I try to be a "cool" mom, you know, a loving mom who does just the right amount of nagging that makes you a responsible parent, but, not over the top nagging that makes your kids think you are lame. I try to be the kind of mom that makes our house the hang out for all my kids' friends because, "Kyle's mom is so chill" (and because I have a sweet tooth like a child and my pantry is living proof of this fact). The kind of mom that my mom was when I was growing up (and of course still is today), with the added bonus of trying to be cool on social media. I am told by my teenage son that in the world of social media where I have mistakenly and humiliatingly crossed into his web universe, that I fail miserably in the Cool Mom Department. And if there is anyone who is going to tweet that you are without a doubt the most embarrassing mother in the world of social media, it's going to be your 16 year old, know it all, teenage son. #epicfail

I have been told, by my horribly embarrassed teenage son, that we "old heads" have ruined Facebook for the youngins (no one who is anyone over the age of 14 has an "active" Facebook account) and now, even worse, we over the hill, inept, social media blunderers are hashtagging on Facebook. #OMG 

For those who may be even lamer than me, a hashtag (#) originally began on Twitter then went to Instagram and it is a way to sort or categorize your tweets and pics so that other people who search under that hashtag can find similar tweets, pics and comments. For example, #embarassingmoms could be a hashtag on my son's Twitter account that would follow a comment something like this, "Mom's #'ing on FB again WTH?" and then his followers may share a similar horrific mother story with the same #embarassingmoms. 

Until recently, us old heads using a hashtag on Facebook was just for fun (or embarrassment) because there was no direct link from one hashtag to the next. Facebook changed that, but, according to teenagers, it's still not an acceptable hashtag outlet. In fact, when you put "hashtagging on Facebook" in your search engine, the second search title that comes up is "hashtagging on Facebook is stupid", which I'm sure was written by a horribly mortified teenager. #ohwell

According to my social media extraordinaire son, one of the biggest hashtag Facebook blunders, is #TBT. For you lame-o's, #TBT stands for Throwback Thursday, a day when people post pics of days gone by on Instagram not on Facebook, yet, every Thursday morning, I wake up to my Friends on Facebook sporting big puffy sleeves and even bigger puffier hair. Most of these photos are pictures with large groups of friends from the high school or college era. I AWEnestly love seeing these photos because they do indeed throw me back to a different time, a time when I was young, carefree, responsibility free and worry free (with the exception of my obsessive fretting over Aqua Net Super Strong Hold Hair Spray's ability to keep my hair puffy until 2AM). Ahhh....yes, the good old days. There are, however, some friends and some times, you don't want to throw back to, no matter how good the photo may look and how many Likes, Comments or Retweets you get.

Ironically, it was last Thursday, that I had a #TBT moment, and it wasn't pretty. I agreed to help out with Ryan's end of the year Honors Party in Middle School. Yeah, I know, the fact that my son made the honor roll for the first three marking periods and was not only invited to attend, but, WANTED to attend, should have made it a phenomenal Thursday, throwback or not, but, old #TBT habits die hard. If someone would have snapped a photo of me last Thursday, waiting for the kids to be dismissed to the party, they would have seen the same woman (albeit a bit older) as the woman in this photo, smiling, happy, on the outside, but, a worried, hot mess on the inside. Yes, last Thursday, as I waited to collect the Honors Party Invitations for the invited attendees, I was thrown back with my old friends Denial and Clueless flanked on either side of me, but, my newer, much more fun to be around friend, Hope, was giving them both a nonchalant elbow shot as I waited and watched for Ryan to appear.

My throwback was more of a scary, "must have done some brain damage from spraying all the Aqua Net, oh please don't make me relive it again", flashback. As I waited for my 95 pound, almost teenage son to appear, in my throwback mind, I kept seeing an angry, scared, overwhelmed, lost 4 year old boy camouflaged among the wood chips, playing alone under the sliding board at daycare. My palms became sweaty, I felt my heart rate pulsating to the sound of Pharrell Williams annoying Happy song being played by the DJ and all I could think was, if Pharell Williams entered this room right now, I would stuff an Honors Invitation in his big hat then shove it down his Happy throat. I was anything, but, Happy, I was more like Neurotically Nauseous (maybe I should write a song). I quickly forgot about my new friend Hope and was immediately back in my old inner circle with Denial and Clueless, praying, bartering, and willing my son, not to walk into that commons area alone. All the years I spent accepting that Ryan is happy being just who he is, disappeared as quickly as a trending hashtag. #oldnews

As I continued to watch and wait, unaware of the fact that I was literally holding my breath, I found myself whispering to Hope, "Maybe Ryan will round the corner and come through the doors with a friend", while acknowledging to both Denial and Clueless, "Ryan will not only probably be alone, he will probably be the last one to show up". As I stood there transfixed between the present and #TBT, I watched the non-stop streams of kids flowing through the hallways like salmon fighting to get upstream, literally pushing and plowing their way through the masses. I watched as the cool kids in their high black socks and trendy clothes moved together in packs like a group of hungry wolves, just waiting to take a bite out of the vulnerable kids who walked alone wearing high white socks and the same five shirts all school year long. I watched, I trembled, and I waited. "He will be last and he will be alone and that's ok" was ongoing, repetitive, mumbling mantra.

