Rodeo Clown

Logan, ME and Spencer...gearing up for an Alabama football game. (And, therefore making sure I have my rubber nose in my pocket because Captain Sensory Issues aka Alex, might, possibly react to 90,0000 screaming fans....just sayin...) Alabama 2011

We all have hidden gifts and I'll tell you mine: I am a rodeo clown. All those years spent in college, all those overpriced textbooks bought and wasted....renting the cap and gown.... all just money down the drain. Because I am not, apparently, a Behavioral Science major with an English minor, no, no. That career path was at one point simply under construction, but now, I know for certain, it's been obliterated... blown up in some kind of spectacular explosion (at least I hope it was spectacular! When your career/life plan falls apart you want it to be as mind blowing as it is to watch someone take down a 110 floor casino).
Yep. It would seem everything I need to know for my current career, I could have learned in clown college. Oh, how I agonized over my ACT test scores....if only I'd known I didn't even need ACT scores to attend "The Ohio College of Clowing Arts" to fine tune my savant skills. In the brochure I found online, I've learned this college promises to help me, "discover the ways of the clown," ensuring that I can create my own clown character with a unique life history. I will "learn how she moves, thinks, walks, talks, and the secrets of professional white face makeup application." (I know, It does sound amazing! I'm drooling a little too.....).

Spencer & Logan: Rolling with thee Tide! 2010

The only reason I haven't signed up already is because part of the curriculum involves making balloon animals, which, truthfully frightens me. I still haven't recovered from my time at the Cadillac Grille where every holiday in order to heighten our appeal, we would blow up a thousand, yes a THOUSAND balloons to waft about the dining room, setting an ambiance of....rubber? Mmmm, latexy.  I don't know the logic behind that corporate decision.  I do, however know, that in the course of blowing up 1000 balloons, I probably had about a fifth of those ambiance filled balls of joy explode in my face. Not to mention all the times throughout the night when the balloons would stick to the lights and burst from the heat, (usually as I was refilling some water or something...) After 12 holiday balloon blowing episodes, I may have to find some sort of horse tranquilizer to get through clown college, not to mention the dorms in Ohio are all filled up, and relocation is such a pain. Besides, the truth is (not to brag or anything) but I don't even really need Clown College. Yep. I'm that good.

I am an expert because I don't just put on the costume and transform into a clown. No. No. I live the life of a clown. A rodeo clown actually. There is a difference (I knew this even without taking "The Different Faces of the Clown 101").  Sometimes it seems my whole role as a mother to my autistic children, especially my oldest son, boils down to the art of distraction. Now that Alex is 14, and particularly bright, he even knows when I am using the art of distraction, but he doesn't care. When he is wound, and looking for a mental escape, I say the magical word he's longing for, the one from his current obsession (it was Backhoes, Elmo, Jurassic Park, Sea World, Yellowstone and now....Hawaii) ....and he is mine. It's almost like I'm a hypnotist at a fairground, "You will bawk like a chicken, and release your brother from the death grip." When I see him getting stressed, when he's overwhelmed, and rationalizing, deep breaths, leaving the situation, and taking a break doesn't work, rodeo clowning usually does.

Uh. Yeah. Maybe a little overwhelming??? (But SO FUN and Such a gorgeous
night...Never-the-less, guess how much of the game I actually saw?)

Being a rodeo clown means you have to think fast on your feet. You have to know when the other riders are in danger of being charged by an out of control bull. You have to get their attention, wave your polka dot hanky in their direction until they are charging at you instead of the awkward cowboy they just bucked off. Then you dive in your foam barrel....which just happens to have the words "Hawaii" written in bold letters  around the middle, and brace yourself for impact.

(You learn to stomach the swaying barrel fairly early on, and honestly I've stopped making the rookie mistake of falling out of the barrel once it's been tossed in the air and smashed to the ground). No, I know the importance of always being prepared. I know danger still simmers like carbon monoxide, seemingly undetectable but potentially deadly, it simmers even when the crowd is laughing, simmers while the animals seem docile and lazy,  I know not to breath deeply. To keeps my wits about me. To always keep my eye on target.

Yes. I am a rodeo clown. I distract. I save lives.  I am always on guard. I may have broken a rib here or there, and the pasty make-up does cause unwanted breakouts. But I'm good at what I do. And it's infrequently now,  that from the depths of that sweaty barrel I think, "I wonder what it would be like to be a behavioral scientist?  And,  "wouldn't it be lovely to have a desk job somewhere and do something boring like grade English essays?" I could sit at my desk, and stare out my window and wish (hope pray) that something exciting would happen to me.

