Breaking Out and Leaning In (my 500th blog post)

I haven't read Sheryl Sandberg's book, Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead, yet but over the last few weeks - I've read several articles in response to Lean In. I've read so many inspiring Lean In stories.  And it's made me reflect on my own life and this journey I've been on.

Nearly twenty years ago, I graduated high school, uncertain of what I wanted to do. So many of my friends seemed to have this plan. I didn't have a clue. 

I registered for classes at the local community college but after a year, I decided it wasn't for me. And I quit to work full-time in a department store. 

I floated from job to job over the next few years - often working two to three jobs at a time.

I returned to school because I was bored and needed something to fill the time. I struggled through most of my classes - especially math and science. I took classes in history, philosophy, business and psychology.  The only classes that interested me were courses in literature, creative writing or journalism.

After seven years working in retail and restaurants, I decided it was time to 'grow up' and get a regular 9-5 job in an office. I had no office experience. I had practically no computer skills. I hadn't taken a typing test since junior year with Mrs. Becker (and even then, I did horribly). And when I went to interview with recruiters - they were brutally honest. "You have no experience. No one will hire you." They all urged me to interview for retail positions.  

I was only twenty-five years old and I felt as if I were being shoved into this box of who I was to be. Even though, I was unemployed - I refused all retail interviews. I had never had any problems getting a job I wanted. I knew someone would eventually hire me.

I interviewed with a small private equity firm - I was in their office for almost four hours. I was certain, the job was mine. And I was shocked when they went with someone else. But I was lucky, that person didn't work out because a few weeks later - I was offered the receptionist position. 
    
I was going to school part-time at night and while my new job provided tuition reimbursement, they weren't very supportive of their receptionist going to school at night. Knowing I had another priority in my life was a threat. It meant I wanted something more than the cubicle I was sitting in. When I left a few years later, they were surprised it wasn't for another receptionist position.

My next corporate job was in the legal department of an investment firm. It was a true boys club - all the attorneys were white men, the one female attorney was ostracized and ridiculed. A secretary going to a city college was no threat - not to the attorneys anyway. The other secretaries - assumed my time with them was limited and so they didn't take me seriously either.

When I left that job, I was more hopeful than I had been in years. I took a job at a company where I thought I had real growth potential. I had just transferred to my fourth college and finally figured out what I wanted to do. 

I got married. Had a baby. And two weeks before I (finally) graduated with a BA in English, my son was diagnosed with autism.

Trying to find balance as a working mom going to school is hard enough - adding special needs to the mix adds a whole other layer of guilt.

It's been five years since my son was diagnosed with autism. And I've spent that time, being his advocate and his teacher. I've also been pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing. I have been in the same company for almost a decade and I've been an admin for more. 

This spring I will graduate and while I wish I could say - that I my degree will advance me in some way but I know that it will not. I will not be given a promotion and not even a pay raise. 

I have been told time and time again that I am 'over-qualified' for my current admin position but under qualified to do anything else. The only way I can "lean in" is if I quit and start over completely, which is really scary considering that I need to work, I need my salary and my benefits. Having a young special needs child - leaning in seems like a luxury I cannot afford. Not right now, at least.

Not every woman in the workplace can Lean In - that's just a reality we have to face. But that doesn't mean we cannot lead.

Two years ago, I started this blog as a class assignment. And it's really changed the way I've thought about myself, my job and my writing. I've learned to own it. I've learned to make peace with myself. I've learned that I cannot allow myself to be defined by my job. I've learned to pursue my dream in my own time - even if it means, taking one class at a time.  

I've learned that sometimes you have to break out in order to lean in. And just because I can't Lean In at work, that doesn't mean I can't Lean In another direction. 

A Walk In My Shoes

I remember how happy I was, bringing them home. My purple wedge Lucky sandals. They weren't on sale but they were well worth the price.  The moment I tried them on, they fit perfectly on my feet.  I was starting to gain weight, my back was beginning to ache and the shoes provided the support and comfort that I would need in the coming months.  

I immediately took them out of the box and held them up for The Husband.  

"What do you think?" I asked.

"I don't," he said. 