Then just when my new friend Hope was ready to go hang out with some of the more optimistic, cool moms, my boy rounded the corner, in the middle of the pack, with no bite marks, wearing his high white socks, smiling, laughing and walking with, dare I say it....a friend. Ryan and his friend approached me with their Honors Party Invitation, and I got that very happy, yet trying not to smile grin from my boy and a nice, "Hello Ryan's mom!" from Ryan's friend. Ryan wasn't 4 years old anymore. He wasn't angry, he wasn't scared, he wasn't overwhelmed, he wasn't lost, and just like that annoyingly joyful Pharrell Williams predicted, Ryan was Happy and therefore, so was I. Would I have been less happy if Ryan rounded that corner alone, but, still smiling and happy while Hope quickly left my side for some other cooler mom, AWEnestly, yes, I would have, because no matter how hard I try not to project my version of happy onto Ryan, sometimes, I still do. #pharrellandme

Any of my #TBT photos that I would post onto Facebook, horrifying my social media savvy son, would show me surrounded by a group of friends, no matter how far back I would throw the photo. I always found myself in a group, mostly because I loved hanging out with my friends, but, also because being part of a group was how I identified myself. I was a salmon. Being in the middle of gang of friends for me, was, and sometimes still is, easier than being alone. Ryan is quietly confident in who he is and yes, autism makes having friends difficult, so sometimes being alone is preferred, because for Ryan, being alone beats swimming up stream with a bunch of pushy, obnoxious, teenage salmon. For Ryan, traveling his journey in a pack of wolves or a school of fish is not his thing, for Ryan, sometimes, having just one friend to happily script away with, is all he needs. #1isallyouneed

As hard as I try to be a "cool mom", I'm pretty sure Ryan's poor friend probably did not think there was anything cool about me as I followed them around smiling like some weirdo, taking photos, but, not posting them (well, not all of them) on Instagram with a cool hashtag like #bitemeautism or #dumpeddenial or #justbeyou. As I stalked, I mean, watched, Ryan and his friend walk around, scripting the latest Gumball episode together, I stood alone with no friends....not Hope...not Denial....and not Clueless, yet, I did not, for one second, feel the least bit lonely. Students, teachers and parents milled around me, but, I didn't try to hide my falling tears. I embraced my joy as my heart filled with pride while I watched in AWE the #TBT moment transport Ryan and me to the present. 

Some days I'm cool, some days, I'm not, but, one thing we lame "old heads" have over these youngins is the wisdom that comes with age. We recognize that there are moments that don't need a #, a tweet, a post, or a comment.  Such wisdom may not make us cool, hip, trendy or keep us from humiliating our children, but, our old head knowledge enables us to see that there are some moments that really are better experienced alone, because no one who "follows" you, "friends" you, or "tweets" you, can fully comprehend the significance of a moment, of that moment, except, YOU. #mymoment

You say tomato, I say tomahto, basically means, that not matter how you say the word tomato, it is still a tomato, but, what I want to know is, who actually ever says "tomahto"? I recognize that I certainly am not the most cultured or well traveled woman in the world, but, I have several friends who grew up in various countries, speaking various languages with various accents and I have never, ever heard any of them, or anyone at all for that matter, call a tomato a tomahto. I get the meaning, boy do I get the meaning, because most days as I'm getting Ryan out the door for school I think, "his routine, my routine", tomato, tomahto...no matter how you say it, it has the exact same meaning which basically translates to, never stray from the routine unless you want a rotten tomato, tomahto thrown at your head.

"His routine, my routine" is a little like Bill Murray's routine in the movie Groundhog Day. Bill Murray stars as Phil Connors, an arrogant, big wig meteorologist who is sent to check out good old Punxsutawney Phil for Groundhog Day, an assignment Phil believes is soooo... beneath him. In a weird twist of fate, or perhaps karma, Phil wakes up every single day at the exact time and repeats the same day....Groundhog Day, over and over and over again. This repetitive monotony for Phil Connors seems to be a sort of punishment, or purgatory if you will, for belittling the importance of the Groundhog Day routine as well as his dismissive attitude towards the repetitious, humdrum, doesn't quite get them, folks of Punxsutawney, PA.

Every morning, Phil wakes up at the exact same time, takes the exact same freezing cold shower, is greeted by the exact same woman, has the exact same cup of coffee and heads out the door to the exact same place, Gobbler's Knob, to give the exact same weather report over and over and over again. AWEnestly, Bill Murray's got nothing over on me....except maybe some hazy, drug induced memories of the 1970's. For a mom loving my AWEsome son, who craves routine like Punxsutawney Phil craves the privacy and media free seclusion of his groundhog hole and an additional six weeks of winter so he can go back to sleep, Ryan's routines and rituals have become my routines and rituals. Tomato, tomahto.