Spencer: Clown in training....(Look! A pom pom! And it's red! Charge me!)

Crime Scene Photos & Sunsets

Sunset Slolitude
Carlsbad, California 2010

For spring break we flew to Maui, Hawaii, this trip was largely planned becuase of our son Alex. One of the many faucets of Alex's autism includes his tendency to fixate (or, for the big medical word of the day, in the autistic world we call it, "perseverate") on a specific subject or item of interest. I could list those interest from the age of one, however, I think it might be like when a new mother (I was one, so I know) hands you her iPhone so you can see the pictures of her baby, while she hovers, her nimble fingers flipping from photo to photo entranced, while you, perhaps, are trapped looking at yet another angle of little Amy sleeping, while your boys are just off to the right choking each other. So, all I will say is, currently, Alex has been obsessing about visiting Hawaii, (not a bad obsession, honestly) and I confess, while I did want to visit Hawaii, I might have picked something more low key for spring break, but I honestly couldn't handle looking at another Hawaiian website, or discussing for the thousandth time if Hawaiian  pineapple is really better than mainland pineapple, and what the amount of the charge fined to snorkelers who touch endangered sea turtles is. I couldn't take rereading the highlighted portions of his favorite guide book, or answering the question, "What's the thing you want to do the most in Hawaii?" again.  (Always I answered, "relax on the beach and watch the sun set, and get some great photos.") Plus, I knew if we didn't go, the obsessive behavior would only intensify. I would have to read even more highlighted sections of even more books on the best place to scuba dive, and discuss even more routing options to the dormant volcano, and relive the distinctive sound of the mating call of the humpback whale, and agree with him that locals really do only eat Hawaiian food at Da Kitchen. So, like so many times in our lives, we did what we had to do to make the insanity stop. Luckily, in this case, we had to go to Maui. (work, work, work).

Russ (who, did I mention, has been living and working for the Department of Defense in Texas for the past ten months) flew home to Jackson and picked up the boys to fly them over because I had to work. Then, later that night, I flew over (BY MYSELF! If I had access to some really cool computer technology I would make an angelic choir sing, "by myself" when you ran the mouse over the words. Alas I do not have access to angle choir singing computer technology. But image I did)  the next day. It was lovely. However, because I had to work an early shfit, and because of the way the flights worked out, by the time I got to Maui, I had only had about three hours sleep in about 48 hours. So, I crashed. Big time. So did Russ. Luckily my parents were there to make sure the boys didn't spontaneously combust. By the time I woke up on that first day, it was dark outside, the sun had already set.

A rare family photo: Notice the strategic placement of our children... child-adult-child-adult-child.
(Obviously we could never have a fouth!) Logan looks slighly drugged;
but it is Vegas, so he fits right in! April 2011

The next day I was determined to see the sunset. Perhaps the smart thing would have been to have just scouted out the perfect spot on the beach and stayed there until the sun went down. I rarely do the smart thing. By the time we had explored a few different beaches, grabbed some lunch and rented snorkel gear, the day had flown by. I knew what time it was, as I watched to boys bobbing on the waves, their bright snorkels helping me keep track of their locations, but they were having the time of their lives swimming with sea turtles and schools of exotic fish. So even though I knew the late hour, I couldn't quite bring myself to drag them away. We just had time to stop by the condo to grab my camera before the sun went down. and while we were there Logan announced he had to go to the bathroom. Russ had already gone ahead with the other two boys and my parents, so I was stuck waiting for Logan to relieve himself. Logan never relieves himself in any sort of record time. And, for the record, saying, "hurry up"  only makes things worse because he doesn't like to be rushed. By the time we got to the beach, only a faint glow remained to remind us that the sun had once been in the sky. On the upside,  Russ had a learning moment, (he has had many over  the years of our marriage)  where he begin to understand he should never again utter the words, "Where were you guys? You missed the most awesome sunset!" This phrase, apparently is the catalyst to change my normally dormant self into something of a she-hulk. Apparently, my DNA has always been mutated, it just took this phrase to send me into a new and throbbing realm, one where I saw all sorts of shades of green. I may have accidentally thrown sand at Russ' face.

