WHY have you been holding out on me? WHY!

We had such a good time watching you demolish that cake, we let you do it again the next day.

Ooooohhhhh, so much cake. So good. Wait. Does this mean I have to have a bath? Again? TWO DAYS IN A ROW?!

During your first year, you also discovered the joys of coffee.

This stuff is MARVELOUS. It’s called a “mocha,” you say? NIIIICCCEEE. By the way, I WILL NOT be sleeping tonight, so you people better be ready to PAR-TAY!

Your Second Birthday

By your second birthday, Mama got a little ambitious in the baking department.

No, I don’t know why she’s sprouting balloon candles out the side of her face either, Len. I’m sure your future therapist will explain.

You also got your first set of pigtails.

There’s gonna be cake, right? There’s always cake when we go places with too many people in the room. BRING THE CAKE!

Your love of cake matched only your hatred for the dentist.

You’re not getting in my face with that thing. No way. No how. Nothin’ doin’. Nope. Nada. Nein. Nyet. NEVER.

Your Third Birthday

You celebrated your third birthday with your favorite preschool friends.  This was the year Mommy discovered that it’s not really about the cake for you at all.  It’s about the FROSTING.  Consequently, this is the only picture from that party in which you can actually see your face before it was the exact colors as your dress.

I see those cupcakes. Bring them HERE!

Judging by the Christmas tree in the background, I have no reasonable explanation for why you’re eating a cupcake.  With your nose.

I swear I do feed this child non-cake food items.

Lots of changes happened between three and four.  You got to come to work with me for a while.  But, then Mommy moved her office back home.  You helped.  I did not have to move a box of Wheat Thins.  So nice of you.

Gosh, Mom. Packing your office is EXHAUSTING. I need a snack. Can you carry me to the car, please?

You started really testing Papa’s parenting skills.  Mama went away for a conference, but you were really cooperative for Papa with your bath.  You even helped him do laundry!

Papa, you said, “Let’s take a bath,” so I got in the bath. I’m a good listener.

You developed a magical talent for napping in whatever position you landed.  I also truly envy your ability to wear horizontal stripes.  Not many people can pull that off, Helene.

What? I was tired okay? This is more comfortable than it looks.

Your Fourth Birthday

By your fourth birthday, you were not big on the parties, just frosting.  Still, Mama couldn’t help herself.

Someday, Len, I hope you stop being mad at me that this wasn’t *really* ice cream.

You gave ME a present on your 4th birthday. You actually let me comb and braid your hair for the very first time. You looked like such a big girl.

And, you started developing a style all your own.

You don’t want none of this, yo. My fedora has SUPER powers. Now get a move on with that Jamba Juice, dude. Baby needs her Orange A’Peel!

And now, here you are — less than a day away from five years old.  Another day deeper in my heart.

Happy Birthday, Helene.

Love,

Women: Will Someone PLEASE Start Asking the RIGHT Questions? (HINT: “Are You Mom Enough?” Isn’t One of Them.)

It was not my intention, when I started this blog, to get into political issues. I mean for this blog to be something of a place of respite – to maybe even provide some comedic relief. (Yes, I know that requires being funny, Snarky, I mean for ME, and I think I’m funny, dammit.)

But, sometimes stuff happens about which I just cannot stay quiet. (This probably explains why I have a blog.)

Believe me, I tried. First, the whole Hilary Rosen / Ann Romney thing blew up. As I read or listened to the media coverage, I got more and more angry, because – listen – I’ve been on both sides of that fence. The more it went on, the more I wanted to say something. I was horribly afraid, though, it would come out wrong. Then, the TIME magazine cover happened. (And, I am purposely not linking to it, because I’m mad at TIME, and I feel like being all petty about it. Plus, you know what it is anyway.) But, the icing on the cake was this crap from TODAY about how depressed stay-at-home-moms are compared to other moms.

ENOUGH!

I’ve been a work-out-of-the-home mom, I’ve been a stay-at-home-mom, and I’ve been a work-at-home-mom. What do all these experiences have in common? No matter what, I’m always a mom. Whether I dress up in Armani suits and Manolo Blaniks or yoga pants and a t-shirt decorated with strained peas and ketchup smears, I am a mom. Whether I am in dancing in the kids’ playroom to Laurie Berkner or presenting oral argument to the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit, I am a mom. Whether I carpool to a play date or to the office, I am a mom. Whether I pull an all-nighter nursing a sick child or finishing a client’s project, I am a mom.

Guess what else? Just like I sometimes really do not like my professional gig, sometimes the mom gig is the suck, too. Dropping my kids at daycare was often horribly gut-wrenching but sometimes blissfully freeing. Finger painting, going to the park and whipping up recipes in the kitchen is often maddeningly fun but sometimes … just maddening. Going to the office, pouring a cup of coffee, closing the door and listening to anything not related to Nickelodeon, Disney, Sprout or Cartoon Network was sometimes nothing short of orgasmic. Taking a “mental health” day to drive to the beach with the kids, singing “Found a Peanut” at the top of our lungs is marvelous, but so is sending them to school or day care anyway so that I can read a book, watch an uninterrupted TV show or – Heaven forbid – have marital relations with my husband. (Or, you know, just a hot meal of grown-up food we can eat in relative peace.) Also, can we just be real for minute? Does anyone really like cleaning up poop, cutting gum out of hair, scrubbing crayon off the walls or driving around in a car that smells like a locker room and sour milk?