I wasn't surprised. I figured he wouldn't like them.  But I didn't care, he wasn't the one that was 8 weeks pregnant.

I wore them almost daily, revolving my outfits around my purple shoes. I wore white, pink and navy. The only other purple item I owned was a scarf and I carried that with me, to wrap around my shoulders on the subway. I was able to wear my shoes all day at work and then walk home through the park on my way home without my feet aching at the end of the day.  

They were the best shoes ever. 

I remember wearing them on that day in early August.  Walking up the block to my OB/GYNs office for my 16 week appointment.  Dressed in all white and my purple shoes.  I walked with confidence, excited to hear the heartbeat of the baby growing inside me.  

I remember the look on my OB/GYNs face as she told me, there was no heartbeat to be heard.  

I remember how heavy my feet felt walking out of the doctors office.

I remember the next day dressed in a navy blue dress and purple shoes walking alone to the hospital.  Walking slowly, with my hand round my belly protecting the lifeless baby that needed to be removed.

I remember the echo of my purple shoes as I walked down the hospital hall.

And when it was all over, I remember The Husband slipping off my hospital socks one by one.  I remember how gentle he was as he placed a purple shoe gingerly on each foot.  And how he held me up and helped me walk; his arm around my waist and me leaning against him.  

I remember putting those purple shoes in the closest and not wearing them for the rest of the summer.

Then the following summer, I reached into the closet and pulled out my purple shoes.  And every morning, as I got dressed, I looked at those shoes, wondering if I could wear them. Even though I loved them.  Even though I wanted to wear them.  Even though I looked at them at least twice a week, only to put on another pair.  As silly as it seemed, I was afraid to walk in my own shoes.  And at the end of last summer, back in the closet they went.

This summer, once again, I pulled the purple shoes from my closet.  Every morning, I dressed and looked over the shoes I longed to wear.  

As I prepared for BlogHer, I shopped my closet, trying to figure out what to wear.  I knew I wanted to wear my white dress and I needed to decide on a pair of shoes.  They needed to be comfortable.  I looked at my purple shoes, they would be perfect I thought. Except the Saturday I wanted to wear my white dress, marked two years since the day I lost the baby.

Could I wear them?  Was I strong enough to walk in my own shoes?    

I spent the last days of July and the first days of August crying myself to sleep.  Fighting back tears on the subway, grateful to hide behind my big dark glasses.  Going into the bathroom at work to collect myself. I wondered, why. I wondered how different my life would be, had the baby been born.  Wondering how a baby would have changed our life? Would I be writing? I wondered what kind of brother The Boy would be?       
    
On Saturday, August 4th, I slipped into my white eyelet cotton dress and stepped into my purple shoes.  I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time. I have spent the last two years, trying to accept. Trying to forget.  Trying to tell myself, these things happen for a reason.  I just haven't figured out the reason.  

I walked out my door wearing my purple shoes. The shoes felt a little lighter, it was my heart that was heavy.  
        
I walked around BlogHer that Saturday, mostly alone, unable to focus on the sessions. None of it seemed important to me. Though hearing Katie & Soledad made me forget my sadness for a little while.  

I went to the Serenity Suite for a few moments of quiet.

I wandered around, met up with some friends and waited to see another friend in the fashion show.  And after the fashion show, I even danced.

I danced in the shoes I had been scared to walk in.

It was a little after midnight when I stepped out of the cab and walked up the block into my building. After walking around the whole day, after dancing into the night my feet didn't ache.  And my heart felt a little lighter.

I remembered how much I loved my purple shoes and how happy they made me.

And I knew I could wear them again.                   

Wearing my purple shoes for the 1st time in 2 years @BlogHer 

Resolutions for the Special Needs Parent

Everyone makes New Year Resolutions.  Some are broken ten minutes after midnight.  Some are kept all year round.  We're on day 5 of the New Year.  But a resolution can happen any day of the year.  I've made a few personal resolutions - save money, lose weight, exercise - though I'm trying to think of them as lifestyle changes.  But I've also made some parental resolutions.  Some are reminders to keep doing what we've been doing.  And a few are things that we still need to work on. They are realistic and absolutely attainable.


