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?

Presumptions and Consequences

One of my favorite online people passed this video on today. One minute I was idly scrolling through my Facebook feed, the next I sat stunned, with tears rolling down my face, as I watched that story.

Carly Fleischmann isn't just another individual with autism--she's my child, she's your child, your neighbor's or your best friend's sister's boy, or your cousin's niece. She's as brave as any of them, and all of them put together. She's the adult down the street, living alone and never looking up as you drive by and wave. She's the three-year old at your child's daycare who just wants to stack blocks all day, never playing with others.

Also? She's this kid. The kid for whom--deservedly--standing ovations are given. She is Barb Rentenbach, autistic author extraordinaire. She is Temple Grandin--autistic author, professor, activist, and agricultural world-changer.

Carly Fleischmann's father is me. As he speaks of the long hours spent on methods and therapy and skill-sets and motivation, he is me. When he chokes up as he talks of really hearing his daughter for the first time, long outside of what is considered a "typical" time-frame, he is me.

When his voice breaks as he remembers the time he wasted talking *around* his daughter rather than *to* her, he is me. How much time did I waste, doing things for my son, while hiding behind my fear that he wouldn't be able to do it himself? How many times did I assume that because he wasn't looking, he wasn't listening?

Too many times. I'm still guilty of it, if I'm going to be honest. He is sucked into his iPad--intent on reading, or watching videos, or playing games--as I call his name, and he doesn't look up. I hesitate, assuming he did not hear me, or is just ignoring me. He's not. He pulls his eyes away from the screen--slowly, reluctantly--and meets my eyes.

He would not have done so just a year ago, and certainly not two years ago. TWO years ago, he did not know his name. 

 Today, he is a champion, masquerading as a miracle.

We--all of us--have grown a lot in two years. The therapy, the supports, the routines, the methods were as much for us as they were for him.

As I watched that video once, twice, three times tonight, I kept thinking, This is how it should be.

Help, therapy, learning, accommodation, challenging--repeat.

I live in a state, though, where the Carlys are getting left behind. In the past year, I have spoken with more people than I care to count whose young children needed the kind of help Carly benefited from. All of them thus far have been denied it, in one way or another. Late last month, our governor dealt an even bigger blow to services for the Carlys, and the neighbor's kids, and the 3-year olds in daycares. Our legislators couldn't even be bothered to show up to reconsider it.

The Carlys of the world are not just important to their families. Her progress, and the skills she has fought hard for do not just benefit her--they benefit an ever-growing community that is desperate for change, and even more so for understanding. Carly was able to find her voice--in her own way--and as a result we now have the ability to hear her. Therapists have a better idea of strategies that may work, doctors are able learn first-hand what it feels like when your body rebels against you, and parents--Mr. Governor--parents get to hear their child say "I love you."

Budget concerns seems sort of paltry in comparison to that, don't they?

Updates Galore

The past few weeks have seen me turn into a crazy woman, trying to get this photography thing off of the ground.  Shockingly, it's going pretty well.  You can now find me on Facebook, and on my website.

I know, right?

There's still a lot of work to be done all around, but I must say that I've kinda surprised myself with this one. I really enjoy doing this, and other people seem to find my services appealing...at least so far.

I'm not killing myself over it at this point--no plans to quit my illustrious day-job, or anything.  If the market turns out to be too saturated in my area, or my particular skills just not enough in demand, I'm okay with not getting big paydays out of this.  It's rewarding enough on a personal level that I just love doing it, and that's enough for me.

I hope this is okay to share, but this is a photo that sort of encapsulates what this whole thing has been meaning to me.  The special needs event I photographed a few weeks back affected me in a lot of ways, but I just keep remembering this kid.

Let's call him A, hmmm?

His mom is an incredible woman, who does a lot of great things for a lot of people.  Photography is his passion, and he spent the greater part of this event wheeling after people with his camera, snapping away.  He and his mom are one facet of disability--unique, like all of the others, and one that many may not get the chance to see.  

I only spent a short amount of time with A, but it was enough to convince me that he was not the type to feel sorry for himself, or let anything stop him from doing the things he wanted to do. I love, LOVE that attitude--the Move-Or-Get-Run-Over outlook.  

