Whirlwind

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.

Let's back to the lighthearted, shall we?

I'm not sure if anyone was aware of this, but APPARENTLY my children and I are rock stars.

Big news in our household over the last few days - first a local organization selected Little C's photo to feature at an apparently-big-name photographer's opening art gallery.  He's opening an exhibit entitled "Echolalia" here and--barring the obvious confusion involved with a photo gallery about a verbal stim--it looks so cool.  The criteria for submission was that the photo had to express the way your autistic child looked at the world.  Apparently, this qualified.

Super interested in Lightning? Or preparing for high tea?

For all I know, this photo "feature" will involve thumb tacks and a bulletin board, but I am so pumped.

THEN, I get an email this morning which I sort of almost deleted because I sort of almost assumed it was spam, telling me that MY ESSAY MADE THE FIRST CUT ON PARENTING.COM'S I AM 1 IN 50 CONTEST.  

Aside from the panic induced by realizing that something I wrote is now posted on a website that an untold number of people see each day, I am completely humiliated that the "family photo" that I submitted was essentially a photo-bomb.  I was CERTAIN that this essay was going to go exactly nowhere, so I set up my camera on a tripod, hit the self timer, and jumped into the picture with my kids at the last second.  So yes, if you're surfing to that link, I am the one midway down the page, looking photo-bomb-fabulous among all of the nice, pretty professional photos.

Holy cow, people.  How in the world did THIS happen??

*UPDATE**

MY PHOTO-BOMB-FABULOUSNESS IS THE TITLE PHOTO FOR A HUFFINGTON POST ARTICLE.  The worst selfie in the history of selfies is now (or was, briefly--whatever) a front page feature. 

Also?  I AM NOW A PIN.  Somebody pinned me.

Does this mean I've made it?

This Is

I did something scary tonight.

I submitted an essay.

Parenting.com is hosting an essay contest entitled, "This Is What Autism Looks Like."  It's an effort to make the voices of parents and autists alike heard, instead of letting their stories be told through statistics (and 25-year old movies starring Dustin Hoffman).  It's a noble effort, and exactly what I want the media to be looking for: less alarmism, more understanding.  Less discussion of "causes" and more celebration of differences.

So, I had to submit.  It's scary for me, because I've never really submitted anything before.  I've daydreamed and vented and whined here in my safe little haven, but have never really had the guts to put myself out there--beyond my little circle of family and friends and Twitter followers, who are unfailingly nice to me.

I had to, this time.

So, for the parent whose child has just been diagnosed and is desperate for a "cure," for the friend, neighbor or family member who feels they are always on the outside looking in, or simply for the curious: this is our autism.

***

So many people think they know what autism looks like.  The word conjures images of all of the stereotypical symptoms and challenges - the rocking, the humming, the meltdowns.  The words that never come, or - worse - arrive, only to vanish in the wind.

Our autism was at first more about what wasn't, rather than what was.  There was no rocking, no humming, no head-banging.  But neither were there words - any words.  No "Mommy," no "Daddy," no baby talk or babbling.  There were no typical play skills, no following directions, or even responding to the call of a name.

But then, as we began therapy, the "was"es inched out of their hiding places, one by one.  First, there was good eye contact.  Then, halting and timid, came speech.  There was the joy of hearing "Mommy" for the first time at more than two years old, and the heartbreaking gratitude at the words, "I love you" by nearly three.  There was shock and celebration at the first sign of pretend play - the words "I'm a pirate!" were never more precious, nor did two parents ever make more fools of themselves at the sound.

No one knows hard like an autism parent, but no one knows joy and pride in quite the same way, either.

In the time since we received our son's autism diagnosis, we've learned that the things that ARE matter so much more than the things that are NOT.  Our autism has revealed to us the strength in family, the support of community, the value of patience, and the payoff of hard work.

Our autism is different today than it was last year, and even more different than the year before.  Two years post-diagnosis, our baby boy defies expectations, has a mind like a steel trap, and slays the hearts of family, therapists, and preschool teachers alike.

This is love.  This is our autism.