I Can't Go Back To Yesterday

"I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then."  

~ Lewis Carroll

Caterpillar: Who... are... you? 
Alice: I'm afraid I can't explain myself, you see, because I'm not myself, you know. 
Caterpillar: I do not know.
Alice: I can't put it any more clearly, sir, because it isn't clear to me. 


Earlier this month, I celebrated my 36th birthday and today is my 1 year blogoversary.  And so I'm taking today to indulge in self-reflection.  (Flashbacks via blog post.)


1989/1990
It's New Year's Eve and I'm home with my family.  We're watching Dick Clark.  I am 14 years old.  I am still under my mother's thumb.  I have not kissed a boy.  I weigh less than 115 lbs and an "A" cup.  I wear glasses, am certain the acne across my forehead is a secret message in braille and growing out a bad haircut - the trifecta of teen angst.    


There is talk about the year 2000.  And I quickly do the math in my head.  In the year 2000, I will turn 25 years old.  And in my young mind, 25 seems old.  I imagine what I would look like.  What my life would be like.  I have an vivid imagination so I conjure up this fabulous life.  My acne has cleared.  I have long perfectly straight hair.  I am married to Johnny Depp.    


1999/2000
It's New Year's Eve and I'm at Sound Factory.  Working as the cashier. (It's one of my jobs.) But I don't mind, I'm working with my best friend.  And we sip free cheap champagne.    Throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning, clubgoers shove their sweaty crumpled dollar bills under the bullet proof window.  


I have boyshort hair, jet black and slicked back.  Lacquer red glasses. Twenty five is 9 months away.  And I haven't met Johnny Depp.  I'm a receptionist, a part-time college student and on the weekends I work at various clubs throughout the city, as cashier as coatcheck girl. The weekends I'm not working.  I am out all night.  I spend my days sleeping.  


It is not the life I imagined at 14.    


2005/2006
It's New Years Eve at 10 pm, I'm fighting my sleep.  I am 30 years old and almost 3 years married.  Working 1 job and still a part-time college student.  I am 33 weeks pregnant.  I know I'm having a boy and we have a name picked out.  His crib is set up, his clothes washed, folded and waiting for him.  We are waiting for him. 


I have read books on motherhood, swaddling and sleep.  I researched bottles and pampers.  I am nervous and excited.  Scared.  Swollen.  I am uncertain of what kind of mother I will be.  Will I be good at?  Will I like it?  Will I change?  

It is still not the life I imagined at 14.  Or the life I imagined at 25.       

2011 (Today)
I have spent many years wondering who I am.  Wandering aimlessly from place to place.  Imagining the kind of life I would have, of the kind of person I would become.  


I never imagined pursuing a masters degree.  I never imagined being a writer.  Or a mother to child with autism.  I never imagined being a voice for someone else.  I never imagined wanting to make a difference.  Or having a cause to believe in and fight for.  


I am all of those things.      


This is one instance where I don't feel like Alice.  I know exactly who I am.  And I know the kind of person I want to be.  I don't have to spend another New Year's wondering or waiting for something to happen.   


It is not the life I ever imagined for myself.  It's so much more.  


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Post inspired by a Kick in the Blog prompt, Who are You?

Building a Dream School

I've been thinking about this for while.  Especially once the Turning 5 process began and all the schools I was considering were in the City, Westchester, Queens, Brooklyn, Long Island. 

Aside from the District 75 schools and the ASD Horizon/Nest programs, there is not a single school dedicated to children with autism in The Bronx.

Let me be more specific.  There is not a single school dedicated in The Bronx for children with autism like The Boy.

The Boy is somewhere in the middle.  And so many children fall into that category. Bright kids.  Sensory seeking kids.  Kids who don't how to make a friend.  Or carry on a conversation.     

What I discovered last year while touring, applying and talking to directors of these special needs programs is that while they accept the autism classification, they do not accept children with behaviors.

Think about that for a second.  A child with autism.  With no behaviors.     

After being rejected from so many schools, I had a candid conversation with the director of my dream school.  She pretty much said, if The Boy didn't have any of his behaviors, if he didn't need the constant redirection - he would have been accepted.