So on day two on Maui, I missed the sunset again.

Day three we went on a whale watching trip. My boys loved spotting the humpback whales and seeing the tails of the mother and baby. We explored different beaches, went snorkeling again and had lunch in a fishing village. This time I was prepared! I had my camera handy. I made everyone go to the bathroom at regular intervals, and Russ, oddly enough, made sure I was sitting on the beach with plenty of time to savor the sight of  the sun sinking into the sea. Sadly, the horizon was thick with clouds, so once the sun dropped into the clouds, you really couldn't see much, but I was determined to make the most of the sunset. I broke out my camera and made the boys pose. Alex hates having his picture taken, and when he tries to do a posed smile, he looks nervous and constipated, therefore, we have to try to say something funny to make him laugh and look somewhat normal. He just found out about diapers for adults and thinks the prospect is hilarious. So I casually mentioned, all in good fun, that grandpa happened to be wearing an adult diaper (he wasn't which Alex knew. This just made it all the funnier). Alex laughed and laughed, then he announced, "I know grandpa doesn't really wear diapers, but Logan does." (When we travel, I usually give Logan a pull-up in case he happens to have a rare accident.) Logan, as mentioned previously, has Viking DNA coursing through his veins, and he didn't particularly care for Alex announcing to the world that he wore diapers. Logan lept at Alex, his hands coming together mid-air in a choking motion. Russ, luckily, jumped between the two boys before we had to start CPR compressions, but Logan was M.A.D. He was spewing forth a stream of insults in Alex's direction. Alex, meanwhile, just laughed at Logan's reaction (perhaps he's a typical big brother after all). We sent Alex to go climb on some rocks nearby, and continued to take pictures of Spencer and Logan. As I was posing the two boys with Russ, a nice lady walked by with her dog and said, "Could I take a picture of your whole family?" Knowing that would be disastrous, I said, "Oh no, we don't want to interrupt your walk!" But she was a kindly woman who said, "Nonsense, I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to help. Now! Get your boys so we can do this." Reluctantly I called Alex over from the rocks. Russ placed Logan on his far side, and I placed Alex on my far side. Before the lady put my camera to her eye, Russ whispered in my ear, "Do you think she does crime scene photos?" The lady said, "Say cheese" and Alex said, "Say diapers!" and Logan charged and leaped on Alex before she had even pushed the shutter button. "Oh dear!" The woman exclaimed, almost dropping my camera in the sand, "I don't know how to proceed" she stammered as Logan choked Alex, in a scene that might remind you of when Homer Simpson chokes Bart. I shoved Russ forward to retrieve the camera, while I said something soothing to Logan, like, "release!" and sent the boys to opposite corners of the beach. Mostly though, my whole focus was spent on avoided eye contact with the kindly woman with the toy poodle.

Notice Russ' death grip hold on Alex (and you thought it was all about affection!)
December 2011

That night I lamented over the lost sunsets. I agonized over the clouds, the neurotic boys, the poor woman who may possibly be in therapy this very moment with post traumatic stress disorder after witnessing our family togetherness, I imagine her saying to the Doctor, "I don't know, Doctor, I guess what it all comes down to is my faith in humanity has been shaken to it's core."

Like many times in my life, I wanted back the days, I wanted a do-over, I wanted a different outcome.

The fourth day in Maui was amazing. I made no plans, I had no expectations to be dashed, no dreams to be crushed. I just decided to go with the flow. It was a lovely, lovely day. We had cake on a balcony overlooking the ocean to celebrate Alex's 14th birthday. I made virgin pina colada drinks we sipped leisurely.  Logan and Spencer played in the pool, Alex walked along the shore, and spotted a whale from the beach. When it came time for the day to end, we all walked down to the edge of the ocean, our bare feet digging into the sand, and while the boys played in the surf, I was gifted the perfect picture moment. The sun was glorious in it's intensity. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and as that perfect day slipped, so effortlessly, into the sea, I felt at peace with my world. From my chair I could hear the boys playing and laughing together and I knew I was blessed. It was an evening I will remember forever.

So here's what I learned. Some days the sun can't set fast enough. Some days it's barely past sunrise and I'm already longing for midnight. Then, there are days I wish would go on forever. Regardless of my wishes, the sun sets each night like a metronome, steady, steady, steady. It sets on good days and bad days just the same. And while I know do overs aren't allowed, I am grateful for a reset, for a chance to rest in the quiet, in the dark, and greet a new day with hope.

