Wingless Angels & Human Chains

Loggy Bear, that sweet little cub, standing at the edge of the ocean
(aka Sea World California) patiently waiting for Shamu. August 2004

A few years ago as I was putting Logan to bed he said, “You know, I think our friend Alane just might be an angel, but I don’t think she has the feather kind of wings, because I looked for evidence at her house; you know, a feather trail or a spare harp laying around, but I couldn’t find any and I’m pretty sure her dogs wouldn’t have eaten the feathers…they are the meat eating sort… so I think she must be one of those wingless angles, you know, unknown powers and all that, like X men.  You get what I’m saying, right mom?” I knew exactly what Logan meant. I have been a blessed girl to be surrounded by wingless angels. I have felt the feathery brush of their wispy wings at all hours, their brilliant presence has lit many a dark hour and their comforting frames have helped support the weight of my grief. They have shared both my burdens and my triumphs, stood beside me; a lifeguard.

One of the many versions of Batman (Logan's favorite)
This time; The Dark Night Jackson Hole, Wyoming 2009

Wingless angels Logan explained, are “Ordinary people who use the bathroom, (and it’s not like a golden toilet mom). They lose their cats, like chocolate donuts and want Iphones. They are like a superhero before he changes into his costume. Because remember mom, Clark Kent is still superman even when he’s taking out the garbage. He still wears the S, even if he spills milk on his shoes.” I am a believer in super heroes taking out the trash, engraved letters on chests (this might sting a little) and wings that fold into themselves like the tight petals of a rose, or the accordion pinions of a bat. 



Bat-a-man, is that chocolate on your face? Logan in yet another batman costume 2009

Growing up with four brothers means I never got to watch “My Little Pony” cartoons but rather “He Man” and “Thundercats” and being the mother to three sons means I can quote “The Avengers” verbatim. My boys love superhero movies, so as a rule, we see them all. This summer we watched “Iron Man 3” together (me cowering in my seat during the intense parts). In the movie there is a scene where an airplane is ripped apart and people are falling from the sky, I don’t remember the exact details as the synapses of my brain that are suppose to retain that memory and blip it to my frontal lobe are currently clogged with popcorn butter. Of course Iron Man wants to rescue everyone, but realizes he can’t reach all the passengers by himself, or carry them individually to safety. So what does he do? He accepts he can’t do it alone and grabs the nearest soul telling that person to reach out for another person. She grabs his hand, and together the disjointed flailing bodies connect like paper dolls; two become three, and three four until all the passengers are reached, connected and lowered to the water unharmed...until a piece of the airplane falls on them…or a shark eats them, or they dropped out of swimming lessons when they were six…. or CRAMP! (Can you tell I am the mother to autistic children and have been hit by the twisted steel carnage of a broken airplane as it's fallen out of a seemingly empty sky before?) Simmer down! It's a super hero movie, so all you see is Iron Man rising from the cusp of the waves to go save someone else. And all you feel is emotionally spooned, content to believe airplanes can be ripped apart and people can fall haphazardly to the earth, but life can still have a happy ending.



Three Little Cubs, and one large whale. Sea World San Diego, (favorite spot of my boys) August 2004

I have been hooked on the idea of human chains; the image I see when I close my eyes, reminds me of Christmas construction paper chains, snowflakes and paper dolls. I remember my mom teaching me you had to fold the paper into phyllo layers, to get the same, repetitive shape to emerge without blemish.  And not to oversimplify the creation of humanity, but to some degree, I believe we as human beings are intricately cut into patterns, each person mimicking another.  And while we all maintain our individuality; our own unique talents, strengths and struggles; we are all created in the same image. Like paper dolls, stretched out like an accordion, we are all at our core, the same. And while we each have our own fears, anguish, heartaches and hopes; I’m convinced the only way any of us will make it through life is by linking arms with each other, holding tight and never letting go (I will be the one with the sweaty palms). In our moments of falling, (we all have them) in those terrifying seconds lost in the clouds, I don’t think we will be agonizing over our differences or disagreements,  but rather hoping for something to grab onto; A human chain. A wingless (or, truthfully at that moment, winged would be preferable) angel hovering safely nearby. A link to survival.

For human chains to be successful there’s no room for judgment (as if I’m going to link arms with someone who wears white pants after Labor Day???!!!) or anger (little bit closer, little bit closer …. Teeny bit, almost there…BAM! Fist in the face!) Paper is delicate, it rips easily, and scotch tape is never where it’s supposed to be.  I’ve learned it’s important to be gentle in our folding and shaping, merciful in our reaching.  

Alex and Spencer holding Sea Stars from the tide pools in Sea World, July 2004

My boys love the ocean and when they were little, we used to spend hours on the beaches of San Diego scowering the shores for tide pools to explore. On La Jolla beach, we’d always find these deep pockets in the earth that contained a whole world in a puddle. My boys would stretch on their bellies, slide up to the edge of wonder to dip their hands in the water; grab at a crab, finger the smooth skin of rocks, they were at once enchanted. But I’d get distracted by the disconnected kelp floating in the hollow cavities, and all hopped up on Disney movies I confess I imagined the single crab my boys were poking at felt utterly alone without hope of ever seeing his crab family again (or, dare he even breath the wish of his love interest? Baby crablings of his own?) I imagine in his world of survival his greatest hope was for a bite of krill. I would watch him and feel frustrated he didn’t realize that fifteen feet away was the Ocean…the freaking, wave crashing, covering the majority of the earth ocean.  He wasn’t alone at all, just temporarily displaced.




Alex & Spencer practicing their balancing act, San Diego 2004

 

It makes me sad to think of all the times I struggled through a low tide, where the rhythmic pull of life had drawn me apart, deposited me in some crevice, exposed my bare bones to the unforgiving sun.  And the whole time I’d thrashed, unhinged, waiting like a corpse for the tide, there was the ocean not fifteen feet away. If I would have stopped freaking out and been still, I could have heard the waves crashing into the shore, felt the salty spray heavy like unshed tears, realized relief was near.