Last night I recieved a call from my friend Gen.  She also happens to be The Boy's former ABA therapist. (She is also pursuing BCBA certification.)  She knows everything we've gone through in the last year.  And she said, "It's great that you write your blog, but we need to really do something."

Gen wants us to start a school in The Bronx for kids like The Boy.               

The Boy needs a school where they follow a combination of ABA and TEACCH.  The Boy needs a school with a sensory room, with an OT who is on staff not contracted.  The Boy needs a school with speech pathologists and Behaviorists and Special Education teachers and assistants who have a true understanding of autism.  The Boy needs a nurturing environment.  The Boy needs a school with sensory friendly classrooms.  The Boy needs a school that involves the entire family. 

Does this sound like the kind of school your child needs?  
Well...Let's create one.  WE need to "be the change that [we] wish to see in the world."

Yeah, I know this seems like a pretty lofty idea.  But every dream starts somewhere.

If you live in The Bronx, if you're a parent of a child like The Boy, if you're a service provider, teacher, therapist and social worker and are interested in our "Building a Dream School" project, email me at autismwonderland@gmail.com


*This post was inspired by many events that have happened over the course of the year and by a Kick in the Blog.   
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 At first, dreams seem impossible, then improbable, and eventually inevitable.
~  Christopher Reeve

Any dream worth dreaming, is worth the effort to make it some true.~ Evan Gourley


Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it.
The time will pass anyway.
~  Unknown

An Unlikely Escape

This September we're all going back to school.  

The Boy starts kindergarten.  

The Husband will return to college after almost a two year hiatus.

And me, continuing with grad school.  (21 credits down,  21 more to go - 7 classes to be exact.) This semester I registered for two classes as opposed to one.

Working full time and going to graduate school is not easy.  Add a special needs child to the mix and it seems almost impossible.  Well, not really impossible.  Crazy is more like it.    

Strangers and friends ask me how I do it.  Family asks me why I do it.  The answer is one in the same.  It's an escape. I know - not a likely one, not a relaxing one as it adds just a little more stress with assignments and getting home late one night a week.  But it's the one evening a week for myself.  To do something I want to do.  To be my own person - not someone's wife.  Or someone's mother.  Or someone's secretary.  

It's a few hours to remember what I love to do.  It's my time to do something that makes me feel better about myself, to improve myself.  To block out the dirty dishes, the IEPs, the laundry, my never ending to do list and my endless pile of files at work.  To talk with other adults about stuff other than kids.  (Most of the students don't even have kids!)  It's my time to be completely selfish. 

Semesters when I take off or during winter/summer breaks, I find myself feeing antsy.  Bored, almost.  As if something is missing.  It's become such a part of my routine, that my life without school seems empty.  Aside from being something I want to do.  It's become something I have to do.  

Even if nothing ever comes of my MFA in creative writing because realistically there isn't much I can do with my degree.  Sure I can teach but I'm too comfortable to start over.  And there's too much at risk with a salary cut.  Or I can finish my book and hope that Oprah puts her magic stamp on it.  But until that happens, this degree is just for me.  

Some mom's go to the gym.  Yeah, I stepped on the scale this morning - I should probably try to squeeze this in too.

Some mom's go to the nail salon and treat themselves to mani/pedi's.  Sigh...I should try to get to the salon more often too.

Some mom's go to the spa for a deep tissue massage.  I think you know where I should try to be...    

  

This mom goes to school.  

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This post was inpired by a Kick in the Blog 

"Where Do You Go When It's Time to Escape."

 How do you escape your reality? 

What gives you reprieve from your life when it gets to be too much?   

If I were really Wonder Woman, I'd have a much smaller waist.

This morning I woke up in a crabby mood.  But after taking a "vacation" day yesterday to stay home with The Boy because he was sick.  I was happy to get up and get dressed to go to work.  Eight hours at the office is much more relaxing than eight hours at home with a sick kid.  


And then I walked into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. 


And there they were.  Taunting me.  Staring me down.  And all like, "Yeah, we're still here.  And what?"


Damn you, dirty dishes!


So while my coffee was brewing and before taking a shower, I washed a sink full of dishes.  From the meal that I cooked the night before.  All the while cursing out thinking of The Husband (my sleeping beauty still snoring in bed).


