So I’m working again.  Not to insinuate that I haven’t been working for the past 2.5 years.  Being a full time Mommy is the hardest job ever.  Being Everybody’s Boys’ Mommy is in a league all of its own.

I’ve also tried very hard to immerse myself in the community, to network and volunteer wherever possible.  It kept me current in my work and it gave me that unique satisfaction you get when you are really good at something.

Though clearly all of this was not challenging enough for me.  With the countless minutes of free time I was squandering, I just knew I could be more productive.

No, not really.  It just turns out that my awesome husband was laid off because of some merger/acquisition “whatever” and he’s just too bomb-tastic for the jobs he’s been applying for so far.  And the grim reality is that at this point it’s necessary for us to work towards being a two income family again.

For now, however, it’s just me working.  It’s so weird.  I don’t know why the work has come, but I’m grateful.  I hope that I’m not letting anyone down when they realize that I’m more adept at cleaning poop out of the creases in wallpaper (oxyclean, toothbrush, and barf bag, by the way).

There’s an element of responsibility that earning money brings with it that makes me uncomfortable.

Because responsibility is for grown ups.

I am not a grown up.  I eat Pixie Sticks for dinner, overdraw my checking account at least every two weeks, splash in puddles, and get all a good bit of my “news” from US Weekly.

I’ve never cleaned behind the refrigerator.  I don’t cook.  Ever.  Unless you want vegetarian beanie-weenies, which no one ever wants (besides me).  I only just started listening to NPR in 2008.

I don’t even like coffee.  All respectable Public Relations professionals like coffee.

Do you know how awkward meetings at Starbucks are?

What I do have though, besides my fading good looks, is life experience.  I’ve had some amazing and unique opportunities in my 32 years.  I’ve dealt with some big disappointments and loss too.  Stuff that many people live lifetimes without facing, even indirectly.

My real world experiences, combined with a hint of naivete, a belief that people are inherently good (except Dick Cheney, of course) and a healthy dose of stubbornness provide a unique and pliable perspective.

I don’t think in absolutes.  I know that there is no black and white.  That ultimately we live in shades of grey.  I’ve been rich, I’ve been poor.  I’ve helped and I’ve been helped.  I’ve given and I’ve received.  I’ve loved and lost.

So maybe that makes me more grown up than I think.

Maybe next time I find myself at Starbucks, I’ll order a half-caff double latte anyway.

This is a post I never wanted to write.  It’s one of those things a mother feels obligated to keep to herself.   Because many people who read this will not understand.  Many will choose to believe that I’m a bad parent who cannot “control” her child.

I know this, because sometimes I feel that way myself.

Keeping this site is not merely a cathartic exercise for me.   It might have started out that way, but it has become much more.   I write for all the parents who have a child with similar challenges, so that they might know they are not alone.  I write for those with children who do not have Autism, so that they can see that our journey are mothers…as parents…is still very much the same.  I write this for those without children so that they might understand our “everybody’s boys” a little bit better.

So I have to address some things.  For the past week I have had a perfectly circular purple, then green, then brown, then yellow bruise on my forearm.  A perfect imprint of my son’s teeth.  Because he bites me sometimes.

Sometimes he is so frustrated and unable to communicate that he bites whatever is near whether it’s a book, or a pillow, or me, or himself.

I guess it’s a release of endorphins or something chemical that brings some brief respite from the situation.  I’m not really sure.  It’s not particularly linked to being angry.

Peter is a very smart boy.   That’s a grave understatement both because I can’t fully comprehend all that he does/knows and also because he cannot communicate his wisdom to me.

I have to put myself in a place I don’t recognize.  As I seem to communicate superfluously about all kinds of things I don’t understand.  I’m so good at it that I’ve made a career out of it.  So it’s a stretch to imagine what it must feel like to have so many prolific thoughts and the inability to share them effectively.

Not only in specific situations, but in every situation, especially those that involve feelings and other people.

Now imagine everyone trying to give you the words and touching you to “calm” you and/or trying to distract you?  That just perpetuates the anxiety and frustration.

I might find myself in a state of fight or flight.

I might not have a choice but to fight.

It’s not so far fetched.

But when it’s you, Mommy, that’s the one who gets the majority of the hits, kicks, and bites…it’s hard to wonder if maybe you aren’t doing something wrong.

One of our therapists asked me the other day why I was afraid to show anger to Peter.

I told her that I didn’t feel anger.

She said she found that hard to believe because how could I not feel angry when my child hurts me.

I took stock for a minute, wondering if there was anger that I was misreading or burying.

I told her that the only thing I felt was defeat.

Sadness.

Helpless.

Because I know that I am Peter’s safe person.  I know that he loves me.  I know that he doesn’t mean to “hurt” me.

But what I know more than any of those things, is that the pain he feels is so much more pervasive and permanent than any bruise.  My greatest fear is that my child will hurt and that I will be ill-equipped to make it better.  That’s not any different than any mother.