My alarm goes off at 6:15 every morning, I hit the snooze (much to my light sleeper husband's dismay), then finally roll out of bed with the second alarm squeals and here is how Ryan's routine, my routine goes:

6:20-I wake Ryan up to groans of "I'm still tired."
6:28-In a hushed, but, yelling voice, I tell/yell for Ryan to hurry up or he will miss the bus (missing the bus is a fear much scarier than a groundhog's shadow).
6:30-Feed Ryan a sugar filled breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Welch's Grape Juice (only the kind with high fructose corn syrup...I tried the others, he noticed, I got reprimanded) in the same glass and the same bowl, every single morning.
6:32-Pack Ryan's lunch...cheese sandwich (two pieces of Land O' Lakes Cheese, no substitutes acceptable, a light spread of Hellman's Mayonnaise, again, no substitutes allowed) cut into triangles (never, ever, ever rectangles), grapes (not too many, not too few...it's a gamble), Pringles (I have figured out how many by the feel of them in my fingers), Jello Vanilla Pudding (another food where a brand substitute would not be acceptable), a plastic spoon, and a juice bag, one of three choices are acceptable.
6:43-I'm called to "catch" his clothes which he tosses over the two story foyer railing for me to "heat up" in the dryer on high heat, not medium, not low for 3 minutes, not 4, not 5, and especially not 2 (trust me he can tell).
6:46-Deliver warmed up clothes to Ryan which I tuck inside my shirt to retain the heat so as to avoid another 30 second warm up if the clothes are deemed "freezing".
6:48-Untie Ryan's shoes (which are easily a size too small, but, he refuses to wear a new pair), set them at the bottom of the step with lunch bag and gym bag.
6:50-Ryan comes downstairs, backpack in hand, sits on the bottom step, not the second, not the third, puts his lunch box in his backpack, puts his left shoe on (never, ever the right one first, "it doesn't feel right"), I help him tie his shoes even though he can now finally do it himself, but, they just "stay better" when I do it.
6:51-Ryan puts his coat on (the exact same coat all year long regardless of season), if it's too warm, he still gets the coat, covers up with it, while I wrap a towel around his neck and use a wet brush (never, ever a dry brush, even though ironically, once upon a time it could never, ever be a wet brush), and brush his hear.
6:52-Depart for the bus stop, by jumping in the van to drive one block (bugs and inclement weather makes that one block feel like one mile).
6:53-Bus arrives, I am kissed and hugged twice, unless he is mad at me for not fully heating his clothes properly or running out of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and off he goes.

His routine, my routine. Tomato, tomahto.

When Ryan was little, his need for routine and sameness AWEnestly freaked me out. Back then, Denial was whispering in my ear, "It's not a strict adherence to rituals and routines like the DSM-IV described as a risk factor for "The A Word", Ryan is just stubborn and likes things HIS way." Clueless and Denial would then bully me and say, "Wrestle that new coat on Ryan and MAKE him wear it, you paid all that money for it, so he HAS to wear it." Of course I listened to my so called, "friends" and the end result would be both Ryan and I in tears while Denial and Clueless just "tsk, tsk, tsk'ed" me from across the room and the coat remained crumpled on the floor as useless and discarded as I felt. Denial and Clueless also use to grocery shop with us and one day, Denial said, "Just skip aisle 5 and go right from aisle 4 to aisle 6 because you don't need anything in aisle 5 and Ryan has to get over it." Listening to my not so well intended friends, I skipped aisle 5, much to the dismay of every shopper in aisles 3 through 7 who became officially hearing impaired by the time I returned to aisle 5. His routine, my routine. Tomato, tomahto.

Ryan's need for routine, his desire for Groundhog Day, helps him predict a very unpredictable world. When Ryan doesn't know what vague, unpredictable, fictional assignment he will receive in English class, knowing that right after English, he will find a cheese sandwich cut in triangles with just the right amount of grapes and Pringles in his lunch box, helps balance out Ryan's world. Walking out the door into a world that is confusing and filled with bees, thunderstorms and bullies, wearing one of five soft, cotton tshirts, and the same broken in too small shoes, makes taking on that scary world a little less frightening. 

We all have our routines and rituals. We all have our Groundhog Day days, yet, sometimes, even the most tedious of routines provides us with a sense of comfort. You could probably make it through your day without that must have morning cup of Joe, but, you might be an intolerable bear to all your co-workers who immediately start a central line of coffee for you desk side. For Ryan and kids and adults living with an ASD, that cup of Joe is a necessity to survive Groundhog Day, no matter how tedious and inconsequential it may seem to an outsider looking in.

The term "Groundhog Day" has become known as a sort of negative connotation. The mundane, boring, predictable tasks of life. In fact, "Groundhog Day" has become military lingo for soldiers who have had multiple tours of duty in the same country, fighting the same war. Ryan may not be traveling roads decimated by years of war, with the threat of an aggressive attack around every corner, but, in Ryan's mind, putting his left shoe on first, eating the same lunch every single day, and wearing the same five shirts day in and day out, is as essential for his survival as a flak jacket in the middle of an unpredictable, unstable, war torn country.

In the movie, Groundhog Day, Phil Connors had to relive Groundhog Day over and over again because he didn't "get it". To Phil, the meaningless routines and rituals of Groundhog Day were ludicrous and a complete waste of his precious, valuable time, so Phil's form of purgatory was to relive Groundhog Day over and over again until he did "get it". Until Phil recognized the importance of this day, of these rituals and routines to the folks of Punxsutawney PA, he would never be fully vested in his assignment. Once Phil got it, once he understood, he was able to see the significance, the joy, and the pride of Groundhog Day for people he once did not understand.

Denial and Clueless kept me from seeing the importance of routine for Ryan. His routine, my routine, tomato, tomahto, once felt like Groundhog Day to me. There are still moments where I think, "Can you please just eat/wear/do something different?", but, once I see the fear and anxiety cross his beautiful, trusting eyes, I realize that I'm no better than Phil Connors. This is my assignment, one that I have been fortunate enough to cover and report on. Now that I "get it", I do respect Ryan's need for routine, but, if I'm AWEnest, I still try to occasionally switch things up a bit, because sadly, there are a lot of Phil Connors in the world who will not get the importance of a cheese sandwich cut into triangles, so it's just as important that Ryan "gets" that too. 

