"Matthew! Let's go! I want to go to the store!"

"Moooooom! I don't want to go! I'm almost to the next level! Can't you go without me?"

"Matthew, I haven't seen you all week!"

"Then just take a picture of me with you!"

We were all in the car driving to dinner; Ted and I in the front, Michael and Matthew in the back. Something along the road caught my eye which made me think of something, which made me think of something else, which lead to another thought, and then another, and another. Ted noticed my pensive look and asked me what I was thinking. Foolishly, I told him.

He looked at me strangely. "Where did you come up with that?"

So I went back over my entire thought process, starting with the original random thought and how it had morphed into this philosophy question I was ruminating over. Ted was rolling his eyes, but before he could respond, Michael - whose head had been buried in his gameboy- piped up.

"Dad, I just want to thank you for contributing your genes. At least I only have 50% of Mom's."

Poor Michael is entering his teenage years with skin that has been doubly cursed by both Ted and I as extremely likely to break out. He's a little sensitive about it, so when Matthew kept asking what the red bumps on Michael's face were, I took him out of the room to explain about 'pimples'.

Matthew's very interested in anything having to do with the body and asked a bunch of questions before being distracted and running off. Later that night we were getting ready to go to dinner when Matthew suddenly pulled up his shirt to expose his bare chest.

"Mom, look! I have pipples too!"

"Mom, what's for dinner?"

"I'm making Beef Stroganoff."

Michael looks at me in horror. "You just got home! I didn't have time to piss you off yet!"

A little late, but we were celebrating Matthew's birthday with an ice-cream cake and he enthusiastically blew out the candles. I cut him a piece while he busied himself playing with a new Star Wars transformer that he had gotten from his Uncle Larry and was fascinated by.

5 minutes later, he still hadn't touched his cake and the ice cream was starting to melt.

"Matthew, you need to eat your cake. It's melting."

He gave me an exasperated look.

"Mom, I can only do one thing at a time!!"

I'm sitting at the table eating a Ryekrisp cracker and some cheese. Ryekrisps are long, thin 'crispbread' wafers that come in the shape of of a long rectangle. They're brown and at first glance look a little like a piece of wood or cardboard. Matthew: "Mom, are you eating a piece of the floor?" Me: "Um, no. This is a special kind of cracker that I used to eat when I lived in Germany." Matthew: "Oh. Can I try some?" Me: "Sure!" (breaks off piece and hands to him) Matthew: (wrinkling up his face as he chews) "I think the floor would taste better."

Me: "Okay guys, we have someone coming over tomorrow so I need you both to take showers tonight." Matthew: "A normal shower or do I have to use soap and shampoo?"

Instructor: “Have any of you ever played tennis before?”

Little girl: “I have! I played with my brother!”

Little boy: “I play with my dad!”

Matthew: “I play with Mario on my gamecube!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Instructor: “Okay, we’re going to do some stretches now! Lean to one side… (kids all mimic instructor) Now, lean to the other side… (kids all mimic instructor) Now, put your toes together and lean straight down and touch your toes… (instructor notices that Matthew has to bend his knees to accomplish this) You need to keep your knees straight… Don’t bend your knees while you touch your toes…”

Matthew: “I can’t! My legs are too long!”

Since my new job involves working on-site instead of at home, the kids have more 'unstructured' time that they are quick to use on their electronics. Needless to say, this represents a large number of hours devoted to hopping up and down in front of the TV as they play the gamecube or X-box.

To try and remedy this, and provide a 'good' aspect of my new job, the kids are ONLY allowed to play electronics when I'm at work. The whining and pouting quickly dried up, (at least about why I went out and got a new job), and the kids were relatively okay with me being gone for long periods of time. There's some crankiness when I get home and the TV goes off, but all in all it seems to work well for us.

So we get to today, and I'm sleeping in. Michael and Matthew come tiptoeing close to where I'm laying on the floor chatting with a friend over IM and ask,

"Mom, when are you going to work today?"

I look up and frown. "I'm not. I have the day off."

Their faces fall. Michael asks, "Are you sure you don't have any work to do today?"