Make Peace with Autism: An autism diagnosis isn't the end of your child's life.  I know "your child has autism" are not the words any parent wants to hear.  They certainly weren't the words we wanted to hear.  But we heard them.  And we didn't ignore the diagnosis.  We faced it.  It wasn't easy then and it's not easy now - almost 4 years later.  We went through a "mourning" period - which is natural.  But we learned to make peace with autism.  And once we made peace with it, we were able to move forward.     

Listen: There are so many books on autism. On diet, methodology, advocacy, memoir, self-help.  Books written by parents, educators, doctors and adults (on the spectrum).  But it's impossible to read every single book.  My best resource has always been talking to other parents.  There is always something to learn from the experiences of others.  I especially like talking to parents with children a few years older than The Boy.  So listen to what other parents are saying about autism.  Go to your local support group.  Introduce yourself to a parent at the next PTA meeting or while you're in the waiting room of a doctors/therapists office.  Ask questions.  Twitter & Facebook are also great places to start.         

Teach:  There are so many generalizations and misconceptions about autism.  So many things that people don't know or understand.  In order for people to accept, they need to understand.  Be the teacher in your family, circle of friends and community.  If you read something interesting, pass the information on to a friend, teacher or therapist.  Some of the things that have been of the most value to me, have been passed on by others. 

Take a Time Out:  When you are the parent of a special needs child, it's really easy to lose yourself.  It's easy to to go months, years even, without a haircut or a manicure or massage.  Or a date with your spouse.  Or out shopping with a friend.  It's okay to take time out for yourself.  It's okay to take a few minutes a day, a few hours a week or one day a month to do something just for you - without any guilt.  Do something that will make you feel good, something that has absolutely nothing to do with being a parent or special needs children. (Earlier this week, I took time to give myself a manicure and pedicure, something as silly as painting my nails made me feel better.  Hoping I can keep this up.)               

Be Realistic:  Many believe that autistics (or people with autism, whichever your prefer) want to be left alone, that they don't need or want friends.  This is not always the case.  The Boy may never be the most popular kid (who knows? I could be wrong!) but I know that he does not want complete isolation.  The Boy doesn't do well in large groups but I know when its him and another child, The Boy tries to play.  That is what we focus on.  One on one peer relationships.    

Recognize: Parents - of typical or atypical children - often look to other children as a measure.  And we are all guilty of the "But that kid does it, why can't mine?"  The IEP and evaluation reports makes this especially challenging because it focuses on weaknesses.  I had to learn to recognize all the things that The Boy has achieved.  Even the smallest thing - like coloring within the lines or putting on socks independently.   

Let go:  We all have expectations of what our children are supposed to be.  No one expects a diagnosis of any kind.  And after a diagnosis comes fear, doubt, anger and worry. Let go of all of that.  The diagnosis is out of your control.  How you handle the diagnosis - is not.  So let go and let your child be.  They will surprise you.  The Boy surprises me every day.

What are your resolutions? 

the LITTLE things are a BIG deal [#1]

I wanted to kick off my first blog post of 2012 with something special: my very own blog meme.  For more information click HERE.  Please note, you do not have to be a special needs parent to link up.  AutismWonderland is a community.  And I want to celebrate your every day wonderful moments with you.

*

The Boy runs to me, iPad clutched in both hands.  He is smiling.  It's a dimpled smile, baby teeth showing.  And his eyes are bright and blinking rapidly with excitement. I know he's done something that he wants to show me.  

But still I remind him to walk.  And then I bring him back to where he started from, asking him to walk to me.  I know he wants to run.  But he walks, one foot in front of the other, across the room to where I am.  The way he is walking, I can tell he's telling himself to walk, walk, walk; walk, walk, walk.  The Boy is still smiling.  Looking down at the iPad and then back at me.  His arms and shoulders are wiggly.

"Look Mommy."  He shoves the iPad in my face, almost too close for me to see.  It's just a blur of colors.  And I have to hold it out.

The Boy stands in front of me.  Still smiling.  Body still twitching and wiggling.  He's waiting for me to say it. 