Spencer and his side kick, the bear, showing off a captured teeny crab...
(notice Spencer's missing glasses: something else dragged out with the tide)  San Diego 2009

I know having the courage to be vulnerable and the tenacity to raise my head and claw like mad at the earth has helped me emerge and connect with people who at one point thought they too were the only ones stuck in a fractured spot. We’ve bonded over chocolate cake; laughed and cried over time spent in a fissure. We’ve drawn strength from each other, grateful to have learned the ocean is waiting for our return; teeming with life, help, alliance, and camaraderie; it’s all there.  No one needs to be a potential Disney crab.  



Spencer & Logan checking out the crab Spencer just caught. La Jolla Beach, California April 2009

For a girl who loves words I have none to express my gratitude for the ocean of support that washes over me each day. I’m afraid sometimes the weight of my angst is like cardstock to everybody else’s delicate dollies, you can see the creases in my folds, there is nothing graceful in my form, (I console myself that at Staples Office Supply I would be sold for a premium price based solely on the weight and sheen –a fancy word for sweat- of my paper grade). No, our chains don’t match; I have been linked in haphazardly, but thank you for finding the tape, and tucking me into your fold.

To the angels in my life; the way you have wrapped your velvety wings around me, a downy cape to cushion the blows of mortality, has inspired me to read up on the aquisition of  superpowers, (I’m stuck between traditional radiation or something quick like a spider bite). The strength of your example has taken root in this sloshing soul of mine and become a source of longing; a need I have to reach your reaching as you have reached mine. So look for me the next time you find yourself in a free fall. I’ll be there, sweaty palmed, holding the duct tape.     

 

Love those boys! Sea World San Diego 2004

 

Guilt, Cookees & The YMCA

Loggy Bear holding cookies he made for Santa, Christmas 2012

"Hi, my name is Joanie and I am addicted to guilt."

Now you say, "Hi Joanie, welcome."
 
First of all, you should know I am a recovering guilt addict. I've tried to ween myself off it's intoxicating pull, but I still get the shakes pretty bad because I crave it like candy; my days filled with sugar highs, and the tell tale signs of impending insulin shock. Maybe I should explain:  I am a mother. Enough said?  I have three sons, two of whom you might recall have autism, which we agreed is partly due to my DNA (but mostly I like to blame my husband! Blaming him works in almost all aspects of my life). Maybe you don't quite get the picture because you are one of those mothers I secretly despise (not really, because I would have too much anxiety to function if I actually voiced my disappointment in your perfection) whose children are well behaved, who never, say, knock down your ceiling fan with a light saber, or climb the giant pine tree during church  until they are so covered in sap you can stick the picture they colored of Jesus right on their shirts, then again, at least it frees up space on the fridge. Yes, you who know you, you queens of order. Curse you! (Sorry I didn't mean it!) I am not one of those women.

            I am one of those women who seems to compel complete strangers in Wal-Mart to ask, “Sugar, are you all right?” Yes, I recognize my very presence in polite society prompts kind old ladies, to squeeze my arm encouragingly and say, “Boy, you need all the help you can get, don't you honey?” To which I want to answer, “Yeah, do you do windows?” But, truthfully, I'd have guilt over accepting help from an eighty year old, because what if she accidentally sprayed herself in the eye with Windex, and blinded by chemicals tripped over the roller skates by the couch and broke her brittle bones!  Then I'd have a blind lame grandma to worry about. No thanks! Besides, if I could see out the window, I'd probably see my boys throwing mud at each other, so I'll just keep my windows the way that they are- covered in finger prints- thank you very much.

Christmas Eve = Happy Boys! Posing in front of their cookies.

Spencer & Logan, December 2010

 

            Now, don't get me wrong, I don't share the general public consensus that my boys make me a menace to society…I love my boys, and it's not like I'm immune to the ways of testosterone, I grew up with four brothers, which of course means I have been shot in the butt with a BB gun. And yes, my mother really has said, in our house, “Jared! Stop shooting your sister!” So, I guess truthfully, it's not guilt over my son’s behavior that plagues me. But rather, the mother source of my guilt comes from the tangled root feelings of inadequacy that stretch throughout my veins. I worry I'm not enough, I don't do enough, I can't be enough I'm not teaching enough, cleaning enough, loving enough, disciplining enough, reading enough, playdoughing enough, homeworking enough, stopping volcanoes from exploding enough, making volcanoes explode enough.  I am my own worst critic. Senior citizen’s, Wal-Mart employees, congregations, teachers and quickie mart cashiers can't think of or say anything to me or about my children, that I don't already think or say to myself.

Spencer & Logan showing off the snowman cake they made. January 2008

And it was in this toxic mind frame of guilt that I found myself one day in Arizona. I had recently started working part time after a -six year-have-three-kid-finish-college-hiatus- when Russ returned to school to get his master's degree.  Going back to work (which consisted of a carefully constructed schedule so my kid's were never alone, and Russ and I were never together) was causing an enormous oozing abyss of guilt the likes of which I had never experienced, I seemed to be dog paddling in all hours. I worked in the evenings, so some nights Russ would put the kids to bed and I would come home to them already sleeping, (which normally wouldn't be something that would cause me stress, that emotion would be labeled: elation) and feel tortured that I hadn't tucked them in.

Spencer the Lizard holding his hastily made birthday cake, July 2009

I had balanced school and kids, but as a new working mother I was learning that some things had to give, there just wasn't enough time to accomplish all I used to accomplish, but I wasn’t willing to let anything give, which meant I would stay up until three in the morning making heart shaped sugar cookies for the Valentine’s Day party. Russ would come out to check on me at two in the morning and ask, “Couldn't you have just bought a bag of candy?” which would have been the smart thing to do, but somehow, I couldn't, because that would have meant some ritual had changed, I wasn't the same as before, and in my demented mind that would mean my children were paying the price for my absence. And so, I continued to work, and pile need upon need onto myself stretching to accommodate everything I thought needed accommodating.