This led to a mild morning argument  discussion.  I won't get into those details.  Feel free to use your imagination.  Or if you're married, you probably won't have to imagine too hard. 


In all fairness, The Husband is a pretty great guy.  And he does help me.  And The Husband would have washed the dishes - had I asked him too.  And that's my problem.  I don't ask him.  I don't ask him for help until I'm annoyed that he hasn't helped me.

My other problem?  When he attempts to wash the dishes without being asked?  I shoo him away because he doesn't do it right.  But in my defense, The Husband has very delicate skin (bendito) and can only wash dishes with cold water.       

But dirty dishes isn't really the problem.


My biggest problem is: I don't know how to ask for help.

I am not the kind of person to ask for help when I need it. And even if help is offered, I don't take it.  I always think that I can do things by myself.  I take on too much.  I don't know how to delegate - not that The Husband is one to be ordered around.  But you know what I mean.  For me, asking for help seems like a sign of weakness.


Because I'm a wife. A mother.  My job is to do everything.  And help everyone.  It's what I'm supposed to do.  Isn't it?


Um...no.  Not really. It isn't.  


Because I am not Wonder Woman.  I am human.  I cannot do it all. This year especially I've taken on a lot of extra responsibility - with The Boy's Turning 5 drama and all.  So while I may have felt I was on my own.  I really wasn't. 


Yes, there were things that The Husband could not do or be a part of.  Not because he didn't want to be, he just physically couldn't, due to the demands of his new job.  But, there were a lot of things he could of helped with.  I was am just too stubborn and too "strong" to ask.


And when you are pretend to be strong and front like no assistance is needed - people kind of stop attempting and offering. 


Well, I've been strong for too long.  And it's showing.


I am tired, frustrated, mentally and physically exhausted.  Working full time, going to school and raising a child with special needs - is not easy.  And maintaining our little abode.  And signing The Boy up for therapies.  Filling out paperwork, scheduling appointments.  And on 4 to 5 hours of sleep a night.  I need to stop pretending that this is normal.  I need a break.  I DO need help.  And I do have someone willing to help me.  If only I were to ask for help.      


Unless, I pranced around in this little get up - then I wouldn't need to ask a thing.  Dinner would be served and the dishes would be washed.  But that's a whole other adults only post...




"Wishes won't wash dishes." ~ American Proverb


This post was inspired by a Kick in the Blog prompt:  When was the last time you asked for help? When was the last time you should have asked and didn't?

What Am I Doing Here?

Post inspired by Jessica Rosenberg's Kick in the Blog, "What do you love to do?"
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 Whenever asked, "what do you do?" With a heavy sigh, I say, "I'm a secretary."  Sometimes I jazz it up and say, "I'm  a legal secretary."  Sometimes I add, "I write a blog and I'm in grad school."  Though it's often added as a disclaimer.  But never do I dare, call myself a writer.  And on the rare occasion someone asks a follow up question as to what I'm going to grad school for, I say, "I want to be a writer."


Because clearly I believe that I am not one yet.


I'm a secretary because it's what I get paid to do.  And I write because it's what I love to do.  I just wished that I would or could be financially compensated for doing what I love. 


Oh I know there are a slew of blog writers who make money off their blogs.  I'm not one of them.


I'm not complaining and have no plans about quitting my day job.  In this economy, I know how lucky I am to have a job with benefits.  But that's what it is - just a job.  A place to go, to make my living, to collect a check.  And as much as I enjoy having someplace to go and the people I work with, at the end of the day, there's no reward.  No personal satisfaction or fulfillment.  No sense of pride in a job well done.  No one to tell me I've made a difference.  Not that I need that.  But isn't that a good feeling that everyone should experience?

I'm just a secretary.  I'm not saving a life one file folder at a time.  I don't work for the Board of Education or a Special Needs law firm or some other worthy institution.  I am just a body behind a desk.  Answering phones, scheduling meetings, making photo copies, avoiding office gossip.  


This morning I shared an article I wrote for the Tiki Tiki with a co-worker.  She came up to me later and asked, "What are you doing here?  You should be writing books." 