"Wow!  This is great!  Good Job."  I hold up my hand, and The Boy slaps me five.

What's the big deal about this picture?  Not only did The Boy color within the lines but he was proud to show me that he did a good job. 

The Boy has been doing a lot of coloring and drawing lately.  He wants to do it.  He will sit still and focus and really concentrate to stay in the lines.  Some days are harder than others.  But he's getting so much better.   Every day, with every he gets so much better.

And there was a time, not so long ago, when The Boy couldn't hold a crayon at all.  And I had to sit with him, my hand over his.  He used to cry and switch hands.  Because he lacked the hand strength to hold a crayon or pencil for more than a few minutes.  And when he learned to hold the crayon, he was looking everywhere else except the piece of paper.

Handwriting and coloring is still difficult for The Boy.  We still struggle through our homework.  But his interest is improving.  He asks to color and write and erase.  He wants to cut out pictures he's colored and loves to show off his work.   And he feels good when I praise him.  And when he feels good, I feel good. 

But the best thing and biggest deal about this picture is that it shows how hard he tries.

One Doesn't Have To Be The Loneliest Number

(a recent conversation with my parents)

Dad: "When are you going to give Norrin a brother or sister?  You're not getting any younger."  

Me: "It's not that easy..."

Mom: "Ay please, at her age - she might as well forget it." 

Before The Boy was born, I had never given thought to having children. 

Seconds after The Boy was born, I was immediately asked, "So...when are you having another one?" 

And on the day The Boy's was diagnosed, the doctor warned me that I was more likely to have another child with autism.  But friends, family and therapists insisted that The Boy really needed a sibling more than ever.  

If it were up to The Husband, we'd have an apartment full of babies.  The Husband is 1 of 7.  And all of his siblings have 3 or more kids.  And some of those kids have kids.  (Clearly, I am the weakest link in the fertility department.) 

And after my miscarriage, it's been difficult.  And with every month that passes, the more accepting I become.  I will probably never have another child. 

Most days, I try not to think about it.  But it's pretty tough when I read other special needs parent blogs and the focus is sibling relationships. 

I always wonder - what kind of big brother would The Boy be?  How would a 2nd child change the dynamic of our family?  Is The Boy missing out on something?  Am I? 

And these 'what if' moments make me reflect on my own sibling relationships.  I'm 1 of 3 and we're not close. And as for The Husband's relationship with his siblings...let's just say that the holidays came and went without any phone calls. 

Sibling relationships can go either way - I have friends who consider their siblings their very best friend.  But I also know siblings who have gone years without speaking.

When you have more than one kid, you just never know what their relationship will be like.  You can try your best to make them close but it's a gamble, like anything else.  

This is what I tell myself whenever I feel guilty about The Boy being an only child.

While The Husband and I may not have the ideal sibling relationships, we are lucky to have formed friendships to fulfill the sibling role.    

I would love nothing more than to have another baby, to give The Boy the opportunity to develop a relationship with a sibling.  But if that doesn't happen, that's okay too. 

The Boy will be fine as an only child.  He doesn't need to have a brother or sister to be close to someone.  And The Boy will not have to be alone if he does not want to be. 

Just as the The Husband and I learned to form friendships and adopt them as our "brothers" and "sisters," The Boy can do the same.  We can teach The Boy pick a good friend and to be a good friend.  Even if it's just to one other person.  That's all The Boy needs. 

    

Procrastination Sucks (Sundays in My City)

It happens every semester around this time.  With three weeks left, papers, presentations & short stories are due - and I've fallen horribly behind.  This semester more than ever.  The 2 graduate classes I've been taking are kicking my butt.  Trying to juggle school, work, laundry & all the stuff going on with The Boy - well,  it's tough.   

I am not Super Woman. I am Procrastination Woman. 

So on this beautiful November Sunday, I have kicked The Husband and The Boy out of the apartment.  I have a presentation paper that I need to email my amazing, talented and wonderfully understanding professor by tomorrow morning.  

I've had this paper written in my head for weeks.  And (in my head) it's brilliant!  Let's just hope I can put the brilliance on paper.     