So, no matter how you say it, his routine, my routine, I'm just so grateful that I'm the lucky one who gets to make the cheese sandwich, with two slices of Land O' Lakes White (never, ever orange) American Cheese, a thin layer of Hellman's Mayonnaise (never, ever the light mayo), cut into perfectly symmetrical triangles (never, ever a rectangle, a square, or some weird sandwich cutter shape) and always without fail, no matter what....always, always hold the tomato, tomahto.

In less than a week, I will be...brace yourselves....45. Yeah, I know how can that even be possible? I swear I look into my mirror, which must obviously be some type of trick mirror since I seem to look so much better in that mirror than I do in any photos (unless the photo is a distant shot, the lighting is poor and airbrushing was used) and I wonder, who is that tired looking stranger in my bathroom? Before I dial 911 to report an intruder wearing a robe exactly like mine, I rub my almost 45 year old eyes and think, "Sh*t. That's me." Some days, I think I would prefer a weird stranger in my bathroom than the depressing, realization that the old, tired reflection in the mirror is the same girl you see on this 1970's metal "swingset". It seems like just yesterday, I was 10, playing outside with friends, getting the star boy kickball player "out" by miraculously catching the ball that knocked me on my ass and watching non-stop episodes of my favorite television show, The Brady Bunch.

My gosh I loved that Brady family. I mean who didn't want that AWEsome 1970's house with Alice the housekeeper, six kids to play with, a dog named Tiger, and parents who were so dumb they wouldn't let their kids play ball in the house, but, allowed the same kids to naively wear a native taboo Hawiian idol around their neck which almost lead to a deadly tarantula bite. Last week, as I sat anxiously waiting for Ryan's chorus concert, it wasn't "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia" or annoying, put upon middle sister Jan I was thinking about, no, it was the one Brady who rarely stole the show, who sort of blended in to the background, it was Peter and his voice changing hormonal self.

Remember the episode when the Brady kids got an opportunity to sing on live television (of course they did) in hopes of becoming the next Jackson 5, I mean 6 ? All the Brady kids sang like beautiful song birds (each one secretly hoping they would be like Michael and leave the rest of the siblings in the dust), except Poor Peter. No way Peter was going to be the next Michael Jackson, because in that moment when it was Peter's time to shine, his pubescent voice picked that moment as a "Time to Change". Here is a little reminder. I'm sorry (not really).

Now that Ryan has reached the Peter Brady age, I will occasionally hear a Peter Brady "sha na na na na", come out of his beautiful, soulful voice and I wonder how this voice changing thing will effect Ryan's singing. As with all things Ryan, I then begin to worry. What if he can no longer sing? What if he no longer has perfect pitch? What if this God given talent was only doled out temporarily for childhood and with the onset of puberty, this gift will be snatched away as quickly as Cindy Brady's Kitty Carryall Doll? OMG, what if Ryan started sounding like, or even worse yet, started dressing like (gulp) Peter Brady?

When I asked Ryan about his voice changing he assured me that he can hear the difference in his voice, so he "adjusts it". I don't even know what that means, but, Ryan sounded quite confident and as he took the stage, and the first notes poured out of that beautiful face, I didn't need to understand it, because I could see it and I could hear it. If Peter Brady was on that stage, there were enough other kids on stage with him to drown him out, so that not a single voice cracking "sha na na na na" could be heard. Ryan sang his beautifully, gifted heart out. There were a number of songs Ryan sang that night, but, it was evident that one song in particular he loved best. The one that Ryan felt so deeply, sang so beautifully was the one song that reduced this worrying Carol Brady into a big, heaping puddle of tears.

Ryan's select chorus group sang Bridge Over Troubled Water and yes Ryan sang it, but mostly Ryan felt it. His facial expression, his confidence, his heart, his soul were all on full display, there was no awkward autismy smile trying to hide his feelings, he was fully exposed and he was beautiful. As I sat with tears streaming down my face I couldn't help but picture the depths of troubled water we have crossed together. The worry, the fear, the anxiety we both have had about how to cross that water without falling in and being swept away. I wondered to myself, did Ryan love this song for it's musical score, the notes, the melody, or the lyrics? I don't know why this song stirred Ryan, but, as I felt the melody wrap around me and draw me in, I wondered if Ryan knew, if he had always known, that "I would lay me down" to get him wherever he needed to go, regardless of the water's depth, turbulence and undertow.

I have been the bridge for my boy. Some days I have been like the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, strong and sturdy, towering high above the water, with not so much as a drop of water splashing my son, and some days I have been a slippery log that has conveniently fallen in just the right place, barely able to hold Ryan up as he slips and slides, to his destination, finally making it across the water to dry land. Although, I may not have always been the sturdiest bridge, in fact more times than not, my bridge should have been closed due to "instability", rated as "structurally deficient" and at high risk of "failure", but, somehow, regardless of the degree of deterioration, I managed to get Ryan across the troubled water. Regardless of how many storms this old rickety bridge has weathered or how many times this shaky bridge was stepped on, trod across, or flooded, I never once let my boy plunge head first into the water. Sure, like most of us, he has gotten wet from time to time, but, I have always been there to get him safely to the other side where he could dry off, change course, if necessary, and move on.

