The past few weeks have been some of the most personally fulfilling ones I can remember in my short (shut up, 29 years is TOTALLY SHORT) life. I'm becoming increasingly engrossed in photography, and finally seem to be getting past the frustrations of figuring out settings and ratios and calculating hyperfocal distance (except I still don't really know what that means), and am able to really enjoy it.
Every time I post a new album on Facebook, I can almost hear the collective click of friends muting me. It's quite likely I'm driving them all insane.
So, I was coasting along in my little learn-as-you-go groove, taking a class here, reading a new article there, when I got an email from Parenting magazine, regarding my essay.
So hey, it's possible you'll be featured in our magazine. And it's possible we'll need a bunch of high resolutions photos to choose from of you and your family. By Friday.
So, as per my usual modus operandi, I promptly commenced Freak Out Mode.
Both my writings and my photos are likely going to be published. As in, out there for the whole world to see, in bright glossy color. I've spent the ensuing day-and-a-half fretting, wondering how our story will resonate. It's important--so important--that I get this right, although I guess for the most part it's out of my hands now, the writing already done. When I first wrote what I did, I really thought only a handful of people would see it. My only thought was that maybe it would strike a chord with someone, be it editor or janitor...or random Twitter follower. Our autism is so unique, I felt the need to put our perspective out there into the ether, in hopes that someone would read what I had to say and think, "Hey, that sounds familiar."
The irony of anything I have to say making it into Parenting magazine is striking me, now. As tied-up-in-a-neat-little-bow as I'm sure that essay came across, the truth is that we still have struggles. Different struggles than before, perhaps a little bit fewer from month to month than we did, but we still have them.
Just this weekend, Big C spent a solo night at his grandmother's, and we were dreading the impact of the change in routine this would have on Little C. He does everything with his brother these days, and we were sure that the night would go down in flames once he realized his brother wasn't gone for a quick outing. Surprisingly, though, it went really, really well.
Until it didn't.
While it could have gone worse, the night did end with a crying, fretful, discombobulated little boy, searching for the words to articulate what was wrong. I'm not entirely sure he completely grasped it himself, and that uncertainty was hard.
But it was a different struggle than those in the past, and baby boy is back to his sunny little self this morning.
It feels like success, so I'll take it.
I'll post again once I know any more particulars, but in the mean time I'll be frantically trying to cobble together photos.
Wish me luck.