The Birth of a Future Marriage

Last weekend, Big C had a Cub Scout event to attend with his friend B, which meant Little C tagging along and playing with B's little sister to pass the time.  Luckily, he and said little sister are fast friends.

Said little sister is ALSO a little bit of a diva-in-training, and loves to do all things girly.  She's forever hauling Little C off to play this or come see that, and talks his ear off along the way.

Generally, Little C is a good sport.  He loves everyone, and just about everyone loves him, so he's willing to go along with just about anything.  He humors Little Sister a lot (tolerance is something he mayhap learned out of self-preservation in this house.  Who knows about these things, really?)

So I was happily snapping photos at the event last weekend, and noticed Little C and Little Sister sitting and happily talking, being all friend-ly.  I still get a little choked up sometimes, seeing him play with actual friends, that I sort of habitually snap photos when I see the magic in action - partly to preserve the  memories, partly out of some irrational paranoia that his social skills will one day go poof and I'll need hard evidence that they ever existed (I didn't say I was a particularly rational person, now did I?).

Y'all.  I didn't realize the gold I had obtained with these photos until later.

BEHOLD: The funniest and most true-to-life photos I have ever taken.

 











You're welcome.

The Hardest Thing

I'm a person whose mind never really stands still.  If I am waiting in a line somewhere, my phone is usually  handy, and I am browsing my news aggregator.  Rather than close my eyes and drift off at the end of the day, I have to read myself to sleep.  My Facebook and Twitter feeds are filled with family and friends, yes, but is overwhelmingly comprised of various sources of information - news, forums, groups of every sort.

I like to think that this information broadens my horizons, informing me and stretching my mind, exposing me to points of view I may never hear in my regular circle of acquaintances.

I came across this link today in my news feed.  In it, a pediatrician discusses their decision to not accept patients whose parents choose not to vaccinate them.

This may sound shocking at first blush, I know.  Shouldn't a physician be impartial, non-judgmental, thinking first of the needs of the child without standing in judgment of the adults who make the decisions for him?

The words rang true to me, though, and reiterate what I've slowly come around to in my own life.

There is little point in arguing with those who choose not to vaccinate.

Don't get me wrong - I understand that there are legitimate medical reasons for vaccination refrain in some cases - compromised immune system, tendency to severe reactions, and various others.  I'm not saying that vaccinations should never be refrained from.

I just don't believe in making uninformed decisions out of fear.  I believe that I have a responsibility to my child to choose a doctor in whom I can place my trust, and to respect the opinions of a professional trained in a field in which I am not.

If my child were born with cerebral palsy, or spina bifida, or contracted malaria, for goodness' sake, I would bring him to a doctor.  What I would not do, however, is patiently let the doctor lay out the facts and course of treatment, all learned during years of hard study and practice, then politely decline to acknowledge or implement any of it.  I would not bristle and accuse that doctor of ignorance of "studies" I'd read about on Wikipedia, or heard espoused from a celebrity's mouth.

I would look at this professional who had spent countless hours studying and putting in clinic hours, and shadowing, and learning the names of chemical compounds I would never be able to pronounce on my best days, and I would listen to the words he had to say.  I would acknowledge that although I know and love my child, this is the first time I have ever seen this illness--and that having seen countless children pass through his doors, it is possible that this professional's knowledge of it is greater than mine.

I would keep in mind that while I am an expert at my job, so too is he an expert in his.  And I don't read medical textbooks for mine.

It is difficult for me to understand, then, why parents choose to adopt this attitude when it comes to vaccines.  It is ludicrous for me to think that because I gave birth to my children, I then automatically understand the inner workings of their bodies and minds.  I love them, but there is not a day that goes by in which I do not look at them and feel hopelessly unprepared to parent them--unprepared for being the guiding light in their lives which helps to shape them into the adults they are to become.  And that's good, I think.  The moment we as parents think that we have it all figured out is the moment in which we fail.  I parent my children for who they are today.  And then I start over tomorrow.

All this is not to say that I do not understand the need we have as parents to know best and fix things for our children.  The hardest lesson I've had to learn as a parent is to let go, and realize that it's not about me.  I still remember the frustration of not understanding why Little C was crying, why he was so frustrated, why he could not tell me what was wrong.  Then I remember the relief that swamped me when we got him into therapy, and realized that they understand him here.  These people, trained to understand how the autistic mind works, got him in a way that I, as his mother, did not.