Like most of my fellow mama bridges, there were many days when the structural integrity of my bridge was compromised due to wear and tear, cracks in my towers, and years of being barraged by turbulent waters, and AWEnestly, my boy got wet. Unlike most bridges, we mama bridges do not have a built in accelerometer to alert us to deficiencies and deterioration. There was no way to determine if too much stress and fatigue was being placed on the bridge, increasing the chance that my occupant might fall into the cold, unforgiving water. However, as I watched my son sing, as I watched him achieve, as I watched the confidence soar from his heart as easily as the notes flew from his soul, I recognized that some of the falling, some of the getting wet, and yes, even some of this bridge's "structural deficiency" enabled Ryan to appreciate this moment. All the bridges Ryan had to navigate to cross that troubled water lead him to this moment, where he is today and without having to occasionally struggle to get across that water, he would not fully recognize the beauty of what it is to make it to the other side.

On the days when the water looked calm and serene to me, without warning, Ryan would see a tsunami coming. Regardless if I saw the wave coming or not, this bridge had to be open, this bridge had to be structurally sound ready to bear the weight in order to get Ryan safely across the water. Other days, when to me the water seemed choppy, and everywhere I turned there were whitecaps stirring in the water, I would do a quick safety check, ensuring that my towers were sturdy and my cables were strong because come hell or high water, I had to get my boy across that water, and just like that, Ryan would calmly walk across the bridge without even a backward glance at what I perceived as troubled water.

To all my fellow bridges out there, who safely get their child from point A to point B across that real or perceived troubled water, no matter how deficient and deteriorated you may feel, you always have to be structurally sound, because for a child with an ASD, even the calmest water can look like a deadly whirlpool. There is no time to determine if you are "structurally deficient" or "functionally obsolete", your passenger is counting on this bridge and whether or not your passenger decides he needs to cross this bridge today to get him across that water, or if he decides to take another route altogether, what matters most is that your amazingly AWEsome passenger knows, that for him, you will always "lay me down".

On the days where you feel like a fallen over, moss covered log that got lucky and just happened to land across the water, and on the days where you are as structurally sound, and as meticulously constructed as the Golden Gate Bridge, you still get your passenger across that water. We bridges, no matter our rating, get our passengers where they need to be, and we will always get them where they need to go. So, here's to you all my bridges.

As the last notes of Bridge Over Troubled Water echoed off the school auditorium walls and off my ready to burst with pride heart, I was in AWE of my AWEsome boy. In that moment, I felt certain that Carol Brady and her perfectly coiffed hair, never felt the pride I felt for my Peter Brady (as an aside, unlike Carol Brady, I would never allow Ryan to wear a taboo Hawaiian idol on his neck or that hideous shirt as seen on Peter in the above video). A "Time to Change" may be on the horizon, but, this bridge, regardless of my instability, my deterioration, and my current safety rating, will be there to hold my boy up as he crosses whatever troubled water lies ahead. 

Ironically, in 2013 the average age of bridges in the US was 42 years of age and the bridge safety rating was a C+. On some days, when I am "structurally sound, but functionally obsolete", that age and rating sounds and feels about right, for this tired, old, weary bridge. However, on most days when this bridge feels new, sturdy, and strong, I guarantee, that regardless of my age, regardless of what I see in that damn, lying, bathroom mirror, and regardless of what grade the Federal Highway Administration feels I deserve, I know one passenger who on most days, would give me an A+...ok, fine, maybe just an A...as long as I get him over the water and he doesn't get too wet.

Happy Mother's Day my fellow Best Job in the World title holders! Today's post is specifically for moms. Sorry dads, it doesn't mean you can't read it, I just don't know if you will "get it". Unless of course, you miraculously grew a child in your womb-less body and while growing that child, maybe, just maybe, you downed one too many cups of coffee or perhaps even a nitrate filled Sheetz hot dog...or two...or three, or the horror of all horrors, perhaps you had a sip of wine because you read somewhere that in other countries an occasional glass of wine while pregnant is acceptable so certainly a sip...or two...or three will cause no harm. 

If after partaking in one of these horribly self-indulgent moments, you then experienced an overwhelming feeling of guilt while images of your baby being born missing a toe...or two...or three, as a result of your Sheetz hot dog weakness, go on and on like a horror movie reel in your head, while at the same time, your uncontrollable hormone laced brain is imagining greasy, void of any life sustaining nutrients, chili fries with your next Sheetz hot dog because you can't imagine just one more hot dog will make that much of a difference...right?  So dads, if that miracle of all miracles did occur, then by all means you do "get it" and you are most certainly welcome to join The Guilt Complex Mom's Club, aka GCMC. Just an FYI...The Guilt Complex Mom's Club is a little like The Hotel California, "You can check out anytime you like, but, you can never leave".

I swear the nanosecond that the two lines appeared on the EPT pregnancy test my mother's guilt started. "OMG...I had two shots of tequila 5 days ago plus a Corona....or two...or three!", so I immediately called my doctor and asked if my unborn child would suffer from 
Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. The doctor assured me that as long as I laid off the tequila from that moment on, the baby would probably be fine. "Probably"? "Probably"? Where in the love of God is the statistical certainty in "probably"?! Clearly, my OBGYN didn't know me that well back then (poor thing knows me all too well now and is considering an early retirement). I'm betting, thanks in part to my neurosis and in part to the mother's guilt that begins the moment that hearty little sperm reaches the egg, that by the second trimester, my doctor realized that my pregnancy may very well be the longest pregnancy in recorded history and wondered repeatedly why he didn't become an accountant instead of a doctor.