 Anyway, on this particular day, in the blaring Arizona heat, I had just come from the gym, and let me assure you, I am not one of those girls you see in leotards, that don't even sweat, and have my hair and makeup perfectly done, just waiting to try out for an excise video at a moment's notice. First of all the YMCA I went to faced McDonald's so on most days I went to the gym, I would stare out the window at the golden arches, knowing my forty five minutes on the treadmill had just bought me five French fries. So, generally, I'd finish my workout, get Spencer and Logan from the childcare area and I'm sorry to report, often cross the parking lot to go for a happy meal. Before you judge me, let’s just all remember they have apple dippers and low fat milk!  As I crossed the street I would try to block my guilt over going to McDonald's, guilt based solely on the fact that people were tracking my YMCA progress. No, I'm not just paranoid, because in case you haven't heard, I am a YMCA poster child. No lies! I was in a YMCA commercial, (I didn't realize they were filming me or I might have objected) I think I exemplify the perfect woman they were looking for, the red faced, sweaty, out of shape house wife, who would inspire people to think...well if she can do it, then I certainly can. It seemed like everyone was monitoring my YMCA journey. “The camera adds ten pounds!!” I would rant irrationally when someone would say, “Hey…. didn’t I see you on TV?”



Me and Logan posing with friends at our anual Polar Express Christmas party, Jackson, WY 2010

 So, There I was, post gym, a.k.a. sweaty mess, my once white shirt covered in spilled orange, my hair caught up in an awkward pony tail, no makeup, red faced, (of course just waiting to randomly run into the boy I had a crush on in eighth grade or something) speed walking -because we were late since Logan got stuck in the hamster tunnels in the play land, and guess who had to crawl up there and get him?- down the long hall of the elementary school to drop off Spencer. We paused at the doorway; I wiped the sweet and sour sauce off Spencer's face with my thumb, then gave him a hug and a kiss, and sent him on his way, his Star Wars back pack sagging on his little back. But on this particular day, with my three year old slung awkwardly on one hip, my mind was racing through the enormous list of things I had to do, turning to leave, I stopped,  face to face with a display of kinder art work, under an umbrella of  bright construction paper letters that read, “What can my mom do?” And all of the kindergartener's had written their sentences and drawn pictures of their mom's many accomplishments. “My mom can vacuum” the first picture read, and there was a drawing of a woman vacuuming. I thought of my floor, covered in fruit loops and bits of paper from Spencer's confetti cutting project. (Not to mention enough macaroni, fruit rolls, toast crusts and hot dog to feed a family of four for a week) I don't think Spencer would have written that... no, this piece of art belonged to Alana. The next paper read, “My mom can do the dishes.” If my carpet could feed a family of four, my pile of dishes could feed an ant colony through the winter. Nope, not mine. “My mom can wear makeup.” It took one look at my reflection in the kindergarten window to know that was not what I was being remembered for by my five year old. “My mom can drive” I could drive, but that was written by John. “My mom can work.” Then next six papers read, I held my breath, but they belonged to Spencer’s classmates. My mom can read,” more guilt because that picture was from Jack. But then, I saw the last one in the row, marked with Spencer's backward S “My mom makes cookees.”  And me in a pink dress stirring something in a bowl with one hand, and holding Spencer’s hand in my free hand… lopsided hearts framed the scene.  And I think, for a second I couldn't breathe. There leaning into the concrete wall of Desert Mesa Elementary school like death, I felt, for one tiny moment validated. Vindicated. Victorious. I make cookies. My son felt loved.  Logan and I left the school, with me bouncing him all the way to the car, and I didn't even care that I ran into three people I knew, all with perfect pedicures, and of course one lady had to say, “Didn't I see you on the YMCA commercial? I just smiled and said, “Yep. I’m up three pounds this month.” Who cared? I made cookies.

Logan turns five; his friends help him hold his rocket ship birthday cake I made him, Preston ID, 2007

 

My next cookie experience gets fast forwarded two years to a school in Jackson Hole Wyoming; we’d traded melting temperatures for frigid ones. On this particular cold day, Logan was having a mother's day celebration at his kindergarten class. Still a fan of guilt, but I'm happy to report, not a Super fan, I mean, I don't paint my face, or wear foam fingers anymore, but still own season tickets. Our family was in the middle of a move between houses, and I was hard pressed to find a pair of jeans and a jacket to wear. I arrive at the school, forgetting my umbrella, and thus making my attempt at doing my hair look like a deflated mess. For Logan's program the teacher had invited a drumming therapist, (because nothing says happy mother's day like a good therapy session beating drums). We all sat criss cross applesauce in a circle on the alphabet carpet, our children seated in front of us. The therapist, who believes the only way to do therapy for children is through drumming, and she does, incidentally, have a few spots open on Thursday if anyone is interested, -and yes she can accommodate all fifteen parents who immediately raise their hands- starts passing out drums and drum sticks to the parents and their children (I resist telling Logan it's not a light saber or a sword, and I'm not Darth Vador, so no fighting, like I would at home) then, the new age therapist stands in the middle of the circle, takes a deep cleansing breath and asks the children, “What would you like to beat?” I can't help but wonder if this is a rhetorical question, is this how the therapy goes, children start pointing their accusing fingers at their mothers screaming, “You didn't let me wear my Dora underwear this morning, and I asked for juice and you gave me milk. I want to beat...  YOU!” and beat their drums, or their mothers until all the anger drains out through the rhythmic sticks? One little boy wants to drum his mom's name. One child wants’ to say she loves her mom in French, another wants to repeat a memorize poem in beat to the drum, “she's written it in syncopated time,” her mother whispers –of course she did. 