The difference is that I see my child hurt daily and I feel that feeling of defeat and helplessness every single time.

Autism bites.

I have a confession.

I hate socks.   Also…I voted for Bob Dole in 1996.

The latter has nothing to do with this post, but I’ve been meaning to get it off my chest for a while.

I’m a flip-flop girl.   I wear them year round.  I like how my feet slip in them when it raining, or how I can kind of feel the contours of the mulch through the bottom when I’m at the playground with Peter.  I’ve even worn them outside after a snow on occasion – just for a quick run to the car.

I have probably 10 pairs, the ones from Old Navy, and a few pairs of high class orthopedic ones that my mom has futilely tried to get me to embrace over the years.  I only wear the cheap Old Navy ones.  I’ll wear a pair out.  So that they are a literal footprint, worn specifically to my gait.

I like the freedom.  I like the sense of awareness you must have when you wear flip flops.

Maybe you could say that I under-register tactile input.  I mean, if you were prone to using therapy-speak.

I’ve always thought that my sock protest was symbolic in some way. Socks help protect your feet against the elements.  They provide warmth and comfort.  They buffer the contact of a potentially uncomfortable shoe.

Just like the many different kinds of supports for families of children with special needs, socks are meant to ease the impact of an often unpredictable and harsh environment.

What happens when the socks are the problem though?  What if they don’t match, or they are too small, or too big?  Or they itch?

What if the well meaning and strategically placed socks keep you from properly experiencing, understanding and living cohesively within your environment?

Or it could just be that they are the wrong color, the wrong fabric, or the wrong “style”.  It could be that simple.  The socks just might not fit with your wardrobe.

Now what if the socks are free?  What if they are shipped to you by the truckload by well meaning foot care enthusiasts who want nothing more than to protect your feet?

How do you say no to free socks?  Even when what you really want/need is another pair of flip flops?

Are free socks that you don’t need better than no socks at all?

Welcome to the world of social services; where “How can we help?” really means “There’s no way we can do that but we want to/need to/should really do something and we have all of these socks so please take these instead”.

Ever have something so seemingly inconsequential knock you breathless?

I mean literally unable to breathe.  Sobbing inconsolably on the hard linoleum on your kitchen floor while your child nervously laughs and says “Just take a deep breathe, Mom.  Count to three.  It’s okay.  Here is a kleenex.”

It’s those moments you can’t forsee.  The sneak up out of nowhere on a perfectly beautiful fall day, when everything is beautifully status quo.  Those moments that are life-defining despite their outward appearance of insignificance.

My moment happened last Wednesday, when upon arriving home from Grandma and Grandpa’s house, I realized that Peter had removed his shoes.  Since it had recently rained, I decided to avoid shoe-putting-on fight and just carry him the 20 feet from car to door.

By the time I reached the door my back was seizing.  Never having learned to hold on it’s always been somewhat more physically taxing to carry Peter, but always possible.  I admit, that lately when he’s having a meltdown it’s been pretty challenging – if not impossible – to get him to and into the car.  Last week the school principal had to help me physically restrain him.  But, I told myself, that if he’s not fighting me I’ve still got this.

Except I don’t.  He’s grown so much recently.  The evolution from toddler to big boy evident in piles of clothes, worn maybe once – twice.   Clothes that went from being rediculously too big in August to far too tight in September.   I recognize that children grow.  It’s just too much too soon for my heart to handle.

I knew this day would come.

I just never expected it so soon.

I am not ready.

Maybe it’s because he’s my only child.  Or because he never really wanted to be carried when I “could” do it.  Or because there are big and scary reasons why I MUST be able to continue to physically manage my child.  Reasons like self-harm, and running into the street, and the necessity to physically removing my flailing child from the floor of a parking garage.

Take yesterday, when we took Peter to a festival to support a local nonprofit, and he began crying because the music was too loud and begging us to “turn it off” and saying “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.  It’s too loud”.  And I saw the pain in his eyes because he wanted to.  He wanted to jump in the bounce house and play with his friends and enjoy the fall weather.  But it was too much for him.

Yes, we had the stroller, and Gus would’ve carried him, but my baby was in emotional pain and I refused to put him down.  So I carried him what felt like 20 miles (but was probably only .5) whispering “It’s okay, it’s not your fault baby. We’ll go jump somewhere else.”

So maybe  you think I’m selfish and interfere too much.  Or that I’m causing him some great damage by not teaching him better coping mechanisms.  Maybe you’re right.

But he’s my ONLY child.  The baby I never thought I’d have.  The baby I risked my life for in pregnancy.

Possibly my only baby ever.  Because even it we could do it all again – I’m not sure I could ever love anyone else as much.

So I will not blindly accept that my arms are now useless.  That this is the natural progression of parenting.  I will fight my body’s limitations until I can’t anymore.  But even now I realize that day is looming.

I need to find other ways to fill my empty arms.