Not quite sure where they're going with this, I amend myself. "Well, I have housework I need to do."

Matthew moans and Michael wails. "That's even worse!!"

I recently got a new job as a supervisor and have people who report to me. The kids were curious about my new job and were asking me questions. Matthew seemed really confused, so Michael turned to him and explained.

"It means she has other people to yell at besides us."

We were coming home very late at night after picking up Ted from his (delayed) flight.

Me: (noticing time on clock and slamming hand hard against the steering wheel) Damn!

Ted: What's wrong?

Me: I'm trying to blog every day and I didn't get a chance to today.

Ted: Well, you had a really busy day.

Me: I know, but I'm still frustrated. This was one of my goals. (sighs) Oh well, I didn't really have anything blogworthy to write about anyway.

Ted: That's because I've been gone.

Me: I'm blogging that.

This is probably the equivalent of shouting my age from the rooftops, but one of my favorite movies when I was a teenager was Red Dawn. Cheesy, I know, but hey, this was back when Patrick Swayze was a major heartthrob. :P

For those of you who have never seen the movie, the US is invaded by the USSR (this was made at the height of the Cold War) and this group of high school kids, including two brothers, goes on the offensive to save their town. The Russians have typical military hardware, the kids have only their wits and what they can scavenge, steal, and create.

I hadn’t thought about that movie in years, and yet celebrating the 4th of July this year made me recall it vividly. It wasn’t the plethora of “fighting for humanity’s survival” movies that I had been watching (Independence Day, Armageddon, etc). It wasn’t the patriotic reminders surrounding me of how America’s forefathers fought for their freedom.

It was my kids.

Specifically, my kids blowing up fireworks.

This was our first year doing fireworks. In California, they're a big no-no (fire risk and all). Needless to say, we kept to the simple ones but the boys were still enthralled.

If there’s a surprise invasion and the neighborhood kids have to mount a guerilla counter-attack, my kids will be right in the forefront. Not because of any kind of moral certitude, but rather, they like to blow things up. Add in the thought of creating ‘traps’… It’d be Lord of the Flies meets Home Alone.

They weren't satisfied merely setting them off. Instead they created elaborate designs so they could light one firework and that firework would light the next, and so on. And they’re curious. They want to know what happens when you mix different types of fireworks, if it would ‘increase’ the effect. What would happen if you stuck half the firework in an anthill before lighting it. If the display would be different in the rain, when it was darker, etc. Some of their fireworks launched little army men with parachutes into the sky and they tried to position their fireworks so the men would land in an area that was conducive to the “rescue team”.

They saved their “snaps”, little wrapped poppers that make a noise when thrown or stepped on and put them in the driveway so “when Dad drives over them he’ll get surprised”. I shudder for the hypothetical enemy.

Most of all, it was just interesting to see them working together so well for a common goal. They pooled their allotments, shared suggestions and ideas. There was a lot of, “Oooooh, yeah, let’s do that,” and “If we do this instead it would...” overheard. Since they weren’t allowed to light the matches themselves and the actual fireworks only with supervision, I was able to quash a lot of the more outrageous schemes. But it was still fascinating to see them playing so intently together.

Unless I happen to be the ‘enemy’. Then I’d be scared. After all, they’ve already started a wish list for next year’s fireworks purchase. :D

Well, we were out working on the yard again today and we found evidence that rabbits are indeed still visiting our yard, even though we’ve been trying to keep the grass shorter.

“Mommy, what are those?”

“Those are rabbit droppings. Don’t touch them.”

“But what are they?”

“Rabbit poop.”

“EWWWWWWWW!!! You mean bunnies went potty in our yard?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t have bathrooms like we do.”

Matthew shakes his head. “The bunnies can’t go poop in our yard anymore. They can only come eat the grass.”

“And how are we supposed to stop them?”

“Just tell them!”

“Rabbits don’t speak English sweetie.”

“Make a sign!”

“Um, I’m a little busy right now. Why don’t you make one?”

Matthew throws his hands up in the air. “Do I have to do everything around here?!?”