 

Loggy Bear at the Mother's Day celebration, Jackson Wyoming 2008

A child does an interpretive dance, called “Thank you Mother Earth” then there is a drum solo by a five year old  rock star, his mother beaming, “He’s been in private lessons since he was two” she confides. Up until this point, I was just glad Logan had stopped eating paste, his perfect ordinariness was endearing, I pulled him closer, dipped my head to smell his soft hair, then, finally, it was Logan's turn to pick what he wanted to drum for his mom, I was hoping for something like, “My soul offers thanks for life, oh great and wise mother, nurturer of my being” What I got was, “Uh..., Thanks for the cookies!” And I just know some mother behind me wants to know if those are organic cookies we are thankful for. The therapist divides us into two groups, she hops from foot to foot, she sways to the drumming, and I can see her belly button ring each time she stretches. She directs the first group, “Thanks for the cookies” “drum, drum drum drum drum.” Logan and I hit our drums. The next groups starts in “Thanks for the cookies, drum drum drum drum drum,” Logan uses his drum sticks on my drum, he smiles his crooked smile, his dimples deep in his cheeks, so pleased to be six, so pleased to be leaning against me, so pleased that I make him cookies, and that he remembered to say thank you. It's another good day. And no, they weren't organic. And yes, I will check my schedule to see if I can squeeze drumming therapy in on Thursday.

Alex, Spencer & Logan made me this heart pizza for Valentine's day 2011

 And then there was the time I was sick, and Alex kept his cookie he got for someone's birthday at school, and brought it home to me, all crumbly and covered in lint from his back pack. He was so proud he thought of something to make me feel better.

 I think the bulk of life consists of just getting through it, but, in the getting through it, here is what I've learned: Guilt is overrated. Guilt does not move you towards you goal, but keeps you stagnant, and alone, wringing your hands, and in truth, it seems that if you are like me, you worry and worry and worry, and things turn out okay anyway and even if they don't, was it really worth all the anxiety? I've learned you can bend over backwards trying to create perfection in your children, trying to never let them miss a moment of something stimulating or skill building, or beautiful, but that offer's no guarantee for happiness.

 

Loggy Bear (aka bat-a-man) turns 6! Celebrating with friends, Jackson 2008

My friend was telling me, that after planning the trip of a I've lifetime at Disneyland for her girls, including breakfast with Belle, that when she asked her daughter what her favorite part of the vacation was, she answered, “Swimming in the hotel pool.” I'm sure Carrie thought she could have just saved herself three thousand dollars and checked into the Motel 8, six blocks from her house. I guess in the end, what I think I've learned from being a mother, is it's okay to cut some corners, to not be it all, have it all, want it all. My children don't remember me for all the things I've not accomplished, (except for maybe the laundry) my children remember me for my presence, love me for the ways I show them I love them, for the times I have held them, pulled them from the brink of despair over an argument with a friend, brushed their knees free of gravel after a particularly bad bike crash, given them popsicles for their sore throats, and made spy costumes for Halloween. My boys are grateful for ramen noodles, help studying for spelling tests, stories about Captain Underpants, a walk by a river,  a push on the swing, and even sometimes for telling them “No. You can't go. I want you here with me.” They've come to expect that I expect something from them. And yes, I am, apparently remembered for cookies. For all those magical Sunday afternoons, (I miss those days when my boys crowded the counter top for a chance to crack an egg, or hold the mixer, or dump the bag of chocolate chips into the metal bowl). I am remembered for warm sweet morsels that slightly burned their little fingers and soft lips, because they're too impatient to wait for them to cool. I am loved for the times I've left the crumbs and chocolate smears pooled against their smiles, for their pink tongues to find later. After all of the guilt, after all of the worrying, I am remembered for cookies, but most importantly, I am remembered.

 Thank heaven I'm not remembered for my YMCA commercials, and I have no guilt whatsoever over that.

After opeing this present Logan said, "Santa must have really loved my cookies!" 2010

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Without Mountains



Spencer & Logan Mighty Explorers: Colter Bay Summer 2013

When I was a little girl I used to climb to the top of our tan couch and stand like a mountain goat on the sagging cushions while I pressed my face against the cool glass of the living room window. From the safety of my perch, I would stare wide eyed at the snow capped mountains surrounding me from every direction; a fortress of safety circled like wagons. I can still close my eyes and see those ethereal peaks; stark against the fluttering dark of my eyelids, still experience the wash of warmth I encounter every time I remember the tangible comfort I experienced living in their shadows.

The summer before my senior year in high school, I had grown decidedly restless. My older brother was in college; many of my friends had already graduated and were moving on with their lives. I felt stagnant. I felt trapped. I wanted movement. I wanted to drive without stopping, (I wanted land lots of land under starry skies above….stop freaking fencing me in!!!!!) I wanted to feel the brush of tumbleweeds scrape against my legs. The mountains to me became symbols of my incarceration, stumbling blocks in the path of escape.  I think I even wrote some -obviously pathetic - poetry about being a bird with clipped wings, longing to rise up on a beautiful (certainly cologne scented –duh I was 17- ) current and be carried away to where finally I could see beyond (dramatic pause) my gilded cage. (No, I couldn’t be considered a true poet because I didn’t wear black mock turtlenecks, or style my hair in stringy, dyed black dread locks or keep my lips lined in a thick layer of black cherry lipstick….isn’t that a requirement?).

I turned 18. I moved away. I got married. I had kids and suddenly I found myself in the desert without a brown sagging couch to climb, or mountains to write bad poetry over. The great sea of sand and rocks did not provide balm for my soul the way I supposed space would. I spent my days cowering from the exposure, slathering my boys with sun block, hating the emptiness of heat. I would watch the sun rise from the dirt, and return to the dirt (I’m sure a pathetic poem rising up in my soul, that if I could have located a crayon that wasn’t broken or melted, I would have titled, “My life in a Tomb.” And probably the first line would have read, “The heat has turned my dreams into cremated ashes…”) 

Grand Teton National Park June 2013

And so, some eight years ago, when we were able to return to pine trees, seasons, and the carved out (by God Himself?) mountain valley of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, I felt at once swaddled, contained and safe. The boundaries I had once resented eased my mind.  The world didn’t feel so imposing. Life felt like it had been sectioned like an orange and fallen open into perfectly encased bite size pieces, something I could swallow without choking.