I am learning to savor the good days, commite them to memory, drink up every last drop of light, to serve as a reservoir I can dip myself in on those days of bleak despair. And I am starting to understand there are things to be learned from bad days too. Things like never mentioning the word "adult diapers" again.

The sun rises on another hopeful day. Wilson, Wyoming 2012

What Lies Beneath

This is the year we lost three snow shovels during the winter. The boy would go "help shovel" and we'd loose a shovel until Spring. 6 years in Jackson Hole = 18 show shovels purchased. January 2008

Did I mention I live in Jackson Wyoming? And did I mention that the "Y" on my computer is sticking? I have to press down with such heavy authority I'm afraid I might break the keyboard....which is why I will probably have carpel tunnel by the time I am finished writing this post. The problem probably has something to do with Logan spilling yoplait yogurt on the keyboard...it would be much easier if I could just type oplait ogurt like the keyboard wants .... We've lived in Jackson for the last five years and it has been our favorite place to call home. The staggering beauty of the mountains and surrounding valley utterly feeds my soul (tastes like chicken). After living in Arizona for four years, I have enjoyed having four seasons again, although I would have to say my favorite time of year in Jackson is the summer. I savor the scent of fresh cut hay, love hiking and rafting or just roasting marshmallows with the boys at String Lake. Sadly, living in the mountains does mean that summer comes in small doses while conversely, winter dominates the pie chart. In fact, locals in Jackson joke there are two seasons here; winter and July. So, as a rule, you have to like snow or you'll never make it here, and I do like snow. In fact, the first time it snows, I look out my window, take in the quiet solitude, the soft blanket, and always I want to sigh, put on Christmas music, make cocoa and curl up in a thick quilt with a good book. (That never actually happens, usually I am out of cocoa, and the thick quilts are waiting to be washed at the bottom of the laundry basket, but the desire is there).  I want to sigh and sing jingle bells in the fall (although before Halloween sighing, even for me, is a stretch)  but by March, I confess, I sometimes look out my window at the gravely, gray, icy abyss, and want to scream! I long for spring in the same way I imagine a two pack a day smoker longs for a cigarette after an international flight. If I were a smoker (I'm not) and spring was nicotine, I would cover every last inch of my body with a nicotine patch, even, but not limited to, the backs of my knees, either side of my nostrils and my unshaven armpits.

A frosty, frigid day in Jackson, Wyoming January 2010

So you can imagine with such intense longing, I was thrilled when March arrived with bouts of unseasonably warm weather,  causing the snow to melt at a miraculous rate. Within a week the iceberg that was our front yard, had shrunk considerably, from waist deep to thigh deep to calf deep. Each day, more and more of the earth became exposed; the sidewalks and road, then the first few feet of grass peaked out as the snow line slowly pulled away from the concrete, receding like a hairline.

One day when I was out walking our dog Boo Bear (a little black creature, part Schnauzer, part chiwauwa, my boys call him a snauw-wa-wa)  I was studying the edge of the shocked grass exposed to the elements. It was the color of straw, still matted with mud and pressed down with cold. As Boo was sniffing at some intoxicating scent, I noticed a soggy glove had emerged from the iceberg, also, a wet flyer for a Christmas concert, the edge of our snow shovel, (missing since November) a happy meal toy, and torn, wet leaves spotted like an old banana, that didn't get raked up in the fall were resurfacing and littering the grass like confetti. While Boo Bear paused to scratch at a soggy tennis ball I couldn't help but wonder what else was hidden in the snow? The missing socks from my dryer? The homework Spencer insisted he did but we couldn't find? That Redbox DVD I was suppose to return in January? A corpse? I mean what if my  neighbor really made good on her threat to kill her husband if he didn't come home from work and help her with the kids? (She didn't get married to be a maid and a nanny she'd reminded him.....). After five years in Jackson, I can assure you, that if she did, in a fit of rage kill him, she could bury him in the snow, build a snow slide over his frozen body, and nobody would be the wiser. The whole time his kids where sledding over his remains, the police would be searching for him with no luck what-so-ever (It could happen.). I found it unsettling to think anything could be buried under the snow, which is why I don't think about what's hidden underneath. Why most mornings, especially when it had snowed during the night, I would look outside and see nothing but a glittering wonderland, something so beautiful and pure, that even if you weren't a song writer, the scene would inspire you to write lyrics about it. But, naturally, what's hidden underneath the sparkle is never considered in Christmasy song lyrics, because songs about Frosty, and Winter Wonderlands,  never contain the word corpse in their lyrics....(Outside the world is sparkly and bright/I wonder if a corpse will emerge in the night?).