He had things to do, places to go.  Who cares about a little old wheelchair?

I'm enjoying portraits, and kids, and bridals, and landscapes--but people like A are what really fascinate me.  I wish more people would have the outlook on life that this kid did in the scant thirty minutes I spent with him.  I want to take photos that make people see the camera and the passion first for people like A--and see the wheelchair as just an accessory.

Toast. I AM TOAST.

Y'all.  Remember that water park I told you I was going to photograph for our local special needs family support center?  Well, that was tonight, and I'm still reeling.  This is probably not even going to be coherent, but here we go.

I've been to walks, I've been to fundraisers, and I kinda thought I was a little inured to the special needs community by this point.  You know, settled in--like this was becoming old hat.  Comfortable, even.

No big deal.

Tonight, though, turned all of that on its head.  I showed up drained from a hot day spent in New Orleans, thinking I would just wander around with my camera, get some practice in, maybe catch up with some people, and hopefully get home in time to hit the sack a little early.

From the first, though, it was just different.  I've gotten a little hyper-sensitive to people's reactions to special needs kids, particularly my own.  I'm always looking for the puzzled frown, the rolling eyes, the impatience at the struggles with simple tasks so easy for everyone else.  There was NONE of that from the staff at this water park.

NONE.

The head honcho of the park chatted with me casually as I snapped away at the long (LONG) line of people waiting to get in.  He joked around with kids waiting impatiently.  He smiled at frazzled mamas.  He and the army of life guards who were on duty for this thing never batted an eye at anything or anyone there that night.  The facility didn't make a penny of profit from this, although they closed the park early to admit a group of almost 500 people--all individuals or family and friends of those with special needs.

There were specially designed water wheelchairs to allow those with physical handicaps to navigate through the water.

Aside from the amazing-ness of the staff, there were the families, guys.  Parents were able to relax and just let their kids play, without having to bristle at judgmental looks from other people, or worry about whether or not what their child was doing was socially acceptable.  Siblings were able to just have fun and not feel pressured to constantly run interference for their brothers and sisters.

I was struck again tonight by the feeling of privilege in belonging to this community.  I left humbled tonight, guys.  Neurotypical siblings giving their special needs brothers and sisters piggyback rides, helping them down slides, really ENJOYING their company in a non-judgmental environment--without a shred of discomfort or impatience.

I can't wait to go through these pictures.

Aspects of this special needs community can be HARD.

But good GOD, does the fire of it forge some amazing people.

Presto Change-O

So.  I am tired, y'all.  The good kind of tired, mind you, but damned tired.

I had my first official photo session yesterday, and I got paid for it.

Shocking, right?

I've come to the conclusion that I'm apparently incapable of going at anything at less than the speed of obsession.  Seriously, who knows if I'll end up being a whole lot of good at this photography thing, but damned if I'm not gonna know every nook and cranny of it eventually.  At least in theory--putting theory into practice is a different animal all together.

I put it out into Facebook land a few weeks ago that I needed guinea pigs.  You know, the hapless, furry and defenseless little creatures previously used for lab experiments before PETA got all huffy?

Yeah, those.  (DISCLAIMER: I LOVE GUINEA PIGS.  PLEASE DON'T THROW PAINT AT ME, PETA).

Anyway, it seems that people are perfectly willing to be hapless guinea pigs, if the price for being such is free.  I was flabbergasted, really.  Facebook comments and messages started coming in from people I barely remembered I knew, and I was all, "Are you sure?  I mean, I'm new at this.  And by 'I'm new' I mean 'Please don't get made at me if I screw up your pictures, K?'"

And then the people that said they wanted me to take pictures for them actually scheduled sessions with me.

I kinda thought they were bluffing, really.

So the first session was "booked" and as soon as I got over the giddiness of "booking" and me in the same sentence, I was all Joe Photographer.  Seriously, I went out there with my bag, and my light stand, and my off camera strobes...and then as soon as the guy showed up, I promptly forgot how to use all of the things.

All of them.  Except the point and shoot camera-thingee, so we actually ended up getting some pretty good photos.  Even if I did try to blind the poor guy with my reflector at one point.