Boundaries play an important role in my life; but I confess I frequently forget this hard earned knowledge because of the short term memory loss I’ve suffered  from all the times I’ve hit my head against my limits, willing my boundaries to budge by sheer force.  My boys, on the other hand, are often wiser than me, and while they are sometimes as rigid and unyielding as granite in their desire for routine, predictability, hard lines, rules and order, boundaries have kept their lives consistently cut up into bit size chunks.   (The dramatic poem I would write today would probably be called, “Hard Lines; Life in a Gilded Cage” but if I wrote it, then I might really give in to my desire to wear black turtle necks and embrace the poet lifestyle and I don’t know anyone who braids dreadlocks so that doesn’t really work for me.)

Jenny Lake, Grand Teton National Park June 2013

My boys know they have to take one step at a time, they don’t try to skip ahead; C follows B which follows A, which is the beginning of the alphabet. Duh! Was there ever a question as to the order of things?  Whereas my impulse is to skip from b to q to x and back to c because there was traffic at A.  Because of years of intensive therapy and coaching, my boys have learned to come to me when they are feeling overwhelmed and say things like, “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, and I think I need a break.” Or Logan will say, “Stop rushing me like a race horse you devil woman!  And will you please communicate what your plans are before you drag me out the door?” They often know their limits. They want to finish one section of the orange before they move on to the next piece, and perhaps if they are satisfied they may be content to NOT move on to the next piece. Meanwhile, I am the one who is thinking, “Oranges again??!  -As I shove piece after piece into my mouth-.

For Alex especially, having order in the universe is the ONLY way he can function; the sun always sets at night, the moon rises predictably like clockwork. It waxes, it wanes. The stars appear and fill the night sky with pin pricks of light.  There is order to the universe; in his preferred world he has breakfast within a half hour of waking, (takes a break) walks the dog (takes a break) asks to go somewhere (sighs when I say no, asks how long until we can go somewhere) goes somewhere (says he’s done and wants to go home within 45 minutes of going somewhere) drives home, lunch, (takes a break) walks the dog (takes a break) waits for dad to come home. Calls dad and ask why he isn’t there yet. Sits by the window and waits. Flops with dad, makes dinner (takes a break) asks to go somewhere (asks to come home) gets tired, melts down, fights with his brothers, argues with his mom and dad, refuses to brush his teeth because we didn’t remind him early enough and besides he isn’t going to go to the dentist anyways anymore because dentists are liars… takes his melatonin, climbs in bed with an IPad to unwind, watches a documentary on Hawaii, lights out, fan on, wrapped like a mummy, four pillows, two underneath his head, two on top. Sleeps. And. Repeat. Deviation from the charted course like staying fifty minutes when we “go somewhere” instead of the pre-arranged 45, is cause for mayhem, renting of clothing, stopping of clocks.

Leeks Marina: Spencer & Logan Walking Off Some Pizza, June 2013

Order in the universe equals a happy boy. But sadly, the laws of motion don’t always work out the way Newton intended. The moon rises, the stars come out, and sometimes a storm wakes you up. The sun rises and sometimes the dog’s leash breaks. Winter comes, but it doesn’t always snow. Sometimes there is homework, sometimes there is not. Dinner may not be what you expected. Clothes may be scratchy. Brothers get loud. Fire alarms go off. Mom’s say no. Dad’s come home late. But as long as those main parts of the routine stay consistent, there is a place to go for order (his room, the family room, his house) but when he leaves his Island and order in the universe is displaced by chaos in the universe, then the resulting fall out is as predictable as the sun setting in the west.

The ramifications of living with autism…oh, who am I kidding? The ramification of living with life –especially a life where I jump from letter to letter, choking on orange slices with one child chasing me across the alphabet yelling they need a break while another child is lost somewhere by the letter S and I’ve already tripped twice over the child catatonic next to the letter B, has left me feeling like a wide eyed deer standing- ears perked - in a meadow; (Bambi be careful! Man is in the forest…. And then that creepy violin music starts and all that’s left to do is wait for the crack of the gun to go off).  Meadows -my life without boundaries- (as much as I seem to crave it) never seems to work for me. I get so distracted by the seemingly open, soothing, non-uphill grassy nature that I miss the sniper hiding in the brush.  Mountains and their unyielding foundation, creates order in my universe. I’ve learned I need to know my starting and stopping points; my limits. I need something to bump up against and  I need to be smart enough to know when I reach my wall of rock; to stop (especially because I’m still paying off those cat scan bills for my past head banging against the wall incidents). I’ve learned mountains are not always beautiful… some mountains are scorched like the tortured scarred hills of Arizona in July, some mountains carry heart ache; their knocked down charred trees spilled like matches in the crevices of the rocky terrain. And some mountains are still covered in ice when they were supposed to be covered in wildflowers, but they create valleys to tuck me into, mapped roads, pharmacies, and fenced yards.

My Favorite Drive; Even A Picture From My Phone Is Sighable; June 2013

My boys and the way they courageously navigate their lives has taught me so many important lessons, and the one I’m working on implementing now is finding my north, creating order in my universe, implementing boundaries that help me to function at a higher –non concussion- level. I am also working on remembering that wherever life takes me –even to the mountain less terrain of Texas, that I don’t need to deprive myself of swaddling, I don’t have to be exposed like an infant who has perfected the startle reflex.  I can draw my line in the sand wherever I am, I can carve it on the rocks or write it in the snow.  I can be unyielding when it comes to my sanity. My boys have taught me the importance of knowing your limits, of setting perimeters.   And so, I am closing my eyes more often, closing them so I can see those ghost like peaks rise up again sentinels against the dark of my fluttering lids. I’m closing my eyes so when I open them I remember all I have to deal with today is a valley and that I can worry about the conditions of the road leading over the mountains tomorrow.