Matthew is a naturally curious child and he wants to know EVERYTHING. So the other night I was giving myself a facial and put on my favorite Bliss Steep Clean mask which has enzymes that help eat up all the pore-clogging debris that accumulate on my skin.

As usual when I’m trying to take some time for myself, Matthew bounds into the bathroom. He immediately did a double-take at the blue-green goop on my face.

“Mommy, why do you have toothpaste on your face?”

“It isn’t toothpaste. It’s a special cream just for adults.”

“Can I use it?”

“No, it’s just for adults.”

“Is it just for girls?”

“Um, not really, but usually only girls use it.”

“What does it do?”

“It helps clean my skin.”

“Why can’t you use soap?”

“It cleans the stuff soap doesn’t get.”

“Soap cleans everything.”

(sighing) “You’re right, soap cleans everything, but the cream does something called ‘exfoliation’; my skin gets a layer on it that the dirt gets stuck under and the soap can’t reach it. The cream takes off the layer so the soap can get to the dirt.”

Matthew thinks about this. “Like Michael’s nose?” (I had to explain pimples and blackheads to him the other day).

I smiled. “Yes, like Michael’s nose.”

“So Michael needs to use it?”

“He could, but he doesn’t like this kind of stuff. I bought different medicine for him to use on his nose.”

“But…”

(sighing again) “Matthew, can you go away for a little bit? Mommy’s going to take a shower and I need some privacy.”

“Why?”

(gritting my teeth) “Because I do.”

“Can I take a shower with you?”

“No.”

“Because I’m a boy?”

“Yes.”

“But I’m only a little boy. You said only big boys couldn’t take showers with their mommies.”

“Matthew, out.”

(crying) “But I want to take a shower with you!”

(thinking quickly) “I need to rinse my cream off and I don’t want it to get in your eyes.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Matthew! Out!”

(pouting and stomping to the door) “It’s not fair! I never get to take a shower with you!”

I ignore him and close the door so I can shower in peace. After my shower I go and play connect four with Matthew and everything is fine.

Until today.

We’re outside doing some yardwork and Matthew comes over to watch me attack the clumps of moss growing in our yard with a small trowel.

“Why are you pulling up all the grass?”

“This isn’t grass, it’s moss.”

“Why are you pulling up all the moss?”

“Well, I’m going to plant new grass seed, but I need to get the moss out first and de-thatch the yard.”

“What does that do?”

“There’s this layer on top of the dirt that the moss grows on and it keeps the water from getting to the grass roots. See how the dirt is really dry underneath all the moss? I have to get that layer off so the grass can get the water it needs to grow.”

Michael chose that minute to come up with a question, so I put my trowel down and went to help him. When I came back, Matthew was gone. Figuring he went back inside, I shrugged and started mowing the side yard. On one of my trips around, I saw Matthew back out front playing in the grass and I figured he found a slug or bug that he was busy making friends with (he names the ants that live outside our garage).

So it was to my shock that I came over while Michael was emptying the mower bag to see my precious facial mask spread over the grass.

“Matthew! What are you doing?!?”

He looked up at me with a smile. “I’m helping! You said the special toothpaste gets rid of stuff so the soap can reach the dirt. Now the water can reach the dirt!”

I used to work at Intel and there was a popular business phrase floating around at the time: There are no sacred cows.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. When your world suddenly falls apart, it’s comforting to grip what you think you know even tighter. But when the ‘reality’ that you thought you knew turns out to be an illusion, you’re forced to start questioning everything.

Even though this divorce and the reasons for it are traumatic for me, some good has come out of it. It forced me to re-examine all the sacred cows in my life and I’ve actually destroyed a few along the way.

One of those cows is my son Michael.

Michael has been diagnosed with High-Functioning Autism, ADD, and OCD tendencies. He has Sensory Integration Disorder, is not very physically graceful, has speech problems, and is socially immature for his age.

He’s also smart, witty, a great chess player, and has an incredibly rich imagination. He’s not very verbal or emotional (except for his rages) but he’s made some great strides; especially when interacting with his brother. While most of the time the two of them just scream and argue and give me a migraine, occasionally Michael will let his tender side show through and it is incredibly beautiful.