Chrismas Eve 2009:  So cozy. So peaceful....... little boys sleeping, sugar plums dancing...
No need to raise the blinds & look outside! PS: The crooked angel is not symbolc in anyway!

I have become stuck on the idea of what lies beneath. So, this past month, I have been thinking about what elements in my own life, I've kept hidden underneath a Suzy snowflake layer of glitter. The list I'm afraid is long. Most, of the things that are hidden, frigid and shivering, are things that are un-fun. And a significant chunk of them include topics like, "How will Alex survive high school intact?" "Will he really, ever be able to get a job and function fully in society?" "What will happen if something happened to us? Would Spencer really have to take on the role of caretaker for his two autistic brothers?" "Will Logan ever catch up academically?" "How will I ever survive parenting autistic children intact?" But the sentences are so exhausting to say, the verbs lack any bounce, and the nouns are sad and pathetic which is why I'd rather just leave them stagnant and wet under the ice, and put on my boots and walk over the menacing, lingering letters, crunching the words under the weight of my feet.

I had three boys in three years. Which, consequently meant, I started my parenting years on survival mode (and now that my boys are 10, 11, and 13, I"m really hoping to make it off survival mode at some point in the near future). Oh, I can sympathize with young mothers. I used to be so overwhelmed with just the basic tasks of keeping my boys alive, making sure everyone had been fed, clothed, and wasn't eating cat food, or fishing binkys out of the toilet, that when I would think about the next layer of stuff. the deeper stuff of parenting, like am I teaching my children to be kind (this thought would come often as one child might clock the other child over the head with a light saber) and moral, and good and decent boys that would grow up to be good and decent men? I would feel hopelessly overwhelmed. Sometimes in the rare quiet of night, I would wonder if I was giving my children a good foundation? Were they eating healthy? Will they need braces? How will we pay for braces? (Back when we were in college, and young and idealistic, we thought it would be nice to do something good with a career, you know, change lives and all that, so my husband became a teacher. Turns out changing lives is overrated. Next time we'll just go for the cold, hard cash). In the pre-dawn darkness I would become terrified with future possibilities, and outcomes that seemed beyond my control. But, what I learned was, it wasn't productive to be overwhelmed by the future, when I was already overwhelmed by the present. I learned, in order to survive, and at least attempt to find joy in my role as a mother, I needed to be emotionally stable and hopeful for the future. I needed to believe that we just had to make it through the day, or maybe even just break it down into making it through moments (I just have to make it through this moment of Spencer spraying my neighbor's garden hose through her back sliding door and all over her new sued leather couch) to be OK. I had to believe that if I could made it through the moments that made up one day, then I could make it through the next day and the next, and we could move forward together. The future could be dealt with at another time.

Winter Boys! Spencer & Logan kickin it in the snow, Jackson 2009

Parenting autistic children (and honestly parenting any child)  has taught me to think in small sips. To never gulp or you'll choke and sputter and never get to the point of digestion. Sometimes I get ahead of myself, like the time I was so preoccupied with the fashion of what one of my boys was going to wear for picture day, that when the morning arrived I had his special shirt all laid out, and some new jeans, but sadly, no clean underwear, and his shoes were wet with dew from being left outside overnight.(Some autistic children, like mine with sensory issues, won't wear wet shoes). And then, predictably, because Alex hadn't tried on the shirt before picture day, we discovered it was too scratchy, and he wouldn't wear it anyway. He ended up in a old worn, but favorite t-shirt, and luckily nobody could see he was wearing sandals in December or underwear that, well, shouldn't have been worn at all,  let alone in school pictures. I've learned it's important to be thoroughly present, and not distracted with the temptation to get ahead of myself by making things unnecessarily complicated with unimportant details (gulp, gulp, sputter). I know now not to expect Alex to wear a button down shirt to school, no matter how cute it looks...or for that matter a striped shirt because stripes feel overwhelming. And I know that even on picture day, there is no way Logan is going to let me comb his hair to the side no matter how much better it looks (curse, mutter).