And the best part of metaphorical mountains is they only give metaphorical concussions and metaphorical medical bills, which I can metaphorically shred without an ounce of metaphorical guilt. (And the dramatic poem rising up in my soul to commemorate this lesson learned will be written just as soon as I can pick up a black turtle neck from the GAP and some hair dye from Target).



Loggy Bear @ Colter Bay June 2013, Love that cub!

 

Silly Putty & Equal Packets

Lewis Lake; Alex, Russ, Spencer (notice the white backs of his shoes...on the actual photo
I colored them with a black sharpie, you can't even see it) and Logan. October 2011

 

 

There are certain unarguable facts in life; like for example if someone (Russ) puts silly putty in your (my) hair, you will need to get a haircut (pixie style from someone named Denisha) and it actually won’t be romantic (“I just wanted to make an impression of your hair to remember you by”) at all. And PS Russ: The makers of silly putty never considered that along with the “do not ingest” warning, they should also put, “Do not make impressions of your wife’s hair, no matter how romantic you think it might be.” Another unarguable fact is that if you make a promise to an autistic child, you better keep your promise or suffer (and suffer and suffer and suffer) the consequences. I am not a fan of suffering; I learned my lesson during the tedious hair removal process in what has now been classified as, “The Putty Crisis of 1997.”

So since I avoid suffering like I avoid tofu, we naturally ended up going to Yellowstone during the last twenty four hours the park was opened during the fall of 2011. Our forced death-march “vacation” was taken entirely out of obligation to Alex; whom we’d promised we’d take (as per our tradition) during the summer (October in Wyoming may be stretching the definition of summer).  Sheer duty rather than any innate desire we had to spend 14 hours in the car with our three fascinating, brilliant and psychotic children dictated our course; in no time at all we were stuck behind five billion retired couples who were “savoring the moment” driving at a snail’s pace on a winding canyon road, while Logan cried from the back seat, “I need one of those barf bags like they have on the airplanes as soon as it’s humanly possible to locate one, otherwise I will settle for unzipping Spencer’s backpack and relieving the contents of my stomach in there!”  

Lewis Lake at Sunset, 2011
 

Now, as a disclaimer, we loved living in Jackson Hole. We loved the mountains and wildlife, we felt blessed to live in a place that utterly fed our souls. We knew that people from all over the world traveled great lengths to visit Yellowstone, but we had been up until 2 am the night before retrieving Russ from the airport (he had flown in from Texas; where he’d been teaching all summer) and were thoroughly thrashed. Bright and wretchedly early the next morning, we’d set out for our mandatory trip.  I confess, from behind the dog slobbered windows of our mini-van, the beauty was lost on me. I was exhausted, the boys were fighting, Spencer kept telling us he didn’t want to visit stupid Yellowstone, and doesn’t anybody care about what he wants to do? Logan was too engrossed in a DVD to notice the elk by the side of the road and I was too busy being happy that he’d stop fighting with everyone to make him turn off the DVD and look at the elk on the side of the road.  I was impatient with the other travelers who were leisurely driving about soaking up the scenery. Hello!!! Didn’t they know we still had Fishing Bridge and Yellowstone Lake to cross off before we could go home???

The restaurants in the park had closed early so we had to scrounge for something to eat at the gas station. We fought off the other tourists for our dinner of ice-cream sandwiches, a bag of cheetos and some packets of ketchup and Equal. Finally depleted, we finished the Grand Loop and were making our way home, when somehow, something shifted. The tired sun had finally surrendered to the night. Our boys were sitting peacefully in the backseat in a ketchup packet/Equal induced coma. Outside the long, empty charred trees from the Yellowstone fire were sticking up like chopsticks among the lush new growth. Great throngs of buffalo stood grazing against a spectacular backdrop. Elk bugled all around. I breathed out. I took it all in. I reached for Russ’s hand, looked over my shoulder at my little boys who were getting so big and loved them with a fierceness so intense it surprised me. We stopped at Lewis Lake to stretch out legs, and as Russ and the boys walked towards the shore, I raced back to the van to grab my camera so I could snap a shot of the sunset. As I shut the car door and turned around, the moment became magical, like something from a Disney movie…Russ called (in the voice of Muffassa) “Joanie! Come on! You’re missing it!”  I turned to see my boys standing at the edge of the water, stood taking in the lake, the trees, the way the sky seemed to melt into the mountains. They had grabbed hands simply because they wanted to be close to each other, I imagine they had succumb to the guttural need to remember they were not alone. They stood, unflinching; reverent, as I snapped this shot from behind them, snapped it while I absorbed the scene catatonic, completely undone by the raw beauty of the earth.

I LOVE this picture of my four boys, because every time I look at it, I feel this deep sense of satisfaction that we bucked up and made the journey, in fact I feel a little panicked when I think we could have missed this magnificent moment if we’d stayed home. This picture reminds me how life seems to sometimes be drudgery and all about racing around like mad checking things off our endless list, telling our kids to stop choking each other and finish licking their Equal...wishing we were anywhere but where we are, and then suddenly we are gifted with these moments of genuine wonder, of sighable peace, of something so beautiful it makes your throat ache.

I call this one "Peace" I can't tell if that's a rock, a piece of wood or an animal I have captured on the shore. 2011

This picture has become a symbol of hope and peace to me. I keep it in my room and taped to my fridge. It reminds me while I reach for the milk of the times I have been stuck in self imposed drudgery without enough faith to anticipate the glorious sunset, it has come to represent a pinnacle moment of knowing why I do what I do…of remembering this journey is worth taking, and despite the chaos… chaos… chaos… that is my life, that there are still moments to wait hopefully for, beautiful sparks in the dark, interspersed pin points of peace that shine like stars in the night. These breath snatching instances of shattering beauty have fundamentally changed the way I approach my life.