Wish me luck!       

ancient mac and all my reference books

 
What's a Sunday like in your City?   

Unknown Mami wants to know!  

Go on over to Sundays In My City.  

When all else fails, I say a little prayer.

Last night after The Boy fell asleep, I sat on the sofa with The Husband and started to cry.  "It shouldn't have to be this hard." 

And The Husband, put his hand over mine.  "It'll be okay, babe." 

Because that's what he says when he's run out of words of consolation.

It's been a rough couple of weeks.
   
I am not a religious person.  I don't go to church or really believe in God even though I was raised Catholic, taught Sunday School (while in high school) and worked at a Rectory.  I'm pretty much an Agnostic, borderline Atheist.  But this isn't about God or Jesus.  It's about faith.  It's about the power words can provide when you are searching for serenity. 

That is where I am today, because I've been saying this prayer all morning (well...skipping the last 5 or 6 lines because like I said, I am not a believer). 

I can't force people to do the right thing when it comes to The Boy. 

I know I am doing the right thing.  I know I am doing all that I can for him.   

Now I will just need to have faith. 
 



What gets you through the hard times? 

All You Need Is 10 Minutes

The Boy had me up at 3 am this morning.  I am not even half way through my day.  I.  Am. Tired.  There's another word that I can put between Am and Tired but I try not to be a potty mouth on my blog.  I was supposed to write my blog post on the train this morning.  But I was nestled in between two strangers.  And I'll admit - the extra body heat was just what I need to take a little train nap.  Complete with my head rolling, dreaming and maybe just maybe a little bit of drool.

So needless to say, not a blog post was written this morning.  But it was supposed to be on motivation.  I had a discussion with The Husband over the weekend and I had this whole post written in my mind.  Anyway, I'll just cut to the chase.  

Motivation.  If you want to do something.  You do it.  We all don't have 3 hours a day to do what we want or love to do.  I certainly do not.  But every day I give myself at least 10 minutes.  Don't believe me?  

This post took me 10 minutes.  

Have you taken 10 minutes for yourself today?  

 

We are what we repeatedly do. 

Excellence, therefore, is not an act but a habit.

Aristotle



www.planetofsuccess.com



I Needed To Snooze Just A Little Bit Longer

Yesterday morning at 5 am, I jumped out of bed, showered, wrote a quick post while drinking my morning cup of coffee and made pasta so that I can make lunch for The Husband and myself. 

This morning?  Completely different story.  The alarm went off at 5 am and instead of waking up, I walked into the bathroom (because that's where I keep my alarm clock) and hit snooze.  I snoozed for about an hour.  And I would have loved nothing more than to keep right on snoozing.

But I had to wake up and get ready for work.  Get The Boy ready for school.  Make the beds and clean up a bit so that when my mother comes over later she doesn't yell at me for leaving the apartment in a complete disaray.  Yes, at 36 years old I still live in fear of having my mother yell at me. 

Last night I started a blog post about the importance of family in our lives.  But then I looked at my syllabus for the semester and realized, I am way behind on my work. I have at least 2 short stories to write - one for each class.  I'm taking American Gothic Literature and a Fiction Writing workshop.  A ton of reading to do catch up on.  And a presentation paper to start.

I've been struggling a lot with school lately.  More so than usual.  It's not easy, working full time, being a mom and a graduate student.  I'm tired of doing it.  There are nights when I sit in class, listening to the kids talk about how busy they are, I just want to laugh.  So many of them work part-time, are single and without kids.  They don't have a clue.  And there are nights when I sit in class, thinking about The Boy and everything going on in our lives that talking about the symbolism in Poe's The Black Cat seems pointless.  I'm a different kind of student.  Don't get me wrong, I care and I want to do well.  I'm just in a different place. 

So last night, I really started thinking about fiction writing and I began working on my short stories.  This is what a got so far ~

Gothic:  The black water of the Bronx River...

Fiction:  On the nights that I woke up screaming...

I actually wrote more than this but I obviously I can't post it all here.  And this morning instead of sleeping on the downtown D, I wrote.  And one short story for my fiction workshop is almost complete.  And I have an idea of how to approach my presentation. 