But, here’s the most important thing I want — no, I NEED — you to know. I absolutely, indisputably, beyond any shadow of doubt and without an iota of reservation LOVE my children. Every second of every minute of every day of every week of every month of every year of every decade of every century and until the end of time. And, you can’t tell me I don’t, whether you are cheering about or horrified by what I just wrote above.

You know what else? I don’t doubt you love your child/ren either. Even if you don’t agree with a word that comes out of my potty mouth.

Because, hell yes I am mom “enough.” And so are YOU. Seriously, what the fuck does “Are you mom enough?” even mean? That’s like asking a woman if she’s a “little bit” pregnant. As a teacher and a parent, I often say there are no stupid questions, but congratulations TIME — you finally found one. Way to dig up that nugget, Woodward and Bernstein. (And, for future reference, NEVER ask a woman if she’s pregnant unless she’s spread eagle on a delivery table screaming for an epidural. You WILL thank me for this someday.)

Listen, this chain of recent “war on women” bullshit events wasn’t an accident. Oh, no. When journalists, politicians, religious leaders and ESPECIALLY other women ask accusatory, I’ll-meet-you-at-the-bike-racks-after-school questions via screaming mass media headline, the asker is purposefully playing on a mother’s most exposed and raw emotion: fear of failure. Every mother is susceptible to this kind of emotional terrorism, because kids don’t come with instructions – no weird IKEA-like drawings, no diagrams, no user’s manuals, no troubleshooting guides. So, we rely on – among other things – advice from people or sources we trust. You know, like political leaders, priests, pastors, rabbis, or – say – reputable (ahem) journalistic publications.

Aaaaaaannnd, there you have it.

Well, chew on these facts for a minute:

• As of 2010, 50.8 percent of the United States’ population is female. Yes, you read that right. Better still, the overwhelming majority of that female population is 18 or older (e.g., eligible to vote).
• The demand for workers with a postsecondary education (and especially high literacy and math proficiency) outpaces the supply of such workers.
• Between 1998 and 2009, women were awarded more post-secondary degrees of EVERY type – from Associate’s degrees to doctoral degrees. And this is true even when looking at the data for different racial/ethnic groups!

Now, think about what this means:

• By sheer power of numbers alone, WOMEN can determine the outcome of almost any election.
• We cannot afford to exclude anyone from the workforce who is educated and willing to work, or the United States will not be a competitive player on the global economic, technological, scientific or medical stage.
• There will be more women than men qualified to enter this future workforce.
• Unless men start lining up to swap their penises for uteruses and vaginas, women are also the most qualified for bearing and birthing babies.

What’s my point? We (as in the greater “we” not just the random few lovely people who read my rants) MUST find a way to make motherhood and professional careers co-exist. AND WE CAN! Fathom the power women could harness in the political and economic arenas if we would stop diluting our own strength. Imagine the force for social, economic, structural and pedagogical change we would be if we stopped the myopic focus on changing each other or placing blame at each other’s feet.

Because, guess what ladies. Your government officials have thought about this (see, e.g., current raging debates above). Your religious leaders have thought about this. (Ahem – Gospel of Mary – Ahem.) And the vision of women as a united force was enough of a nightmare that a solution was quickly devised: provoke gender in-fighting!

Has any group been more susceptible to the cannibalism of its political/social/religious/economic clout than women? I took a semester-long class in college about Black-on-Black racism, and the room was tremendously less hostile than the “Survey of Women’s Issues” class I took, where someone had the “audicity” to speak up in favor of staying at home. And I was in San Francisco, one of the more “liberal” cities you might find.

Mothers are the perfect catalysts for division of our gender because of our peculiar vulnerability to the pressures of our peers. Having a baby? You better not make my job more difficult or cost my business any money! Not having a baby? But, that’s what you’re SUPPOSED to do! Having an abortion? You are going to Hell! Having a baby you can’t afford? Leech! Going back to work after having a baby? How heartless of you to leave your children to be raised by someone else! Staying at home to raise your children? How dare you set back the progress of the “women’s” movement! Breast feeding? Not in my store/restaurant/airport/park you don’t! Not breast feeding? Selfish and ignorant! Vaccinating? You are dooming your baby to a life of disease and defect! Not vaccinating? Irresponsible! Cloth diapers? Bottles? Binkies? Blankets? Toilet training? Co-sleeping? Television? Is there anything we women can’t find to disagree upon – especially when it comes to raising children?

Look, I’m not saying that women should just bounce giddily along, singing Kum-Ba-Ya on the way to the ballot box. (But, hey, I’m in if you don’t mind the fact that I couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle on it.) Beyond our commonality of gender, there is an amazing range of things we don’t have in common, and no one should advocate to change that. Instead, let’s just start talking to one another and supporting one another, or NO ONE is going to advance political, legislative, religious, economic or social change agendas that affect what matters most to us as the MAJORITY of citizens in this country. If we want equal rights, we damn well better start by treating each other as equals.

So, please, no more blowing up Facebook timelines, Twitter feeds, Google circle-thingys, MySpace pages (is that even a thing anymore?), email accounts, newspapers, talk shows, daytime television, political debates, sermons, or What to Expect When You’re Expecting books with stupid questions about whether we’re women enough, professional enough, mom enough, sexual enough, married enough, single enough, liberal enough, conservative enough or any of the other myriad ways we can tear each other down. Instead, let’s just stop taking no for an answer. Let’s stop taking the bait. Let’s find ways to unite around our differences and use them to our advantage instead of letting the minority control what we get paid, whether or when we work, what we do with our bodies, and what we do with our minds. Let’s think about our children — our daughters AND sons — and whether we want to leave them a legacy of anger and “war” or of progress and equality.

Let’s start asking the right questions before someone needs a time out.