For as beautiful and unending as a mother's love is, a mother's guilt is equally as pervasive and unremitting. If, as a mother, you couldn't produce enough breast milk and had to resort to formula instead....guilt. If you produced enough breast milk, but, your diet was filled with Oreos and chocolate, and even though you'd throw yourself in front of a bus for your baby, you still really wanted just one glass of wine...guilt. If you decided to quit your job and be a stay at home mom and let your husband take on the responsibility and the stress of paying the bills...guilt. If you went back to work and put your baby in daycare in order to help pay the bills or just because you like working....guilt. If you run your kid's forgotten homework assignment to school every single time thus enabling him and not teaching him responsibility...guilt. If you don't take in your kid's forgotten homework assignment and he pays the price in a poor grade, a strike or a red cube...guilt. If your son asks you "Well, what do you think?" about his new girlfriend and you say she's a tramp, and warn him that this new girl will decimate his heart, and he walks away from you and chooses her...guilt. If you lie and tell your son she's "lovely" and in the end that skanky little tramp breaks his heart just like you knew she would....guilt. A mother's guilt comes with the job, but, we all know that regardless of our guilt, our self reproach and our self condemnation, we wouldn't quit this job, even if our life depended on it.

A mother loving a child with an ASD or any disability is not exempt from this guilt, in fact there tends to be added guilt. There is the, "What did I do to have my child deserve this?" guilt. There is the, "What if somehow I caused this?" guilt. Then top that off with a little, "Do my other children get enough of my love and attention?" guilt. Oh, and let's not forget the, "Have I picked the right therapists, the right support, the right help?" guilt. Then we have the old, "Am I doing enough?" guilt. And my personal favorite, is the, "What if all the Oreos and chocolate I eat leads to an early grave then who will love and care for my child?" guilt. Regardless of which question lead you to receive your lifelong membership into The Guilt Complex Mom's Club, like any mother loving a neurotypical child, mothers loving a child with a different ability wouldn't quit their job or this club even on the toughest day. That is why, there is a day to honor you, and honor you I shall.

As your gift from the President of The Guilt Complex Mom's Club, I want you to have a guilt-free Mother's Day. Seriously, it's only 24 hours and even if you say to hell with the laundry and the dirty dishes, or you let your kids have soda and not one single vegetable all day long, relish in your 24 hour pass, and rejoice in all that is good with the label, "Mother" and this well deserved day to honor you. To help ease your guilt ridden heart for a mere 24 hours, I want you to keep in mind that even on your worst days, the days where you scream until your head spins around, the days you teach your children a slew of new curse words and precisely when and how to use them, or the days you feel like having a "Me Day" and do nothing, but, sit in your sweatpants eating a carton of ice cream while binge watching three seasons of Sex and the City longing for your youth, a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes and a weekend pass to your BC (Before Children) days, you are still entitled to a day. Remember, that on the lowest of low mommy days, you are doing your best, your children are loved, and there is always some mother out there beating you out for the Crappiest Mom Award. So today, an early Mother's Day gift for you from me. No matter how bad it gets, no matter how much you yell, no matter how many times you tell yourself corn and potatoes are vegetables and no matter how many children your kids have taught the F word to, your mothering, beats out the cuckoo bird, the panda and the harp seal....every single day of the week. You can thank me later.

We've all had those days, the days when you want to take your kids and dump them on someone else's doorstep. Heck, some days get so bad that you actually tell your kids you are going to do just that...the old dial 1-800-NEW-MOMMY tactic (there is always the chance this could backfire and the kids really do want a new mommy and pick up the phone asking you to repeat the phone number slowly, so use this tactic carefully). Guess what, the cuckoo bird doesn't just talk the talk, she walks the walk, or flies the fly. Yes, cuckoo bird moms are so into getting back to life BC, that they trick other birds into raising their squealing youngsters by laying their eggs in another bird's nest. AWEnestly, we may threaten it, we may think it, hell, we may even leave our kids at a play date an hour past pick up hoping the other mom is too busy chasing our kid to look at the time, but, even in our worst mommy moments, we don't just dump our eggs and run. Cruel irony to this bad mommy moment, the cuckoo babies usually hatch first, grow bigger faster and kick the original occupants out of the nest, talk about evil step-sisters. At least the cuckoo bird, although horribly irresponsible, lazy, heartless, and selfish, looks out for her babies for 10 seconds by leaving them with someone else. Some mothers aren't even that kind.

The harp seal, is kind enough to stick around for about 12 days feeding her little pup, in fact, she is so selfless during those 12 days that she doesn't eat a bite herself. However, when those 12 days are up, mama gets hungry and her urge to mate becomes so strong that she leaves her baby unattended on the ice to fend for himself. Look at that face...for heaven's sake, it's even shedding a tear. What a heartless, cold, some might even say, slutty mother! Her urge to mate and eat surpasses her instinct to keep her baby safe. Yep, mama goes out looking for a new man while baby loses half of it's body weight for the next month and a half hoping some predator doesn't care about how skinny he is and eats him for lunch. Needless to say, almost 30% of harp seal pups don't survive. Now, not to defend this callous mother, but, I will say that when it came time to feed Ryan as a baby, just like the harp seal, I just sort of laid around and gave the boy his milk. Easy breezy. If I'm being AWEnest though, when the sensory stuff kicked in and Ryan wouldn't eat anything I put in front of him or worse yet, you ran out of the one thing he did want, which resulted in tantrums, meltdowns and lots and lots of tears, I thought about heading out on the ice on my own too. Clearly, I would have made sure Ryan had plenty of Jello Vanilla Pudding and Vanilla Oreos before I left, so that does put me one step above the harp seal. 