Oh well, I'm sure his LinkedIn profile is very GQ, now.  Plus, there was last minute Mexican food afterward with a friend/stuff holder, so: WIN!

Then came the magical engagement session.  Well, "engagement session" is probably a bit glorified, since it was initially booked as a regular I'll-stand-still-and-let-you-take-my-picture session, but then the girl got engaged, so then it turned into a I'm-so-excited-about-my-new-ring session.

I planned, I Pinterest-ed, I packed a (little) lighter for this one...and forgot to check the weather.  So we ended up eventually arriving on location (which, incidentally, have I mentioned that I have no sense of direction?  Apparently this is important for finding the locations you would like to use for shoots), shortly before a monster lightning storm.  As in, I looked up at one point, and this chick's hair was standing literally straight on end.

At which point we decided that Hey, maybe we can take shots of the ring INDOORS!

Which we did.  And I got some hella nice macro shots out of it.

So if I were to tell you at the beginning of this week that I had one adult male who acts like he's been modeling all his life, one up-for-anything adult female with an exciting recent life event, and a family of five, including three kids under ten, one of which was a baby lined up...which of these would you have said were going to go down the proverbial drain?

Yeah, I had pretty much guessed the kids, too.

But wait, there's more!

This wasn't just any family, folks.  These were some of the most laid back parents ever, and the cutest and most cooperative kids--together in one absolutely beautiful location.

I'm almost kinda mad at them now, because really, they're setting me up for failure on my next session.  It's not at all reasonable to expect that kind of experience to ever happen again.

They were cute.  They mugged.  They stood still when I asked them to, Glory to God.

What the hell?  My own kids don't do that.  Ever.

(Okay, fine.  The cuteness and the mugging happen from time to time.  Mostly when other people are looking.)

Anyway--I had fun, the family had fun, I [mostly] remembered how to work my camera, and the dad insisted on paying me for what I had offered as a free, experience-building session, just based on what he saw on my camera's LCD screen.  And I've got at least one referral already lined up from them, and the dad wants my card to pass around.

I DON'T EVEN HAVE CARDS, Y'ALL.

What I do have now, however, is a logo.  A logo created with excruciatingly poor Photoshop skills, while brainstorming with a friend over Facebook, and in between editing photos in Lightroom.

BAM. 

It looks like I'm totally good at this, right?

I sure hope so, at least, because in the next two weeks, I've got one [thankfully small and informal] wedding to second-shoot, one special-needs water-park/luau event (How the hell does one shoot a water-themed luau? Anyone?), and a horse-therapy center that is supposed to call or email at any time regarding some pro-bono promotional shots.

See?  Full throttle, that's me.

The eventual goal is to get proficient enough to actually do this, and do it well--making my services (such as they may ever be) available to special needs families and organizations as much as possible.  Every time I am able to take a photo of Little C in which he makes good eye contact, or engages the camera with a smile, I am ever so grateful that I have picked up this camera.  Until I did, I hadn't gotten a frame-able shot since before we took him into a studio when he was around eighteen months old.  I can still remember the paint-peeling screams coming out of him at the pop of the strobes, the panic at the attention of the camera-man.  I remember tiny toddler hands clenched so hard to his ears that they were bright red when I tried to pull them away.

The thought of overwhelmed kids in crowded studios, and sad parents with empty picture frames depresses me.  More than that, though, it motivates me.

So.  Bayou Rose Photography for the win, K?

--

PS- I am Cydley99 on Flickr.  Also, the new Flickr is awesome.  Follow me?  Please?

PPS- I will [hopefully soon] have a Facebook business page.  As soon as Facebook stops being an @sshole, anyway, because apparently they think I'm doing something shady and won't let me create a page right now.

STOP BEING AN @SSHOLE, FACEBOOK.

Anyway, follow me at Bayou Rose Photography, eventually?  Please?

PPPS - Given all of the social media mentions in these post scripts, I feel obligated to inform you that I am Cydley on Instagram, although I should probably also warn you that I am extremely boring.  And, I'm not sure that I understand filters.  Or hash tags. Or Instagram.

There.  I'm done.