I actually do have a book that I started about ten years. One day, I'll finish. I have a few short stories that could use revising. I'll get back to them.  I have a few worthwhile blog posts that could be sent out to some special needs publications.  Someday. 

And I stay up late at night, writing this little blog and watching it slowly but surely gain momentum.  I love writing it.  I love the thought process and dedication I have to it.  I love having a place to share our story.  I love reading through the comments, even though I can't always respond quickly.  And I love reading other blogs and connecting with people that I never would have met otherwise.  

I am always so grateful whenever someone takes the time to sign in, write a comment and enter in that wacky 4-6 letter/number pass code to post.  I am always so moved when someone writes me to say that they understand or ask for advice or say that my experience has helped them.  I am always so moved when strangers care enough about me and The Boy to send me words of encouragement, advice and virtual {HUGS}.  And my day is always a little brighter when I notice I have new blog followers or "Likes" to my Facebook Fan Page. 

I put more work, more thought and more love into this blog than I've put into any job I've ever had.  (And for those that know, you all know how many jobs I've had.)

And I don't get paid for writing. But I don't care.  Here, money doesn't matter.  Because here, I feel like I am making a difference.  It's a labor of love.          

So what am I doing here?  Working 9 to 5 as a secretary? 

Passing the time, paying life's dues, making a living.  So I can do what I love.         

He Believes, He Believes

Yesterday while trolling scrolling through my news feed on FB, I came across a post that immediately caught me attention: Who Believes in You written by Elena at CiaoMom.  Her post was inspired by a Kick in the Blog - a new site dedicated for blog inspiration. (Brilliant!) 

The prompt was: Who believes in you today? Who believed in you in the past? 

 

I didn't even have to think twice.

In the of May 2010, after a grueling CPSE meeting, the parent member told me that the best therapy we could provide for The Boy was a sibling.

Later that evening, I took a pregnancy test and it was positive.  I believed it was a sign, it was meant to be.  We were excited, apprehensive but looking forward to having a baby.  We were ready.  At my first prenatal visit, my obgyn said the due date was to be January 20th.  That was another sign!  The Boy's birthday is January 20th - they'd be exactly 5 years apart.

But during my 16 week visit, the baby's heart had stopped.  And for a few moments, mine had stopped too.  I had what was called a missed miscarriage.  Walking out of the doctor's office that day, across the street to the hospital, I felt heavy.  Like when your arm falls asleep and it's hard to move and it's tingly numb and you keep pinching the skin trying to bring it back to life.  That is how my entire body felt.  Numb.  I could have been stabbed twenty times and not felt a thing.

Was it a sign too?  A sign that another baby is not meant to be?

I've tried to convince myself it was "for the best," like some people said.  Considering all the running around I did over the course of the year - touring & interviewing at schools for The Boy.  Considering all the money that was spent on application fees, on books, on a special education consultant.  How would pregnancy and a newborn altered my decision making process? 

During this year, I've doubted myself at least once a day.  I've questioned every decision.  And at least once a week, I've crumpled into a ball on the sofa and cried.  For our loss, for our unsuccessful attempts at trying again, for fear of failure.  

And during this year, The Husband has comforted me.  Consoled me.  Held me.  And just let me be.  He tells me I am making the right decisions, when I think I have not.  He tells I am doing the best job ever, when I think I have failed.  He tells me I'm a good mother, when I say I'm not doing enough.  He tells me to keep writing, when I think what's the point.  He tells me 'we will keep trying.'  He reminds me that The Boy loves me and appreciates me even though he does not say it spontaneously or look me in the eye.  The Husband tells me over and over again, that he believes.  And every so often, I believe him.    
       
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The Husband is a big Frank Sinatra fan and this is one of his favorite songs.

I believe, I believe,
I believe in wishing wells,
But I also believe in a lot of things,
Things the daisy tells,
I believe, I believe that a four-leaf clover brings,
Lots of luck, lots of joy, lots of happiness,
I believe those things.
And when it's christmas time I believe in santa claus,
Why do I believe, I guess that I believe because
I believe, I believe,
I believe that dreams come true,
If you wish for a dream by a wishing well,
Don't tell your wish or you'll break the spell,
It may sound naive, but that's what I believe.

Lyrics by Ervin Drake