As mothers and fathers; as human beings, I’ve come to believe we must all have pinnacle moments of knowing why we do what we do, a center of peace (the tootsie roll middle?) anchored into our souls (I picture it like the eye of the storm…all around us flying cars and whipping branches, but closing our eyes we can breathe out and know all is well). We must find moments of solitude to cling to when the storms of life threaten to send us crashing into the depths of despair…we must keep ourselves tethered to something tangible so we don’t get lost at sea.  For me, my moment of calm is a picture on the fridge; something to stare at when someone has just thrown their bowl of lucky charms at their brother and the glass is lying in shattered fragments at my feet. I look at the picture. Close my eyes. Remember this is a journey worth taking…and that there are many more beautiful moments to come. This anchor of hope allows me to open my eyes, refocus, and while I pick up the jagged pieces of my life off the floor…tell my son, “It’s too bad you threw your breakfast at your brother…we are all out of Lucky Charms, but if you're still hungry, there are some left over packets of ketchup and Equal in the cupboard...so eat up!”      

When I was a kid and the lake looked like this my dad would always say, "The water was like glass." October 2011

 

The Yearectomy

    

This memory made the cut! Alex, Spencer & Logan Yellowstone 2009

 

     A few weeks ago I was talking to our psychiatrist about the results of some testing we had done on Logan. She'd enthusiastically explained he had shown consistent improvement, "He is," she said beaming, "the poster child for how we want autistic children to assimilate, adapt and progress. He accesses the tools he needs to function happily, fully and beautifully." (And yes, I thought it was ridiculous that finally my child was called THE perfect poster child -but did I get a bumper sticker?!! NO!) "He's continued to make steady progress since the last time we tested him two years ago." Her complete, unabashed love for Logan made me smile affectionately too because I utterly ADORE that Loggy Bear; he feeds my soul with his wacky humor and sweet unfettered affection. But still, it has been a long journey we have traveled together, with some rocky up hill - forgot the water bottle and accidentally started the climb in pajama pants without my bra on- terrain. And, it would be more doable if I was just climbing bra less on my own...but I have been dragging my boys along this path too, promising them something to quench their thirst just past the summit. But, the problem is, the summit never comes, we never even out, never tip the scale, start the downward journey, so we just keep trudging along, setting our sights on milestones five steps ahead (I will make it to that tree and then collaps) because what else is there to do, but keep moving? In thinking about  the start of this journey with Logan, (a start that certainly didn't just begin with diagnosis) I was thinking about this period of time in our lives and remembering something I wrote right after we found out he had autism. I stumbled onto it in the depths of my computer the other night.... This is a throw back, a look at one part of our stumbling, bra less-dry mouthed journey:

Hanging at home with friends! Theo & Joshua Dawson, Alex, Colter Dawson, Spencer & Logan 2008

     It's been seven years since my oldest son Alex was diagnosed with autism and one week since my youngest son Logan was. One life changing, breath snatching week. Before we left for Logan’s appointment, I was telling a friend we were going to the University of Utah autism clinic to get Logan evaluated. She'd said by means of encouragement, “Good luck.” And I'd thought, “I wish there was some measure of luck involved in this, something simple and seemingly innocuous as a roll of the dice in Las Vegas. (It could go good, it could go bad, either way it's all just for fun, so kiss the dice and let 'em fly!)  I've even wished autism was like some illness, that might be cancer of the stomach lining, but more likely was just food poisoning, and the doctor would promise that while “you might not feel good for a few days, you'll be tip top come Saturday.” On the way home I could stop for Sprite, and saltine crackers. But there is no luck with autism. No luck because it's pervasive. No luck because genetics are genetics and environmental triggers are elusive and misunderstood. No luck because once the brain is wired it's wired. And no luck in the hard work it takes to try to rewire hard wiring. During Logan's evaluation, I had joked with the psychiatrist and psychologist until they were comfortable, until they were unguarded as they talked about Logan's autism. “They already have a son with autism,” I imagine they'd thought, “they're joking about the way it affects their lives. They must be okay with this....” and so they had haphazardly discussed his autism, as if it was as innocent and as common as a cold. I had thought then, maybe it isn't Logan who needed the luck, but me. Maybe the good luck should be in reference to, “Good luck not bursting into tears! Good luck not doubling over and barfing all over the sterile tile floor. Good luck not feeling like your heart is being rendered useless because someone has pulled it from your chest cavity still beating as it struggles to stay attached to the tiny, intricate vessels while being twisted and squeezed like a sponge used for cleaning.”

Loggy bear hanging onto saftey (that's a long ways down!!) Yellowstone Falls,  2009

            On the way out of the building we'd stopped by the vending machines to get Logan a kit kat bar. Russ and I mused how he'd used to call the candy bar a “mere cat” “I want a mere cat” he would cry and I would say, “Logan, we already have a dog, besides, mere cats are wild animals” and he would burst into tears and say, “No, I want a mere cat!” It wasn't until some months later when he handed me the kit kat bar, and said, “Can I have a mere cat?” that I put two and two together. And now, even though Logan says, “Kit Kat” we still affectionately call the candy bar, “Mere Cat bars.” His differences in communication were endearing and innocent. In the car I'd called a friend and told her we were done with our appointment and she'd responded,“I'm glad it went well.” And I'd thought, “How can you possible think things went well? My son just got diagnosed with autism!”
            And so, with the heaviness of yet another diagnosis, the brick that's currently breaking this camels concave back, I've decided I would like a year-ectomy. I would like this year surgically removed from my life. I would like to forget how the other day at the park, I had watched Alex and thought his motor awkwardness made him seem like Pinocchio, stiff and wooden. I'd imagined there was something invisible, like fishing line, attached to his limbs that kept him bound to a rigid pattern of movement, like a puppet. I had surmised if this boy was Pinocchio, then I must be Gepetto, because hadn't I, in some awkward way, made this boy? Made these boys? Held them in the rawest of forms? I'd watched Alex watch the way the other children played a game. He seemed to puzzle over the way they went about their lives with such fluid gracefulness. I saw him trying to figure out how to merge, how to become a part of the team. And I'd wondered then, if in his frustration in knowing how to proceed, his little wooden heart had wanted to cry out his greatest hope, “I want to be a real boy! I want to be real.”