That was hard.  I struggled with guilt and depression at the realization that these strangers were better prepared to parent him than I was.  I was his mother.  Why didn't I understand?

Years later, I realize now that the relationship of parent to child has no givens.  I don't understand him because I gave him life, I understand him because I make the effort to.  I subscribe to news sources, and peruse articles, and patiently (sometimes painfully) listen to viewpoints that I may disagree with, in the effort to never make a snap decision based on uninformed sources.  I also listen to him, which is a slow process at this point, but is ever evolving.

Until he is able to make decisions for himself, my responsibility as a parent is not just to arbitrarily decide what is best for him, but to make every effort to make informed decisions on his behalf - and in the medical arena, that means choosing a doctor I trust, and listening to what he has to say.

I'm not sure how to end this post, really.  I'm a little sad that the parenting war is so often such a bitter one, and that children so often are the ones that suffer the most for it.


{Helpful Links}

-http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/01/30/the-real-reason-pediatricians-want-you-to-vaccinate-your-kids.html

-https://showyou.com/v/y-lhk7-5eBCrs/penn-teller-kill-the-antivaccination-argument-in-just-over?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=timeline

-http://www.reddit.com/r/videos/comments/1whbqn/an_infant_girl_in_intensive_care_with_whooping/ *

*including the reddit link because the commentary there is so often thought provoking (and sometimes not, but worth reading nonetheless).  Original video link here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3oZrMGDMMw&feature=youtu.be

Mine

Every time I log in here, I'm always shocked that there are even more visitors than there was the last time I posted, because honestly, I've been crazy busy and I know I've been like that annoying girlfriend you had in high school who you only really saw when she wasn't in a relationship, because the minute she'd get a boyfriend, she'd disappear and you'd kind of forget what she looked like for a while.

That was rambling and a little incoherent, but I'm sorry I've neglected you for a new boyfriend, dear readers.

Things have been a little hectic.  I got into this photography thing thinking Who in the world is going to pay me money for this?  Aren't there photographers on, like, every corner now?, and it turns out that yes, there are photographers on every corner, but it's still pretty hard to be a good one, so the demand is more than one would think.  There's a fair possibility that my recent craziness will die down in a few months when I'm no longer the new girl, but for now it's all weddings-and-seniors-and-homecoming-and-bright-shiny-new-lenses-oh-my!

It's been a lot of fun playing and learning and metamorphosing - I've gotten very lucky in finding some great people and opportunities along the way.

One thing about this photography thing, though, is that you tend to take fewer photos of your own life, while you're so busy capturing everyone else's.  I'm not sure if it's lack of time, or perfectionism (grainy Instagram snaps make me shudder now.  SHUDDER, I SAY), but my kids--who were the instigation for all of this lunacy--are now logging fewer and fewer hours in front of my camera.  Using a photo challenge as an excuse tonight, though, I managed to sneak in some snaps of them.

Since implementing an eye contact protocol at the age of two, little C has been relatively good at making (and maintaining) eye contact, for the most part.  When I got my camera, though, I began to notice that the camera's eye was somehow more intimidating than the human one.  He is game, upon prompting, for squinting, saying cheese, and baring his teeth for me...but that's about all that I get.  Maybe part of the reason I don't take as many photos of the two of them is that I dread being forced to face how difficult photos still are for Little C.  After two or three clicks of the shutter, he inevitably declares, "No more pictures, okay?"

It's not really a request, but he has the tact to frame it as one, at least.

For the photo challenge "Eyes" tonight, I couldn't help but be struck by the juxtaposition of my two children.  For one, attention is a natural attraction.  He craves it--is on a constant, inexhaustible quest for it.  Positive, negative, doesn't matter.  Look at me, look at me! is proclaimed in every skip of his feet, every flashing grin.