So instead of writing something sappy and meaningful about how much the help of my family means to me, you get this.

Back to Basics

Earlier this week, I felt as if I reached a crossroad.  As if I had to make a decision between this blog and The Boy.  I questioned the purpose of writing it at all.

      

Why must I choose?  When what I really need to do is choose wisely.  
One of the things my professor stated during the semester this all began was: 
Don't put it all on the blog.  (Save it for the book.)   

Oops...sort of forgot about that one.


Yesterday afternoon while on my way home from work I sat in front of an advertisement that said:

It's your story.  
Tell it. 
Write it. 
Explore it. 
Live it. 
Believe in it. 
Run with it. 
Experiment with it. 
Experience it. 
Continue it.

Who knew I would find inspiration on the Uptown 6? 

Anyway, it made me remember the reason why I started this blog.  I wanted to tell a story.  I wanted to inspire others just as The Boy inspired me.  To raise awareness. To inform and to educate.  And the reason I wanted to do this was because when it comes to mainstream media and autism - Latinos are so rarely featured.  Because our stories are not on the bookshelves. I started this blog because I wanted to erase the stigma of autism within the Latino community.

The Boy putting together a 60 piece puzzle - 2009

The purpose of this blog is The Boy.  He is my great success story.  And I'm going to continue it.        

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

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

~ Steve Jobs. 

Connecting the Pieces

Whenever I come home from work, I stand in the doorway as my mother calls out to The Boy, "Look who's home.  Come and say Hi to Mommy!"

I wait for a few seconds with my jacket on and my purse in hand.  I am usually tired by the time I walk in at 6:30 and just want to kick off my shoes, peel off my clothes, scrub the subway filth off of my hands and lay down on the sofa. But I wait anyway.  Hoping The Boy will run out from where ever he is to say hello and maybe even give me a kiss. 

Some days, he will.  On the days he greets me at the door, his reaction varies.  Sometimes I get the kiss.  Sometimes it's just, "Hi Mommy."  And sometimes, he runs to the door, jumps up and down frantically flapping his hands.   

Some days he just won't get up or look up.  And I have to go to him.

I have learned not to take it personally.  Though I'll admit, I would love to walk in the door one day and have The Boy run up to me, say Hey Mom and give me a kiss - without any prompting to do so.

I have accepted that it's just not what he does.  It's not that he doesn't love me - I know he does.  It just does not occur to him to do these things.  Just like it doesn't occur to The Boy to say hello to other children in the playground - even if they say hello first.

That's one of the components of autism - the social connection, the inability to interact and communicate appropriately with others.   The social connections that come so naturally for some parents and their children - is something that The Husband and I work on.  Every day.  Because it doesn't come naturally to The Boy.

The puzzle piece is the international symbol for autism because it's "a puzzling conditioning [that] isolates them from normal human contact and therefore they do not 'fit it.'"

But autism is not the puzzle I'm trying to put together.  The puzzle for me is trying to find new ways to connect with The Boy.  Connecting different pieces together to see what works.

And there are moments when I know the pieces I've put together, fit perfectly.  Moments when he spontaneously says, I love you.  Moments when he looks around the apartment and asks "Where did Daddy go?" Moments when he sneaks up on me and asks what I'm doing.  Or when The Boy grabs my hand and asks me to read a story.  And that's when I put down whatever I'm doing to read to him. 

For our family, reading is how we best connect.  There are times when I read the same book - 2, 3, 4 times in a row.  We take turns reading the lines.  I ask him to point to words or pictures.  I ask him to spell words.  When I'm reading to The Boy, he complies.  He listens.

But the moments I love most are those few seconds before he falls asleep.  After we've read our books.  When The Boy's body and mind have calmed down to the state of exhaustion and he's able to stay still.  When his eyes are closing and opening, reaching for my hand, not wanting me to leave.  And even though The Boy's five years old and should learn to go to sleep alone.  I will wait.  The Husband will wait.  Because we need those moments.  We need to know that The Boy wants to connect with us.  To be a part of us. 
           
How do you connect with your children?

Post inspired by a bi-weekly blog prompt called #HalbaTalk through Latina Bloggers Connect.