Logan: Making up his own Christmas song lyrics. 2009

I am getting better about worrying about tomorrow, tomorrow. I have learned that today is the day I worried about yesterday, and all is well. In thinking about what lies beneath, and all those problems I don't have solutions for,  I have decided to give myself a break. I will  continue to do the best that I can in the moment. I will work to be present, and emotionally stable. I will be hopeful that we can make it through another day intact. I will enjoy my children and savor the beautiful moments that make up so many of my days. I will remember, that even the snow melts inch by inch, and what lies beneath is exposed piece by piece. I will pick up what I can when it emerges, and not go digging unnecessarily for something I didn't even realize was missing.  And, if I so chose, in those rare times when I feel caught up, when the dishes are done, the laundry is folded, when the boys are happily playing together, and I'm not crying,  I will be brave enough to plunge my hand into the cold, and fish around until I find something hidden beneath the surface; a question I can contemplate, an idea I can implement, an item I can cross off my list. And who knows? Maybe in my searching it won't be a corpse that I find, but rather that book that's been missing since February. I could blow dry the pages and finally see how the story ends.

Vikings Don't Get Autism (and other little known facts)

Three little cubs: When I used to get them to wear sweaters..for at least five seconds... before they would rip them off, claiming they were "TOO ITCHY!!" Now they won't wear them at all. Preston, Idaho 2006

My oldest son Alex was diagnosed with autism on a hot October day in Scottsdale, Arizona, 2004. I remember coming out of the doctor’s office and being hit by a wave of nauseating heat, (I had to put the back of my hand up to my eyes to see past the bright, unforgiving sun). For a moment, I was blinded by the intensity of the rays and almost let Logan, our two year old, race unsupervised into the road. Luckily, my husband Russ caught him just as he was stepping off the curb and threw him up onto his shoulders. When I was able to see again, I grabbed our middle son Spencer’s hand in one of my own, and steadied him while I checked the parking lot for traffic. Then, I’d stretched towards Alex with my empty, beckoning hand, but he’d already moved beyond my reach, so all I grasped was empty air. And so, at different intervals, we stepped down from the sidewalk and moved towards our car. Somewhere in the middle of the road, the squiggly tar lines we’d thought looked like black mambas’ on the way into the doctors office, had melted and the back of my heel got stuck in the tar; my foot slipped out of my sandal just like Cinderella, and I made it all the way to our van before I noticed my shoe was caught in the place where the cracks were suppose to be held together.

What? Everybody looking AT THE SAME TIME??!! Will miracles never cease?
Our Family: Logan, Russ, Alex, Joanie & Spencer. January 2007

My youngest son Logan was diagnosed with autism on a blustery spring morning in Salt Lake City, Utah. He was pronounced autistic six and a half years after Alex was first diagnosed. After the trumpet-sounding-drum-roll-rolling-confetti-filled-moment-of-truth, that always encompasses the oh so lovely, “Your child has autism appointment,” we’d stopped to indulge in a breakfast of champions; we had enough change to buy two bags of cheetos in the lobby of the University of Utah autism clinic. We emerged from the mirror-walled building, clutching our vending machine treats and half empty cans of root beer and diet soda to our chests. Logan promptly climbed a concrete wall and jumped onto Russ’ back like a wild, untamed raptor. Russ and I stood there for a moment, quietly searching each other’s face for direction, the silence punctured by the sound of Logan ravishing Russ’ neck and the resulting, satisfied-raptor-devouring-human-meat shrieks that always accompany any good raptor attack. We stood, not speaking, pushing the gravel around with our toes, gripping our non-organic, gluten filled, orange dye number 6 cheetos, while we waited for my parents to meet us with our other two boys. The winter had come late that year; the grass was matted down with mud, and patches of dirty snow still covered the ground in the shady spots. In the end, my parents couldn’t find the building so we walked a little ways to meet them by the main road, Logan’s open bag of cheetos was flung about wildly as he continued his raptor attack on Russ, consequently, the little orange twigs spilled along the way, making a sort of Hansel and Gretel trail so we could find our way back. But when we looked over our shoulders, we saw that the circling crows had descended and swallowed whole every last cheesy bit before we’d even made it out of the parking lot, and so, we knew we were lost.