Little C, though, wants to do his own thing - Things to do, Mom, things to do.  The camera comes out, and while Big C is leaping in front of it, Little C retreats...and my heart breaks a little.  It's a constant balancing act between stretching his boundaries, and respecting his need to feel comfortable in his own home, for me.  In the end, I get photos of him doing what he does--and these are the images I'll have in my head for years to come, anyway.  He is happy here--working hard all day to make the progress he has, I tell myself he deserves to kick back with his iPad and run from the camera when he gets home, dammit.

I guess a photo of my baby's big, beautiful green eyes is going to remain sort of my great white whale for a while, though.

“It is not down on any map; true places never are.” 

― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; or, The Whale

Dear Cub Scout Leader

Dear Cub Scout Leader Guy,

Hi.  I know were a week late signing up for this whole shindig.  Sorry about that--I'm usually pretty crazy about details, and being on time, and following the rules and stuff.  You'll probably learn that the hard way, so strap in.

But things happened, tonight was our first pack meeting, and I know you were a little blindsided.  True, there were other siblings tagging along on this adventure, but somehow I think you were just a tiny bit unprepared for Little C.  See, what you saw as just another field trip to a fire station was, in reality, sort of this mom's definition of the third circle of Hades.

I really, really wanted this for Big C.  He's great with his brother, really, but he deserves his own space.  As heartbreaking as it is for me to explain to Little C that this is something his brother is doing without him...well, I know Big C needs it.  Time with his friend, B, time (somewhat) away from my own neurotic presence...time to just be Big C, instead of Little C's big brother.

That whole independence thing kinda went out the window when circumstances dictated that I'd have to bring Little C tonight.  It wasn't planned, really, and to be honest, I was dreading the drama of leaving him behind.  Things worked out the way they did, though, and so he came.  To a fire station.  Where there are lots of loud things, and also lots of overwhelmingly exciting things.  Too, lots of children swarming in different directions, and all dressed in the same colored clothing. (Can we talk about that later?  Because really, maybe that could use some reconsideration).

Normally, Mr. Cub Scout Leader Guy, I would be right there with you.  I'd chat, and I'd ask questions, and I'd listen to your patiently explained instructions with a smile on my face.  But when we're in a fire station, with loud noises that could sound omigod-any-second-now, and my kid is so excited about the real life fire truck right there in front of him that he can't decide between omigod-noises-are-scary and omigod-firetrucks-are-awesome-can-I-hug-it-right-now, well...I get an little on edge.

I'm sorry I'm just murmuring vague agreements and nodding distractedly at you, but you see--inside I'm constantly formulating disaster relief plans.  If he screams when the siren goes off, I am ready to snatch him up like a maniacal linebacker and run for the nearest doorway.  Would the one to the right be best?  Or the one behind us?  What would cause the least amount of distraction?  By the time I've worked out that plan, he has risen to his feet while I'm distracted, and his hands are flapping happily.  I can tell by the way that he's eyeing the fire suit that he's decided it's completely acceptable to get up during your little talk and go investigate it.

Normally, he's very good at reading social cues and listening to directions, but there's just too much happening right now.  At my gesture, he returns to his seated position on the designated line next to the well-behaved siblings, but his hands are hovering over his ears again, and I can tell that the possibility of sudden noises has re-occurred to him.  I know I should be beaming proudly at Big C right now, like all of the other parents surrounding me, but I am incapable of anything except shifting nervously from foot to foot, wondering how much longer this will last.

We head out to investigate the truck, and I breathe a sigh of relief thinking, Great.  Open space.  They can walk around now, and he doesn't have to be still and quiet.  The relief is short-lived, though, as he darts from end to end, first investigating the hood, then the bumper, then back again.  All while cars are periodically cruising through the parking lot, by the way.

I alternate between pinning Little C down to walk him back to where he's *supposed* to be, and eyeing Big C in an attempt to ensure manners are being observed.  Fortunately, he is behaving, and I relax just in time for your partner to promise Little C solemnly that if he can find the key to the fire truck, he can drive it.  When she winks at me as he scampers off, confiding that there is no key to the fire truck, I don't have the heart to explain that he thinks too literally to get the joke.  I'm sorry I can't quite concentrate when you explain about the various fees involved, but I'm too busy contemplating how much hysteria would ensue if I started crying at this point.