What Do You Do When A Special Ed Teacher Tells You "I Can't Teach Your Child."

Back in May, I wrote this post about The Boy's acceptance to the ASD Horizon program.

The Boy's 1st day of Kindergarten

Well Thursday was The Boy's first day of kindergarten.  It didn't go so well.  According to the teacher, The Boy poked himself in the eye with a crayon - TWICE.  According to the teacher, he banged his head on the table.  And scratched the assistant then tried to bite her. (I'm going to get back to the bite thing.)  These are not typical behaviors for The Boy.  He's not aggressive and while he has no sense of danger or body awareness, he is not self injurious.

But if you want to laugh.  And I have to laugh (through my tears) about this one - the teacher said, "He didn't want to make friends with the other kids." 

(Um...yeah.  Let that one sink in.)    

In The Boy's  defense, he was at his last school for 3 years.  And if you know anything about autism, you know - routine and consistency are crucial.  And I knew that the transition would be difficult for all of us.  I left that first half day of kindergarten, feeling unsure about my decision but still hopeful.

On the 2nd half day of kindergarten, I put The Boy on the bus and he went on willingly.  Because I'm a stalker mom, I went to the school and waited for the bus.  I wanted to see for myself how this school handled busing.  It went smoothly. 

I did the same thing in the afternoon. Showed up to the school a few minutes before busing to make sure all was okay.  The Boy went on the bus willingly.  I asked the teacher, if the second day was better.  Her response: 

I don't think I can teach him.

How is he going to learn if he can't sit still?

We'll give it a few more days but we may need to reconvene.  For now he's here on a probationary period. 

Wait - what?  Days?  Probation?  What about "I'm going to talk to the BCBA consultant." or "What methods have worked in the past?"  Nope.  After 2 half days of kindergarten, she was giving up on my kid.  

I wonder if that teacher knows how damaging and how devastating her words were to me.  How often I've replayed those lines in mind since she's said them.  How I feel like I've failed.  Or how heartbroken I am.  

 

How do you give up after just 2 half days?  How does a special education tell a parent their child is unteachable?  When there are have been so people in our lives for the last three years,  who have worked with us and with The Boy.  

If a teacher feels that way about my child, do I even want him there?   What if the alternatives are no better?

I couldn't even hold it in until I got home.  I cried the whole way home on the 6 train.  Willing the train to go faster because I needed to meet the bus in front of our building.   I slumped down, and cried - shoulders shaking, sniffling sobs.  With my big sunglasses, I must have looked like a battered woman.  And in a way I was, her words were like a knife in my stomach.  I don' think I've felt so  defeated.  Of course I didn't make it.  I got a call from the bus driver while stuck between stops.  And when I got off my stop - I had to run all the way to our building.  Which was interesting because I'm not in the best physical shape.

And when I reached for The Boy's hand, I noticed 2 stickers pressed in his palms.  They were the stickers I had given him that morning, to fidget with while on the bus.  Was he simply ignored?  Did they even try to engage him?  There are only 5 children in the class (including The Boy) and 3 adults.  I am at a complete loss. 

Monday is The Boy's first full day.  And I have knots in my stomach. I'm trying to breathe.  I'm trying to take it 10 minutes at a time.  I'm trying to get my mind and my game plan together.  Because I still have hope.  Maybe not in the school or in this teacher.  But in The Boy.  And I will never give up. 

*About the biting.  The Boy is a highly sensory seeking child.  He craves deep pressure particularly to the cheek/jaw area.  When frustrated he will press his fist into his cheek - usually his mouth will be partially open.  We give him gum to help redirect the behavior.  But if someone is holding his hand, he will use their hand to apply the pressure.  I could see where someone would think he was going to bite but he won't.  I wrote the teacher this in a letter and left it in his folder.  I sent a box of gum in his book bag too.  Both came back on Friday.  The box of gum unopened and the letter untouched. 