For so long I mourned that Michael was ‘different’. On my old blog I had posted the famous ‘disability’ poem Welcome to Holland by Emily Perl Kingsley. And while I thought I had learned to appreciate all the quirks that Holland had, I never stopped grieving for my lost trip to Italy.

But I had always seen myself as a problem solver, so I started researching therapies, treatments, going through the IEP system, arguing for services, getting on waiting lists, setting up a mini-library, working one-on-one, volunteering in his classroom, etc.

And I’ve always felt that was a good thing. Ted had told me once that I treated Michael like he needed to be ‘fixed’ and I really resented his comment. Nobody else was out there volunteering to tell me what to do to help my child; there was no central agency that gave me a list, the school didn’t offer to give him OT, special wobble disks to sit on, the use of a keyboard and Social Skills Training until I badgered for several years. I didn’t even know they offered those kind of services until I compared notes with other mothers of Special Needs kids. I learned the hard way that if you don’t go in advocating for your child, nothing will happen. I always felt guilty because I didn’t understand the system well enough with Michael to know what to ask for, what he needed. When Matthew started displaying symptoms and developmental delays, I didn’t wait. I got as much early intervention for him as I could fit into the schedule, and while he is still autistic spectrum, according to his mainstream kindergarten teacher, he is, “the least autistic autistic-kid” she’s taught.

But then I found this incredible moving article, Don’t Mourn for Me . It’s written from the perspective on an autistic man, and it points out some misconceptions behind some common themes. There were a lot of very good points, but the one that really struck me was this:

Autism isn’t something a person has, or a ‘shell’ that a person is trapped inside. There is no normal child hidden behind the autism. Autism is a way of being… It is not possible to separate the person from the autism. Therefore, when parents say, “I wish my child did not have autism,” what they’re really saying is, “I wish the autistic child I have did not exist, and I had a different (non-autistic) child instead.”

This is what we hear when you mourn over our existence. This is what we hear when you pray for a cure. This is what we know, when you tell us that your greatest wish is that one day we will cease to be, and strangers you can love will move in behind our faces.

That broke my heart. Especially since I have prayed for a cure and struggled to make my children ‘normal’.

I just never took the time to think of what being ‘normal’ would mean.

But if Michael (and to a lesser extent Matthew) were normal, they wouldn’t be the kids I love and adore.

It’s taken me a few days to wrap my head around it, but the more I think about it the more I realize it’s true.

So what does this mean?

While I need to make sure they get the therapies they need to be able to function in this world, I also need to remember that there is nothing wrong with THEM. Yes, dealing with their autism is hard. But if they didn’t have it, they wouldn’t be them. They wouldn’t see the world as they see it now; a world that I’m lucky enough to see occasionally through their eyes. They wouldn’t have their goofy sense of humor that doesn’t make sense to anyone except them. Michael probably wouldn’t be able to calculate the tip so quickly when we dine out or proudly whip my butt at math games. They probably wouldn’t get nearly the same kind of exercise as they do now bouncing up and down in front of the TV screen. Or maybe they would. I don’t know because their quirks are so ingrained as part of them. Picturing them without autism is impossible. Because it’s a part of who they are.

Instead of trying to mash the square peg into the round hole, I need to just embrace the fact that they will never fit perfectly into that hole and that’s okay. They are great the way they are. They don’t need to be improved, just enjoyed.

So I’ve decided to stop mourning for my lost trip to Italy and really focus on the beauty surrounding me. My kids have so many positives; it’s time I started noticing everything that’s right about them instead of what’s wrong. Everyone has flaws- but having autism isn’t necessarily one of them.

I finally got around to hanging up some pictures around the house, and Matthew loves them. He wants to know who is in the picture (the boys looked the same as babies and toddlers so it’s hard to tell sometimes) and when and why it was taken.

And then he started counting pictures and got upset.

“There’s the same number of me and Michael! I wanted to beat him!”