When the meeting is over, Big C is sweaty, happy, and oblivious...and me?  I'm just tired.  We exchange information and confirm plans for the next event.  I half-heartedly attempt an explanation, and you are very nice, but obviously a little lost.

Um, better luck next time?

Sweet, sweet dreams

"Drop me on the bed," he begs.  It is a ritual that has remained constant since he was able to utter the request.  I snatch him up in my arms, and--as I have done for more than the two years since those blessed words have come--hold him in wriggling anticipation over his mattress.

A knuckle finds his mouth--an action that, for him, signals excitement, and he giggles.  The sound makes my heart happy.

I hold him suspended for a second longer than is necessary, knowing that these days are numbered. Soon, his lengthening limbs and increasing height will finally overpower my maternal urges, and I will no longer be able to lift him.

That day is not this one, though, and when anticipation has turned giggles into belly laughs, I drop him onto his bed, laughing with him as he bounces.

He settles himself into position for the night ahead, with nary a protest.  My baby loves his sleep, and always has.  

"Just blankie," he declares, and I cover him lightly with the baby blanket that he has remained attached to for as long as I can remember.

When winter comes, he will allow the colorful sheet and comforter that make up the rest of his little nest, but even then only in one order - blankie, sheet, covers.  No deviation.

Because I know how hard he works to acclimate in the rest of his daily life, I don't push, and follow along with the routine.  Social expectations are one thing, but I am determined that he will feel free to find comfort and security in whatever routines he needs to when he is home.

I kiss he and his brother goodnight, and he declares solemnly, "I won't wipe your kisses off, Mom."

As I turn off the light and let the door latch snick closed behind me, I hold those words close.  They don't sound like much to most--but I know how precious they are.  I know how hard communicative speech was to learn, and how precious spontaneous speech was when it came.

I can start my own winding down now, and pick up my tablet to browse the news of the day.  Sifting through Hollywood gossip, photography articles and the various detritus in between, I stumble on a Reddit post discussing the recent rise in measles cases due to declining vaccination rates.  This does not come courtesy of the various autism news feeds I subscribe to, it's just there--on the front page of a crowd-sourced news site that millions visit each day. 

It's gladdening to see these articles come to public attention--I sometimes wonder how much my own little bubble actually has to do with the "outside" world.  This is important to me, but does anyone else see this?  Is the significance of a horrifying number of children being needlessly affected by a preventable and serious disease lost on the rest of the world?

As the current top comments on the article are pretty vitriolic concerning anti-vaccine advocate Jenny McCarthy, I have to think that my sentiments are shared.

While it is good to see the public outcry, it is also saddening.  Comments rage against McCarthy and Wakefield and "stupid hippies," and all I can think about is the significance of those numbers as they relate to autism hysteria.  Although measles is a potentially life-threatening disease, and the rate of contraction is higher than the supposedly-vaccine-related autism case numbers, 92% of cases were found in children with no history of vaccination, or unknown vaccination history.

The parents of those children, at some point, chose not to vaccinate.

Autism has, in essence, become such a horrifying prospect that it pales in comparison to a disease that once killed children en masse.

My son's autism is not horrifying.  It can be confusing, frustrating, even scary sometimes, but it is not horrifying.  In fact, it is sometimes just as confusing, frustrating, and scary as parenting my typically developing child. 

Different, perhaps, rougher in patches--but by no means so horrific a prospect as to risk death or life-long medical ramifications.

I know my child is only one child, with one unique version of autism.  I know there are parents of disabled children who struggle mightily every day, much more than we do, and wish that they could go back in time and change something--anything--that may make their baby's life less of a struggle.

I get that desperation, that fear.  I do.

But here, on the other side of our autism, I'd take my healthy child with autism struggles exacerbated one hundred times over against even the remote possibility that I wouldn't have one heartbreakingly beautiful little boy, promising to never wipe his mama's kisses off at night.

Oh. Hi.

Hi again.  Cyd here, from the other side of insanity.  You'll be happy to know that yes, I did pass my test, and yes, I am still in one piece.  Relatively speaking, at least.  I now have just four more panic-inducing exams to take, and then I will happily refuse to ever take a standardized test again.