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.  

~~~~~~~~~~

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?   

There's No Getting Over It

It's been a year already?  My best friend asked me yesterday.  He said it surprised as if the last year went by too quickly for him to realize.  And for him, I guess it may have. 

It's been a year since my miscarriage.  You'd think, after a year I'd be over it. 

I'd known women who had them.  And since my miscarriage, women have shared their stories, to comfort me in some way.  To let me know that I am not alone.  And it's like I've been inducted into this secret society of women.  

My mother had a miscarriage, before becoming pregnant with me.  I had known that growing up.  How I learned such an intimate detail about my mother, I can't remember.  But she would say to me, If I didn't have that miscarriage, you would not be here.  As if I were her consolation prize.  Maybe that's what the baby after miscarriage is?  

Miscarriage used to be just a word, whispered among women.  I had never known it's devastation, the emotional and physical toll it takes. The aftermath.  They are the things left unsaid.  Miscarriages are often kept secret, a mother's mourning done in silence. 

And while I was often asked - how are you feeling? I always answered, fine and smiled because I knew no one wanted to hear the truth.  And quite honestly, I cannot and do not want to speak the truth.  But it's the things I have the most difficulty saying out loud that come so easily in writing.

This is the truth:

The minutes after walking out of my doctors office, after being told of my loss, I still cradled the swell of my belly - protecting the baby that was no longer alive.

Hours later, I stared at the small shiny sonogram photo not know what to do with it.  Leaving it out was painful.  Throwing it away? Betrayal.  Instead I tucked it into a book I knew I would never read.

I stayed up all night, unable to sleep, haunted by my tomb of a womb.  And while I wanted the procedure to be done as quickly as possible, I wanted my baby just a little bit longer.

Seconds after surgery, I opened my eyes to the blur of bright whites was my doctor - smiling though her eyes were sad.  And in her hand, a plastic bag.  I knew what my doctor was holding. "Is it a boy or girl?  Can you tell?"  I asked the question, my mother told me not to ask.  My doctor shook her head; though I suspected if she knew, she would never tell me.    

Days after surgery, I was back in the hospital.  Examined, interrogated, poked, prodded and drugged by doctors, nurses and medical students.  My baby was no longer a "baby" but referred to as "the product of conception."  As if medical terminology could minimize my loss, lessen my grief, dull my pain.

Weeks later, I still could not fit into regular clothes.  Defeated, I'd slip back into my maternity jeans.

And while everyone else (understandably) forgot about my pregnancy and miscarriage.
For me it was not easily forgotten.  I spent the next five months keeping track. 
Today I would have found out the sex. 
Today I would have been 5 months.  
6 months. 
7...           

And in January, while we celebrated The Boy's 5th birthday.  I couldn't help but think of baby that would have been born had he/she survived.

And in those months that followed, I counted again. 
The baby would have been two months...

I've spent the last year, wondering...why?  What went wrong?  What's wrong with me? Blaming myself, because that's what I tend to do.  And how could I not - on the day my pregnancy was expelled two nurses questioned me? 
- What did you do?  Too much exercise? 
- Why weren't you taking your prenatal vitamins daily?  Did you not want this pregnancy? 
  

And upon seeing other pregnant women.  Every baby shower I sat through.  Every new mom I congratulated.  Envy came too easily.   
Why her?
Why me?

And then, the questions; the demands.
How many children do you have?
You better hurry up and give him a brother or sister!
You better hurry up...said as if it were that easy.
Sometimes to shut them up I say:  I tried.  I had a miscarriage.

And the shoes that I wore on that day last year, remain unworn this summer.  Even though I love them.  Even though I want to wear them.  Even though I look them at least twice a week, only to put on another pair.  As silly as it sounds, I'm afraid to walk in my own shoes.  

So this week, has been tough.  It's been hard to focus, to write, to think.  And I've cried (a lot).
I've spent this last year, last week - waiting and wondering: when I will be over it?

But in these last few hours, writing this, I've realized there is no getting over such a loss.  I've accepted it.  I've moved on; I've gone on.  I've woken up every morning, grateful for The Boy that I have.  And The Husband and I are trying, hoping that we'll be lucky enough to be given another chance.   

What Am I Doing Here?

Post inspired by Jessica Rosenberg's Kick in the Blog, "What do you love to do?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 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.