I looked at his frustrated face and sighed. Matthew’s been having a lot of tantrums lately and it was obvious that he was about to throw another. Not wanting to sit through it, I tried to divert him.

“Actually, you have one more. See this picture of Michael hugging my big tummy? You’re inside my tummy, so that’s a picture of you too.”

“Woo Hoo!!”

We moved on to other subjects and I thought that was the end of it.

And then we went to dinner and the bookstore with Ted.

After reading some SpongeBob stories to Matthew, I traded kid duty with Ted and went to browse. A little bit later, Matthew sidled up to me, ready to go. He wrapped his arms around my waist, very similar to the pose Michael had in my pregnancy photo. Apparently Matthew recognized that too because he looked up at me with a smile.

“Is there a baby in your tummy now?”

Ted, who was following Matthew around started to cough in an effort not to laugh.

I smiled at Matthew. “Nope. No more babies.”

Matthew frowned and stomped his foot. “Awwww. I wanted to have a new baby.”

I ruffled his hair but he pulled away from me and went to wrap his arms around Ted. Then he pulled back with a considering look and asked Ted, “Your tummy’s so big! Are you going to hatch a new baby?”

This time it was the random guy looking at some books behind us who started choking on his laughter.

“Okay, Power Shot ready. I just have to stay focused.” Matthew is muttering to himself while he concentrates, before pulling his club up behind his ear and swinging. The club actually connects this time, and the ball dribbles a few feet out down the little hill.

“WooHoo! I got it into the green!” Matthew does his little butt shaking dance and I smile.

Obviously it doesn’t take much to make him happy.

Oblivious to the serious concentration going on around him, Matthew prances around, lost in his mental fantasies, babbling a streaming commentary from his internal imagination of power shots, aliens, going for doubles, and doctors.

The ‘coach’ sidles up next to him.

“You know you can pour all your balls into the tray.”

Ignoring him, Matthew instead points to the different sized driving tees lined up against the wall. “What is this big thing for?” The coach starts to answer, but Matthew has already drifted into his next scene.

“Big Power Shot!”

He spins around twice and misses. The coach points out that the club needs to start out next to the ball, not up on his shoulder like a baseball bat. Matthew scowls, but does it the way he’s instructed to.

The club connects.

“Ooh yeah! Ooh yeah! Ooh yeah!” There is more finger pointing and butt waving.

The six year-old kid in the stall next to him rolls his eyes.

The golf instructor tries to give Matthew some more coaching, but Matthew is already gone, telling the instructor how you have to get the line to move between the green and the black before you can make a Power Strike. The instructor, a very patient man with an obvious passion for the game, nods and agrees at the appropriate times while his hands show Matthew’s what to do.

Matthew swings again, and manages to hit the ball again. This time it’s the furthest yet and he does another victory dance as the instructor moves on to the next kid. Matthew is supposed to be continuing to practice his swings, so I try to bring his focus back on the ball sitting in front of him.

He gives me an exasperated look. He has all the teenage expressions and sarcasm down better than Michael.

“Mo-om. I KNOOOOOW.”

I smile patiently as Matthew prances around his little stall, setting up the scene for whatever movie his imagination is currently playing.

“Matthew, you’re not supposed to move your feet.”

He doesn’t even look up and continues pacing. “Yeah, I know. I’m just trying to wind up for THE power strike.”

The club comes up to his shoulder and I remind him what the instructor said. “Where are you supposed to start the club from?”

He glares at me. “I KNOOOOOWWWW!! Stop trying to distract me!”

I bite my tongue and turn back to my laptop. He swings his club wildly, spinning himself into circles before he falls down on the ground. “MOOOOMMMM!! See! You made me mess up!!”

I sigh and the mom next to me looks at me sympathetically. Matthew starts his little rant until the instructor comes over again and helps get him situated again. I look over at the other kids who have been steadily whacking away at their balls. Class is almost over and all of the kids are on their second basket of balls. Matthew has barely used a third of his first basket.

