I have 13 drafts of this blog post.

I’m determined not to make it 14.  I am going to do everything I can to tune out the “Wonder Pets” singing about rubbing an egg with their bum.

WTF?  Where is “Focus on the Family” when you need them?

So if it sucks, don’t read it, because I’m trying really hard to say something enlightening and brilliant that can be quoted for generations to come.  I’m trying to glean some invaluable nugget of wisdom from the tediousness that is summer vacation, but it’s asking a lot for me to not only comprehend but then articulate said genius for the masses.

I mean, I don’t even get paid for this gig.

Speaking of “gigs”…

Recently, someone – a stranger who was clearly unaware of  the impracticality of my life – asked me what I “did”.

I gave my standard diminutive response.  “I’m just a Mommy.”

Ugh, who says that?  What does that even mean?  What the hell is wrong with me?

I could retort myself here by listing every skill I use in a day.  But that would be redundant and pretentious and look a lot like draft 11.

It’s just that question – I dread it with every ounce of my being.

Two years ago, though,  it would’ve been quite reasonable, routine…welcomed even.

Because I did define myself by my career.

Ever since leaving my job, I’ve been defining myself by who I was, affronting people preemptively with a verbal resume’, before they have time to wonder…to judge.

The truth is, I couldn’t define myself now even with 1000 words.  I can’t separate the relevant from the trivial.  Every single thing I do in a day is uniquely critical.  Conversely, everything I do is generally unremarkable.

I don’t so much miss the prestige of having an identity outside of myself anymore.  Sure, I feel a twinge of envy when I glaze the peripheral of  my “old life”, just long enough to whet my appetite and remind me that I can’t stay.  That I really don’t want to stay.  Because staying means choosing and I’ll always choose being Mommy.  For as long as he needs me, for as long as he wants me, I will happily allow him to be my everything.

I must admit that I do miss the sense of pride in accomplishment that came from knowing intrinsically that I was an expert on something.  I miss the rush of fast-paced decisions and measurable results, the recognition and camaraderie that came with being part of something bigger than yourself.   Not to mention the feedback of your colleagues, the brainstorming through difficult situations, and ultimately the “we’re in this together” mentality.

It’s scary to be responsible for another person.  Especially when most of the time you query how you could possibly be allowed to be responsible for yourself.

I’m not one to back down from a challenge though.  I’m not one to give up.  I will learn to reconcile my multiple identities.  I will learn to take pride in my work, even if I’m not entirely sure what it is.

Next time, when someone asks me what I do, I will dig deep and find my grown up voice.  I’ll reply that I’m Mommy to an extraordinary little boy who teaches me every day that it doesn’t matter how I identify myself, but rather how those who depend on me identify me.  I’ll say that this job is a once in a lifetime opportunity that I couldn’t pass up,that the hours are demanding, and the position is grossly underpaid, but that the life experience is without compare.

In short, I vow never to respond that I am “just a Mommy” again.

Guess what?  Friday is my FIVE year wedding anniversary.

Also known as the day I am officially married more years than I ever have been before.  It’s so exciting to obtain a personal best – especially in something as easily effed up as marriage.

But wait…know what else?  It’s also a mathematical marvel.

So…I read a lot of numbers in those first days post diagnosis.  Most of them didn’t make enough sense to be scary, which was beneficial, what with me having a slight tendency towards nervous breakdowns and what not.

But there was one number that knocked me in the gut and took my breathe away.  It was that 90% of all marriages end in divorce after an Autism diagnosis.

Let’s do some math.  Take that 90% and consider also that something like 60% of second marriages also end in divorce.

90
+
60__
150

Holy bejesus batman!  I mean, is 150% even a percentage?

I was doomed.  I was going to be the youngest twice divorcee’ ever.

Except, that statistic is complete and utter bullshit.  It’s like one jaded person made up an inconceivable number, then another person panicked and shared, and then another, and somewhere along the line Jenny McCarthy started sharing it as fact (because we can’t imagine why else anyone couldn’t stay married to her) and eventually, as what happens with so many things in the age of online media, it became indisputable fact.

I’m here to say, exception to the rule or not, that Autism has not been the demise of my marriage.  Much to the contrary, the unique journey has brought us closer together, made us more cohesive and less concerned with trivial things.

It made us grow up, while at the same time learning how to let go and be childlike.

It made us laugh at ourselves, laugh at circumstance.  It made us laugh in the face of adversity, because we know that nothing else matters but our family.

I’d go so far as to say our marriage has been more successful because of the challenges we’ve faced since P was diagnosed.

Sure, he plays way too much World of Warcraft and has “honey-do” amnesia but I share way too much personal information on Facebook and use commas indiscriminately.  On the nights we actually eat dinner it’s bagel bites or cold cereal, somehow the bank account is overdrawn more often than not, and we have had the same Netflix movie waiting on “date night” for just about 13 days.

It’s just that at the end of the day, when the boy nudges us to the farthest corners of the California King the thought of being anywhere else with anyone else is what I find statistically inconceivable.

“Breathe”

“I…gasp…can’t”

“Focus”

“I can’t.  I can’t do this.  I can’t…gasp…breathe.”

“But you ARE doing it.”

“But I can’t.  I’m failing.  I can’t breathe!”

The inner dialogue is relentless.  The anxiety suffocates. It plays tricks on your mind – a paradoxical mix of inadequacy and perseverance.  Uncertainty begets impotence.

You find yourself trapped by circumstance; by your own ineptitude.

“Just breathe, damnit.  You can do this.”

“So many people manage much worse.”

“It’s not that bad.  Count your blessings”

Perspective is strength.  Perspective is power.  Perspective is rational – sane.

The lack of oxygen paralyzes your ability to function rationally.  The anxiety swoops in and pecks away any sense of value and worth that might remain.

In an instant your stomach is in your throat, the world is going black.   You struggle to feel anything – to have any connection with the human element.

Then numbness gives way to failure.  It’s almost a relief.

Except that failure is my Achilles heel.  Because, I don’t fail.  I’m always the brightest, the strongest, the most determined…or at the very least I always present myself in that light.

I wonder if they can see it.  I wonder if they can tell that I really don’t have a clue what I’m doing.  That this facade I’ve built is nothing more than a giant ivory tower of loneliness and self-deprecation.

I want to be valued despite my flaws.  I was to be respected and appreciated as imperfect.

I want to value, respect and appreciate my own imperfections.

I want to catch my breath, take a chance and be real.

Because in parenting “can’t” isn’t on the table.  We must.  We do.  Ergo we can.

I think the line between failure and success is highly perforated.