Over the last several years, Logan has insisted he’s part Viking. I don’t know if he latched onto this theory because my husband looks like a Viking (ex-college linebacker, minus the braids) or maybe because Russ had played football for a team whose mascot was the Vikings. I don’t know exactly why Logan made the association, but if you asked him why he thought he was part Viking he would tell you; “Well, first of all, I have a large hunger. One grilled cheese sandwich isn’t going to satisfy a hunger as large as mine. Second of all, I have a Viking temper. I think it’s in my DNA or something, because part of my blood thinks it’d be cool to do some, I don’t know, plundering…or just ram some ships, I don’t think I’d even feel bad about doing it. I think it would be fun.”  Not to mention, when Logan first came up with his theory, Russ had listened to his thoughts, creasing his brow, then nodding his head in approval, declared, “You know Loggy Bear, you do look a little Vikingish to me.” And so Logan’s heritage became and unarguable fact. He would peer in his sack lunch and if it didn’t meet his warrior standards, he would look up at me, scowl, and pointing in the bag say, “Mom, are you forgetting? Large hunger!!!!” And at the beginning of the school year, when Logan’s teacher asked the students, “What’s one thing I should know about you?” He didn’t say he liked the color blue, had a dog named Boo, or that his favorite food was pizza. No, Logan promptly and directly informed her, “Well, you should know I have a large temper because of my Viking DNA.”

Living the dream in our beloved Sea World San Diego! Summer 2004

 

We didn’t tell Logan about his autism diagnosis right off the bat, partly because Alex was still trying to find the “up side” of having autism without much success (If God loves me so much like you say He does, why did He give me a brain that doesn’t work right?) and consequently, autism wasn’t exactly a hopeful word in our house. Besides, I think maybe we needed a few moments to clear our throats, swallow past the choking sadness, and finger the sorrows that seemed to fill our pockets, each one heavy like a stone. We’d cup them as we walked, keep them from banging against our thighs, thinking how smooth and solid they were; nothing like sand at all. I’m sure we’d wished the seams of our pockets would give out under the strain and let our sorrows slip, every last one, by the side of the road unnoticed, to settle in the dust for someone else to kick when they walked by. 

Ultimately, the stitches held.

We weren’t ashamed that Logan had autism, or, really even angry….not this time around anyway. We were just tired. So we waited, until one night, when I knew it was time to talk to Logan. We went in his bedroom, laid on the bottom bunk together and pulling him to me I said, “How come you think you are different than the other kids?” “Because,” He answered, shrugging his shoulders, “I have autism.” “Why do you think you have autism?” I asked, “Because my teacher told me I do.” “What did you tell your teacher when he said you had autism?” (I was under the impression they knew we hadn’t talked to Logan yet) “I said I wasn’t mean enough to have autism.” (Did I mention Alex likes to tease Logan?) “Then what happened?” I wanted to know. “My teacher said he wasn’t trying to make me feel bad, and that autism was just a different way of seeing things. But I kept telling him, ‘no I don’t have autism’ over and over, until finally I just had to accept it,” “and how did you feel when you accepted it?” I wondered. “I don’t know, maybe a little bit like my heart was ripping.” I held him then, with his head tucked under my chin so he couldn’t see my face. Held him while he pressed against the sorrows in my pocket, pushing them deep into my flesh.

(Okay, I will show you BOTH shots of Alex wearing a sweater, all in one post!
This is like spotting a Giant Panda in the wild!!! In the next picture frame, he's ripping
it off. I believe we bribed him with pizza?) December 2009

Spencer came in from where he’d been listening at the door and lay next to us on the bed. After a moment, he started to tickle Logan, so Logan grabbed Spencer and in no time they were rolling around on the floor, laughing and fighting like brothers do. I remember thinking how ordinary it all seemed, how life (trite though it is to even say it) continues, relentlessly continues. Later that night Spencer, who considers himself a self appointed third parent, climbed into my lap, laid his head against my heart and reached his arm around me to pat my back in a consoling manner, then he said, “Well, I think we handled that well.”

The next morning, as I was flipping pancakes Logan, still rumpled with sleep, walked up to me and said, “You know I’ve been thinking, and this really can’t be right mom.” “What can’t be right?” I asked. “Me having autism,” he said. “Why do you think it can’t be right?” I wondered while sliding six fat pancakes onto a paper plate. “Because I’m a Viking” he said determinedly, grabbing a pancake, “And Vikings don’t get autism.”