I have to admit, of all the bad mommy moments, I have had, and oh, believe me there have been plenty, I don't think I have ever thought about keeping one kid...the stronger, brighter, more likely to succeed child and dumping the other one (or in my case two). Pandas frequently have twins, and in mama bear's defense, bamboo is low in nutrients which makes producing enough milk for two babies very difficult, so, mama bear starts ignoring the weaker sibling while the stronger sibling gets more love, more attention, and more milk. AWEnestly, those are some creepy looking babies...it's a wonder mama panda doesn't go out on the town with mama harp seal mackin' on potential mates.  I remember, in my bad mommy moments, when Ryan was little and Denial and Clueless were by my side, I frequently wished Ryan was more like Kyle, but, never did it cross my mind to ignore him or neglect him in favor of his neurotypical brother. In fact, it was, and still is, just the opposite. I often feel the mommy guilt sink in that Ryan gets more attention, more support, and more "milk" than his other siblings because the support his needs from mama bear is different. That doesn't mean that his other siblings deserve any less of my attention or support, it just means that some days, there is just not enough of me to go around, so I do the best I can while the mommy guilt sinks in....again. 

So, yes, cuckoo birds, harp seals, and panda bears should make you feel a little better about your worst mommy moments. The one thing all three of these animals have in common, besides sucking at mothering, is their lack of membership into The Guilt Complex Mom's Club. You see, without the guilt of the "whys", "what if's", "should have", "could have", "would have", we would be no better at loving and supporting our kids than these three wild animals. It's the guilt that keeps us from abandoning them in another nest, leaving them out on the ice for the next hot guy who strolls past, or picking the smartest, strongest child over a weaker one. The love and guilt are so intertwined and that's what keeps us coming back for more.

There are days still that my guilt overwhelms me and the questions run round and round in my head. Why does Ryan have an ASD? Why Ryan, and not Kyle or Emma? What if I caused his autism? Why did I get a flu shot before I knew I was pregnant? Why did I crave Sheetz hot dogs and Tastykake Chocolate Mini Donuts instead of fruits and vegetables? I should have ignored those cravings. What if I had done ABA Therapy when he was young? Maybe if I would have played with him more, he'd be more social? Maybe had I done something different. 

Some days I find myself hanging in The Guilt Complex Mom's Club Clubhouse more so than other days. Maybe I had more of a yelling day, more of a "Me Day", or I left my kids in the neighbors nest an hour...or two....or three longer than I said I would. In those moments, I try to keep in mind all the good mommy moments I have had. Fighting for the child who may not know how to fend for himself. Loving all three children equally and trying not to punch a time card on who had mom the most that day. Tending to each of their needs before my own. Mostly though, I remember that regardless of my mistakes, my selfishness and my ugly moments, my kids know, I will never leave them in someone else's nest (for too long), I will never leave them freezing and starving for the next hot harp seal who walks by (do seals walk?), and I will never, ever chose one child over the other regardless of how little milk there is to go around....unless of course one of them gets me a better Mother's Day gift, then all bets are off and all the guilt is gone.

Enjoy your 24 hours of guilt free Mother's Day...you deserve it. Today, my fellow members, the Clubhouse is closed.  

After what can only be described as the coldest, iciest, most hideous winter of all time (which by the way, is how I describe every winter), last weekend, we finally had 48 hours filled with warmish temperatures AND sunshine. I feared it was a sign that the end of the world was coming, since warm and sunshine in PA rarely occur on the same day, so in between my soaking up a little Vitamin D (with SPF 50 of course) and swinging with my daughter on the playground, I kept my eye out for a plague of locusts. Fortunately, no locusts unearthed themselves after such a cold winter, but, what did pop up out of the ground with the return of warmth and sunshine, were beautiful flowers. Yes, the flowers were blooming everywhere which meant the bees were a buzzing. Even though I did plenty of research, and discovered that swarms of bees do not appear anywhere on Google as a sign of the apocalypse, there was still no convincing Ryan of this pertinent information as he remained inside the house building his arc.... and waiting.

To say that Ryan is a little afraid of bees, would be like saying The Book of Revelation being read to school age children, long before a child is ready to hear such horrific doomsday predictions, may cause a child to need a little bit of therapy. We all have things we are afraid of...bees, snakes, clowns, a clown holding a snake...which  would be my own version of Hell. AWEnestly, if there is a Purgatory and I'm stuck there, chances are I will be stuck next to a snake handling clown. Curse my college years sins. Some things we fear are utterly ridiculous...I mean besides the creepy murdering clown from Stephen King's It movie, most clowns may be a little disturbing, but they should not keep me from going to the circus, but they do. When you think about Stephen King's somewhat demented imagination that enables him to come up with such creepy, freaky books, that include a possessed car, a demonic clown, a pig blood soaked prom queen, and un-dead pets, Stephen King is who should haunt my nightmares, not some sad, hiding behind his makeup, creepy faced clown!

