Should Be

I should be doing schoolwork right now.

The kids are all in bed for the night. The house is quiet and the laundry is caught up on but all I can think of is all the things I should be doing. The dishes. The writing assignment. Sweeping.

There is always something to do. There are always expectations to live up to. The should be train of thought can, and often does, quickly derail into the should have.

I should have cooked dinner instead of driving through at McDonald's. I should have taken that kids to that free event on Sunday that I wimped out on. I should have gotten that picture schedule done last month, the kids would be doing better if I'd just done that. I should have finished that assignment before the due date. For that matter....I should have finished school the first time around. Or the second. And I should have come out of the closet ten years ago.

Should.

I don't want to live a life of should bes or should haves. Should is nothing but a burden. Just over a year ago, my life was ruled by should. I felt suffocated by it. At some point the should's of society and religion and family became the voice in my head. Sure, I bucked it sometimes, if it felt safe enough to do so. But there were many many times when I simply operated under the guidelines that I'd developed over the years of what a good wife/mother/christian/student/worker should do instead of what was best for myself or my kids or my sanity.

Don't get me wrong, we all have to live up to our responsibilities. The kids need fed and watered, the house needs cleaned, and if I want to graduate (finally) I need to do my school work. I'm not saying that I'm advocating abandoning your obligations. However, I'm done beating myself up over the little things I do or don't do. If I want to drink a white chocolate mocha that has as many calories as a full meal, and read a book that has nothing to do with schoolwork, I am not going to pay for it later in guilt. And I'm not going to beat myself up for the big things that are in my past. I can't change those things, no matter how much I wish I could. So laying in bed thinking about what I should have done won't do anything but make me sleepy the next morning.

There are things I can do, things I will do, things I flat out won't do. But maybe I'm kicking should out of my personal dictionary. And I'm going to sit here in the silence and do a bit of online window shopping and netflixing before going to be bed. Because I can. Guilt free.

Celebrate the Small

I do it all the time with my kids.

Licked a fruit? Celebrate!
Said a word? Party time!
Went to the bathroom? Let's have a freakin parade!!!

With a kid on the spectrum, you tend to celebrate a lot of small victories, because they are no longer small at all. The hurdles are high and it takes all that they've got to get over them. And when they make the leap and land on their feet, I'm there to applaud and rejoice and be proud.

So why can't I do that for my own bruised self?

I was abundantly vulnerable sharing my struggle with anxiety with you all. I don't know that I've ever received such an outpouring of love and support. You told me that I'm not alone. But I still find myself going through a whole lot of mental self abuse.

I make a phone call. And instead of celebrating the fact that I did it, I berate myself for struggling to make it in the first place. Big Deal, Anxiety Me says, So you did something that every normal adult does all the time. And I feel weak and childish for even feeling a moment of pride in the accomplishment.

And if the call doesn't go well? Oh, then I may as well call it a day.

Why do I do this? Why can't I take pride in overcoming my anxiety? Why do I make it another way to beat myself up?

I don't have an answer. But I do know that every day I celebrate victories for my children. I see them struggle so much, so seeing them succeed is even sweeter. Maybe I need to take a lesson from myself here. Maybe it is time to celebrate the small, for myself. Maybe, just maybe, I deserve it. I'll try to get that through to Anxiety Me.

Things Unsaid

It's always been clear that my blog is for writing about the kids. Life with three autistic kids. Which basically means, I'm an autism mom blogger. Not a good one, or a popular one, but that's what I am. I stick with that.

My husband blogs about something far different. He blogs about God, about faith. Does interviews with Christian authors and speakers. Talks theology that sometimes goes way over my head. He is a brilliant writer. He always has been. I recently came across our little love notes and letters from the time that we dated. He was eloquent and deep, expressing himself in ways that made me absolutely swoon. In comparison, my notes were all shallow and vapid, full of clumsy wording and "I love you!" with hearts.

So I left the writing about God to him. I talk autism, and I generally do it with a healthy dose of sarcasm and self deprecation. And when I have a twinge of guilt over not actually talking about what is supposedly a huge part of my life, I try to snuff it out. Because it makes me wonder....how can I be writing about my life and not include my faith? What does that say about me? What does that say about what I believe?