Ride your bike to school day/ aka try to avoid hypothermia day. Spencer, Logan and Josh Dawson 2009

 

 

            If I had a yearectomy, I could forget the pain when I'd thought that like Gepeto, I loved this child fiercely! I would search for my boy if he was lost. Search and search and search, even if only a part of him was lost. And like the story, I know I would wait for him in the belly of a whale, wait like Jonah. Wait, while I asked forgiveness for not wanting to do what God asked me to do. Ask forgiveness for thinking I knew better than Him. A yearectomy would certainly relieve my pain. Erase the memory of the massive battles we've had concerning Alex's school this year, and his subsequent forced placement in a new school Alex loathed. During this rough season, there were many times when I had wished  I had the wooden heart, an organ to sit heavy and stagnant in my chest, instead of the heart I had that beat so ferociously every time I pushed my boy on the bus while he cried, “I'm not a menace to society! I'm a good boy!”



Loosing Spencer's glasses over the falls I could forget...but these cute boys, I'd like them seared in my memory forever!

            If this year was obliterated, I would never have visited the University of Utah Autism Clinic. Never met the amazing doctors and nurses there. Missed out entirely on getting Logan diagnosed, and our family could have stayed whole a bit longer, instead of once again being fragmented by this pervasive developmental disorder that robs mother's of their children.  Oh, how I wish there was a pill to let me slip into amnesia, slip in luxuriously, like I was slipping into a hot bath. No luck in that either. The reality of our circumstances never allows me to forget, it even invades my sleep. But, truthfully, it's good to remember. Good to sometimes have the hot, sweaty anger in the pit of my stomach, and the raw grief thumping in my chest so regularly it might be mistaken for a heart beat, because the anger and the hurt is what gives me power and motivation as a parent to fight for my child. To fight for my children.
           “How do you feel about Logan getting diagnosed with autism?” My friends have asked, my family, and I've asked myself. How do I feel? Well, devastated of course. By now I know what autism is. I know how it affects our lives. I understand the work that goes into loving a child with autism, and  the effort it takes to help them succeed.  But his diagnosis isn't met with the same confusion and anxiety that Alex's was. Maybe it's like having a first child, and having a second. With the first child you don't know what to expect. You read endless books, and talk to friends and ask doctors silly questions. But, after the baptism by fire, after you've held that squirmy wet child in your arms for the first time, looked into those beautiful pools of blue that are their eyes, after you've connected, and cared for, and loved, and despaired over the first born, you have experience to serve as a baseline, and an expectation of what comes next, to serve as a memory to help you move forward with confidence. With your second child, you know what you're getting into. You've learned the highs are higher than you ever could have anticipated. You know you will love your child with a fierceness you couldn't have foreseen before becoming a parent, conversely, you understand the lows of parenting aren't something you can just brush off as you did in those early, pre-pregnancy days where you would see a child throwing a fit in a grocery store and tell yourself, “not my child!” By now you've learned sleepless nights and tantrums, will be balanced by first smiles and little arms reaching out for you. Only for you. As a parent of a second child, you appreciate it all, which gives you both a feeling of ecstasy at the impending birth, and dually, a sense of resigned anxiety.


Love that Lizard! (without glasses you can see his eyes better! Silver lining?)

           
I think that's how it is for me. I know what to expect with autism. I won't be shocked by the reality. I've learned the loving doesn't stop, if anything it intensifies. I appreciate the difficulties that originate as a complication of autism are more significant than I ever could have imaged when we'd left the autism clinic in Scottsdale Arizona, clutching the hand of our sweet little six year old Alex. This is why if you were to ask me how I felt when Logan was diagnosed, I would have said devastated, because I hate to see another child of mine robbed of normalcy. Hate to see his one neuro-typical brother in the middle take on the role of caretaker. Again. Hate to let go (and let go, and let go, and let go) of that dream of what I thought our family would be like, a dream that now seems as evasive and mysterious as dissipating smoke. With diagnosis comes mourning. And I don't want to mourn. Don't want to slip into that black, empty place of letting go. I am afraid.
            And so, I want a yearectomy. I'd like to skip over all the readjustment. All the shifting and realigning and weaving of new dreams. I'd like, rather, to just walk into my life at some future point when all is right with the world, and resume my role as mother. I'd like to just be strong enough to deal with all of this, then to have to find out if I really am.
            In retrospect, I wouldn't like a complete yearectomy. I wouldn't want to have missed out on sloppy kisses, awkward hugs, school plays, Christmas morning, or camping out with my boys, and in the cold, tree fringed night, counting as many stars as we could until our voices gave out. I wouldn't want to miss the magic of watching my beautiful children grow up. I would just like to remove the hard parts. Because honestly, I hate the conflict in the story, loath the part where you find out the character's flaws. Despise lessons learned from loss. I Hate Old Yeller. Hate Where The Red Fern Grows. And I hate that professor from college who said, “It's the conflict that makes a story interesting. What fun would a story be if Little Red Riding hood just took a basket of goodies to her grandmother and her grandmother just ate them? How would we learn anything if there wasn't the big bad wolf?”   

A keeper! Spencer and his friend Josh Dawson and dog Bear walking the path from our backyard to Flat Creek to raft 2009

 

            “I would have learned something.” I would tell the professor if I was in class with him today. “I would have learned the world isn't always made up of shadows and deep dark woods, but rather, it could be soft, full of wildflowers, and an abundance of sunshine. I would have thought how nice, simple and completely normal it was for one person to take care of another, to hover over them lovingly, just because they wanted to, not because it was something borne out of necessity. I would have learned people do go about their days without the agony of suspicion hovering over their red cloaked heads. I'd have thought how lovely it would be, to live in a world where you didn't have to wonder if hiding beneath everything you loved, was a sharp toothed monster, just waiting to snap your basket right out of your hands.”