I'm old enough now to recognize some of my fears as being irrational, but that still doesn't make me any less afraid. Once, a small garter snake was coming at me, slithering at an extraordinarily high rate of speed, fangs showing, looking for blood (at least that's how I remember it) and although I would throw myself in front of a train for my daughter, clearly I will not throw myself in front of what I feared was a deadly, poisonous, garter snake. In fact, I will run in the opposite direction and leave my two year old daughter in my dust without a second glance backward until I'm safely in the house while my innocent toddler stands transfixed in the yard wondering how Mommy could possibly run so fast. Wrong? Yes. Sorry? Yes. Would I do it all again? Yes...unless of course there was the slightest possibility that a clown was lying in wait for me inside the house.

Ryan's fear of springtime flowers, which draw deadly, stinging bees, is no less extreme than my snake/clown phobia. No matter how many times I have explained the beauty of flowers and the sweet nectar that draws the bees in, Ryan does not see the beauty of a daffodil or an azalea bush, he sees pollen sucking deadly bees, horrifically swollen bee stings and sticky antiseptic followed by the suggestion of (shudder) a band aid. Just like Ryan's fear of bees blocks his ability to see the beauty in flowers, and my fear of clowns blocks my ability to see the beauty in a child's smile at the circus, people's fear of "different" may block their ability to see the beauty in a child who does not look or act the same as others. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. The phrase, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" means that each person sees beauty in a different fashion. In other words, different people have different ideas about what is beautiful.

For years my friends Denial and Clueless tried to make me miss out on Ryan's beauty. They tried to convince me that wearing the cool clothes, having the cool haircut, wearing the cool sneakers and acting like every other kid on the playground is what would make Ryan beautiful. The sometimes odd facial grimaces, the weird noises, and the repeated scripting, Denial said, was not beautiful, and others would not find beauty in such obvious differences either. So, just like the creepy clowns at the circus, who hide who they really are behind makeup and clothes, I tried to camouflage my boy and his differences, by making him someone he was not, because unlike the circus clowns, I did not want people pointing and laughing at my son.

Denial made me feel like I was doing the right thing when people would see Ryan, dressed in the "clown suit" clothes that were really not him, and say, "Look how beautiful he is!". Denial also assured me that making Ryan participate in all the same activities the other kids did, like baseball and soccer, would make Ryan look less "different", regardless of the fact that Ryan looked like a charging bull running down the baseline due to the awful feeling of the batting helmet. Denial's assurance that everyone would see past Ryan's difference and see his beauty if I tried to make him look and act more like everyone else, blinded me to how difficult being "beautiful" had become for Ryan. 

In fact, Denial had me so convinced, that I saw right past the stretched out shirt collars, the constant tugging at the hard, stiff denim jeans and the non-stop pulling of the low cut socks that would never reach his knees no matter how hard Ryan pulled. The irony was, Ryan was more beautiful in his unstylish fleece pants, his collar-less 100% cotton tshirts and his high white socks, happily scripting away while playing his latest video game because he was no longer wearing the clown makeup, hiding who he really was underneath, just so others would see their version of beautiful. It's a shame it took this beholder so long to finally see Ryan's beauty.

Now that I can see Ryan's beauty, I am dumbfounded that others can't.

I see the beauty in a smart, funny, little boy transforming into a handsome young man.

I see the beauty in a boy's ability to memorize and mimic everything from the microwave beep to Jim Carey's version of The Grinch.

I see the beauty in Ryan's unique and often hilarious way of interpreting our strange and crazy world.

I see the beauty in a boy whose confidence in his musical ability makes him stand apart from his athletic brother and sister.

I see the beauty in a boy who may struggle socially, but, has found happiness in the absence of being a part of "the crowd".

I see the beauty in a boy who has given me the gift of seeing the world through a very different lens and his willingness to share that world with me, even when I didn't deserve it.

I see the beauty in a boy who has loved his mother through her own phobias, fears, and poor choice of "friends", while still forgiving that mother for the times she was once blind to his unique beauty.

Even though I finally mustered up the courage to tell Denial she was wrong about the beauty of "different", she still comes around every now and then and suggests that Ryan wear the high black socks that are "in" versus the high white socks that he prefers. Most days, I slam the door in her face, but, I have my weak moments. Unfortunately, I still come across people who have many weak moments and who are still blind to the beauty of "different". I don't get angry with this people, because after all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but, I do feel sad for them. To miss such beauty because what they see is so different from what I see, is not something to judge, it's not something to be angry about, it's just something that these blind beholders will miss out on, just like I miss out on the circus....every....single....year.

How we see and what we see as beautiful varies from person to person. To Barnum and Bailey, a clown is not something to be feared, but, a clown is a thing of beauty because for most people (those without strange clown phobias), clowns equal laughter and laughter equals "ca-ching". To a beekeeper, springtime flowers are not something that is equated to deadly bee stings, but, the beauty of these flowers equals busy, honey producing bees. To a mother, a boy, who has finally grown comfortable in his own skin by being just who he is, regardless if others find him beautiful or not, is hands down the most beautiful sight a mother could every lay eyes on. For Ryan, beauty is in the eye of the BEEholder and chances are, he may never see the beauty in flowers or bees, just like I will never, ever, ever for the rest of my life and not even in Purgatory, find anything remotely beautiful about a clown, but, the two of us together will continue to help others see the beauty of "different", just not at a flower show or at a circus.