Truth is, I've done a lot of wrestling. Not in a Jacob versus God kind of way, but in a "Autism has taken over my life and what does that mean about what I believe?" way. I mean, just try having three kids on the spectrum and NOT have some questions. I just chose not to talk about it much because of my aforementioned complete inadequacy to eloquently speak of such matters. Well, guess I'm going to attempt it anyway.

Where to start? I've been feeling, to use the technical term, pretty "meh" about my faith. There was a time when I was angry with God...about 2 autism diagnoses ago. I got past that, but I wasn't left with much but ambivalence and apathy about God and the church. I'd come back, again and again, to the same questions. Why did God "allow" Diva Girl to lose so much? Why do my kids have to struggle so much? Why couldn't I have at least one typical kid? Why is there pain and suffering, why are so many of us Christians so selfish (me included), why couldn't He just reveal some grand plan for my life, why does "doing church" leave me feeling so incomplete, why was I suffering from anxiety and panic attacks?? Why, why, why.

I have some good Sunday school answers to all of those. Really good, sound, theological answers on some of them. But the "answers" lent me no comfort. What I knew in my head wasn't matching up what I felt in my heart. I grew tired. Tired of all of the "I'm praying for you" and "God bless you." Honestly, I was tired of being in my own head and kept feeling as though my faith should be so much more, but I didn't know what that meant or how to achieve it. Over and over I heard people talking about vision and what they felt God wanted them to do in life, and I felt like I was just trying to survive life. I kept going with what I thought of as the rules of church, in hopes that somehow my faith would reignite if I was just good enough and tried enough. It didn't.

So, that's where I've been, for maybe a couple of years now. A stalemate. Full of guilt for not caring more, or doing more, but having no motivation to do anything in regard to my faith.

Then, I had a conversation with my Dad. He is an amazing man, the kind of guy that would be referred to as a "pillar of faith." He was telling me about his passion in volunteering for Gospel for Asia and how he wanted to do more, about the things he was doing for his church and various ministries beyond. And I guiltily expressed that I just didn't feel like I was doing anything, that I can't even think about anything beyond the walls of my house. He simply replied "That is your ministry, raising those kids." My first thought was- Oh great, then I'm horribly failing in more ways than I thought. But I let it marinade in my brain for a bit. It just kept popping back into the forefront of my mind.

It isn't a new idea to me. But for some reason, it's what I needed to hear right now I suppose. Just one little piece of a puzzle, coming together at the right time. It planted a little seed of thought, and I was thinking about what God might want for me and from me.

And then, this week, I saw something that made me equal parts excited and terrified. I follow the fabulous Jen Hatmaker on Facebook and she posted about a new movement called IF. As I read Jen's blog post, for the first time in a long time, I felt the stirrings of passion for my faith. I felt excited. And it scared me to death. Because IF boils down to one question: IF God is real....THEN what?

I feel drawn to this. It's like someone took all the internal struggles I've faced in the past few years and wrapped it all up into one question. I read it and thought Ah, these are my people! They get me!

It seems as though my days of Sunday School answers on the outside and grappling with questions on the inside is over. The comfort of apathy is gone. No more putting on appearances or hiding behind my kids as an excuse to do nothing and say nothing. This is me, putting it all out there, the things left unsaid for years. I have questions and doubts, yes. I also have a passion and a hope for something bigger. A church without walls, a love without limitations.

I have no pretty red bow with which to tie up all these jumbled thoughts. My faith isn't a pretty red bow kind of faith. It's a messy, frazzled, tri-colored thread that I tend to tie in knots. But it's time that it's something I share, in a real way. Yes, I will continue to just blog about my life as always....life with three kids, on the autism spectrum. But my life now includes this journey of faith. Welcome to the beginning of that process. Hope you stick around, have a cup of tea, and join the conversation. I'm ready to have it now, even without all the answers.

The Line

There's been a lot going on in my world.

I could tell you about the various why's- the meetings, the sick kids, yadda yadda yadda. Instead, we're going to talk about the result of the chaos.

I'm tired. So very tired. I'm half asleep as I write this, and I doubt I will bother doing too much proofreading before posting (aren't you glad I do my very not-best for you?) And this tired isn't just from Vlad deciding to scream for 2 hours in the middle of the night. See, I am having a lot of time laying in bed, wide awake, worrying.

I worry about everything. What's going on now, next week, next year, next decade. And it all seems to come flooding in at midnight, while I try to get a decent night of sleep. The days are filled with meetings and therapies and work responsibilities, and the nights are filled with thoughts of them.