Then class is over and we’re walking to the parking lot, Matthew cheerfully striking up a conversation with the six year old next to him while I talk and joke with his mom. We get into the car and Matthew, after ranting about how I messed up his golf game, goes back to his game of Connect Four that he’s playing with himself.

I sigh a little sadly, thinking of how far behind Matthew is from the other students and seeing for the first time exactly how distractible he is in an instructional environment. Then my friend who was up here visiting turned to me.

“At least he had fun.”

I think about that for a moment and realize that she was right. Even though he didn’t ‘learn’ as much as I might like, he had fun and was anxiously awaiting the next lesson. And as long as he loved learning, maybe the results, especially at this young of an age, shouldn’t really matter.

Now if I can only remember that when he’s back in school.

When I took my car into the body shop, I forgot my little gizmo that plays my IPOD through the car radio. As a result, we’ve had to * gasp * listen to the radio. Michael has found the experience to be somewhat fascinating. He loves the little commercials, ads, and random facts that the DJ’s toss out.

We were on the way home the other night and the DJ was talking about a study that was done concerning guns and violence. After testing blood and saliva samples, researchers discovered that just holding a gun, not shooting it, increased testosterone levels and violent thoughts and tendencies in males. Apparently it didn’t matter if the gun was even real or not; plastic guns created the same effect. One conclusion drawn was that parents should think twice about giving their sons toy guns or even first-person shooter games.

Michael leaned forward. “Mom, did you hear that? Toy guns can make Matthew even more violent and crazy than he is right now!”

Matthew was indignant. “I’M NOT CRAZY!!”

Michael looked at him scathingly. “Yes you are!! Don’t you remember when you wouldn’t stop with the squirt gun and you got into all that trouble?”

Matthew started laughing like crazy, obviously enjoying the memory. “Yeah!!”

Michael turned back to me earnestly. “I really think you need to take away all of

Matthew’s squirt guns and Nerf guns.”

“WHAT?????” Matthew screeched. “That’s not fair!!”

I looked at them through the rear-view mirror skeptically. “He has a point Michael. Why should only Matthew lose his guns?”

“I don’t play with guns anymore! And even if I did, I don’t get violent like he does!!”

“And when you start beating Matthew up because you’re losing your video game?”

“That’s different!”

I shook my head. “They said video games where you’re pretending to shoot as well. That means Halo2 needs to go.”

Michael smiled innocently. “If you take away all of Matthew’s guns, you can take away all of my shooter games too.”

Surprised, I looked at him questioningly. “Even Halo 2?”

Michael shook his head. “Halo 2 isn’t mine. That belongs to Dad.”

Matthew has been wanting to play tennis, so I decided to start him off with something a little easier- badminton.

To his frustration, Matthew found that badminton was a little harder than it looked. As hard as he tried, he could not hit the birdie. He started out way at the end of the court, and every attempted serve brought him closer and closer to the net. Finally he resorted to just throwing it over the net where I would volley it back to him.

Matthew waved his racquet in every way possible, but was not able to hit the birdie back. In frustration, he showed me the different strokes he knew; a backhand-stroke, a spike, a forward cross… in amazement I watched as he demonstrated them all.

“Where did you learn that?” I asked curiously.

Matthew looked at me in amazement. “From Mario Tennis!” (a Nintendo game)

Finally the impatient swinging paid off; Matthew’s racquet connected and the birdie flew back over the net where I missed my attempt to hit it back.

“YES!” Matthew started a little victory dance, complete with butt shaking and hand waving. “I wo-on. I wo-on. I wo-on.”

Amused, I laughingly asked him, “Did you learn that from Mario Tennis too?”

Matthew looked at me and smiled. “No, I learned that from Michael.”

On Father’s Day we picked Ted up at the airport so the kids could have dinner with him and give him their gifts. Matthew really wanted to go inside, so we parked and went in. Michael was looking around and pointed at a guy below us with a long ponytail reading a brochure.

“There he is!”

Before I could say anything, Matthew went tearing down the escalator and grabbed the guy from behind, burying his face in the guy’s butt.

The guy stiffened in shock and Michael took a closer look.

“Oops. I guess I was wrong.”