Did I mention that at the end of this rainbow is a commencement ceremony in Hawaii?  'Cause there is.  Also, lens spending money for said Hawaii trip.  Also, nights during which I will not wake up categorizing the legal ramifications of various bailee/bailor relationships (Don't understand what those words mean? ENJOY THAT FEELING FOR ME).

I have decided that upon completion of the last necessary test in this insanity, I will be purchasing a ukulele and a grass skirt to adorn my desk at the office, and tormenting absolutely everyone within ear and eye shot.  It may be the only thing keeping me going.

Just kidding...LENS MONEY!

Speaking of lenses, I sort of stumbled into a wonderful working relationship with another local photographer.  I second-shot for her on a wedding at a local (gorgeous) plantation, and the whole experience was absolutely amazing.  The photographer was laid back and happy to teach me her ways, and the wedding....dear Lord, the wedding.  There was an amphitheater, a chandelier, honor guards with crossed swords, and a dog as bridesmaid.  Every moment I wasn't actually taking a photo was spent looking around in dazed amazement, wondering how I got so lucky.  The lead photographer said she would love to have me back for the other weddings she has lined up, and I'm hoping to God that she was serious.  She uttered these words before she saw my photos, so I'm still a little anxious [read: terribly insecure].  If it works out, it'll be the perfect opportunity for me, so keep your fingers crossed.

On the autism home front, Little C is starting to venture into foods outside of his norm, which has been encouraging.  Predictably, this process is in no way proceeding along a reasonable path, but that in itself is becoming the norm, really.  Boiled peanuts? SURE, I'll take some of those.  Previously-looked-upon-with-horror cheese dip?  WHY NOT?

Chicken *strips*, rather than chicken *nuggets*?  Have you lost your mind, woman?

So maybe we'll ease into the chicken strips thing, I'm thinking.

Two more photo sessions this week (eek!), then it's prepping for exam #5, and a solo wedding in October.

Y'all pray for me.

I haven't forgotten about you

Okay, fine. Maybe I did forget about you.  A little.  For short periods of time.

But seriously, I have good reasons... Mostly.

My photography business has started taking off.  I have subsequently become terrified that I will fail miserably at this, but that's just how I roll.

Because I'm a sadist (and also in *need* of more lenses), I have embarked upon cramming for another Big Scary Test--which will, when all is said and done, reward me handsomely.

Assuming my nerves survive the journey.

So, between running here there and everywhere with my camera, editing photos and cursing my computer when they do not upload to my website correctly, and teetering on the brink of hysteria thanks to The Great Test Countdown, blogging has slipped my mind here and there.

In apology, I give you The Four Stages of Studying, a la Cyd:

Step 1: Read through material, first round.

Reaction: I got this.  I GOT this.  In fact, I've GOT this SO HARD that I'm going to commit myself to a billion other things in addition to this.  Because I am SO going to ace this.  Give me a week, maybe two, tops.  Easy peasy, baby.

Step 2: Read through material again, followed by perusal of study guide and flash cards.

Reaction: Hmm.  This may be more challenging than I anticipated.  Maybe I didn't understand the whole [insert deceptively easy-sounding material here] thingee as well as I thought I did.  Oh well, I've got plenty of time.  It's not THAT hard.

Step 3: Third pass of material, followed by practice exams.  Which I flunk.  Miserably.

Reaction: Omigod.  I'm going to fail.  I'm going to fail SPECTACULARLY.  I don't understand any of this.  It's all backwards.  WHAT DO THESE WORDS EVEN MEAN? I've only got X days left, and the clock is ticking SO LOUDLY.  And I have children wandering around, expecting to be FED and BATHED and HOW AM I GOING TO DO THIS?  I must spend EVERY WAKING MOMENT having panic attacks over this in a completely unfounded hope that freaking out will somehow make everything easier.

BRB, gonna go study obsessively.

Step 4: The Give Up Phase

Reaction: #$%^# it.  Just !@#&^ it.  I've been over and over and OVER this material, and there's no room in my brain for anything else.  Either I know it, or I don't.  No amount of further obsession is going to change the outcome of this whole debacle, so let's just get it over with so that my kids can stop looking at me like I'm a lunatic, already.

I'm currently in stage 3, with stage 4 rapidly approaching.

It's a wonder I've made it this far in my life sans-medication, really.