Thanks for the silver hairs, worrying!

I know I need to relax. Maybe I should pencil that into the calendar. My husband, my therapist, my friends...they all tell me how stressed out I am, and that I need to calm it down. And during those moments at midnight where I feel like my heart is going to beat out of my chest, I think that maybe they are right.

But I feel guilty. I get out of the house and go out for coffee, or dinner with the girls, or just OUT, much more often than The Husband. I probably get away from my kids far more than many of my friends with typical kids. I spend money that we don't have to go out with friends. I spend a ridiculous amount of time on facebook. I'm a slacker in the housewife department.

So, where is the line? Or, is there a line? At what point does my search for sanity start to hurt my family? Sometimes I feel like I toe that line, but then I realize- I am not at a point where I am doing well. Insomnia due to anxiety is not healthy. And THAT can't be good for my family.

I just don't know what the answer is. Do I go to a doctor and try to find the magic pill that will ease my anxiety? I would guess the success of that would be dependent on whether my issues are situational or neurological. Do I make a point to step away a bit more and try to find happiness through little moments of light conversation with friends and dinner dates with The Husband? Those aren't exactly easy to attain either.

I know I need to be well. Heck, my job is basically preaching to women about the fact that they need to take care of themselves. But it's just so much easier said than done. It all seems to be a trade off...take care of me at the expense of them. I get time out of the house and The Husband endures hours of screaming. I spend the evening decompressing and the laundry piles up. There is just no winning, it seems.

Things need to change, that much is clear. I can't get any more high strung. And life isn't likely to calm down anytime soon. Seven days until Vlad's big evaluation (not that I'm counting.)

A problem without a solution. Another thing to worry about in bed tonight.

It's Not Your Fault

This is for my Autism Moms.

Last night I read a blog post from a fellow mom of a child on the spectrum. And what she had to say brought me to tears.

She listed the ways in which she caused her child's autism. If you've been around Autism World for longer than a week, you can probably guess what was on the list. I'm not here to debate the validity of those claims, or the current research, or biomedical treatments. That's not what this post is about.

This post is about guilt. The way this mother spoke of her guilt, her absolute assurance that what she exposed her child to is directly responsible for his autism. You could feel the weight of it. It seems as if it haunts her.

Oh, how that breaks my heart.

Not all that many years ago there were doctors who told the world that the cause of autism was Refrigerator Mothers. These children didn't connect with the world around them because their mothers were cold and uncaring. It was all her fault. Can you imagine? Imagine the shame and heartache of those women who suffered under such a label, on top of the concern they had for their child. Now imagine what they would think if they saw us today...free of such a condemning label, yet still trying to heap the guilt upon ourselves.

I want you to read this, again and again, until it reverberates inside your head and your heart. It's not your fault. It's NOT your fault. It's. Not. Your. Fault.

How do I know? Well, for one thing, almost every single thing I have ever read as being even partially responsible for autism does not apply in my daughter's case. Ditto with my son. And yet, here I am. I truly think that for my family, autism was unavoidable. It may have been for you, as well.

But even then, let us say that all of those things, for your child, DID contribute to their autism. I've seen and heard from too many mothers to believe otherwise. Well, here is the thing...it's still not your fault. You did not hand your child a vat of toxic goo and encourage them to drink up. You did not medically neglect them. You did not ever mean to cause them the least bit of harm. You're a good mother.

Read that again. YOU'RE A GOOD MOTHER. You are now. You were then.

Let go of this guilt. What good is it doing you? What good does it do your child? And what message does it send to your child about who they are, what message does this send to the medical community, to the world?     Be careful. I've met women that were so sure of their guilt that they tried desperately to convince me of mine. They wanted so badly to find a reason that they actually tried to examine my history and that of my children's to pinpoint the exact moment in which I dealt  them their autism blow. When I was new to Autism World, I felt as if I had to deal with not only whatever guilt I walked in with, but also the guilt that other women tried to heap upon me. Is that really what we want?

So, with what little power I have, I attempt to absolve you of your guilt. If you insist on being guilty, the least you can do is forgive yourself. Then let it go. Let if go for yourself, for your kid, and for all the other autism moms who need to know that it's not their fault either.

It's not your fault, you amazingly wonderful mother. It's not your fault.