Today my boy is 12....not quite a teenager, not quite a child. He walked out the door this morning wearing a Hollister shirt and size 9 men's Reebok Ziggs and tonight he will blow out the candles on a Despicable Me Minions birthday cake. 12 is that glorious age where you are expected to act like a young man, but still can get away with child like behavior....as long as none of the cool kids are watching. Sadly, though, the 12th birthday is not a highly lauded birthday. There are no special 12th Birthday cards at Hallmark (well, maybe there is the occasional elusive 12th birthday card, but you get my drift). There is no such thing as a "Sweet" 12th birthday party, no overly celebrated milestone in the hype of birthday blowouts. Think about it, how many of you can remember your 12th birthday? Sure you can probably give details about your 13th, 16th, 18th and 21st...well maybe not a lot of detail about the blurry 21st, but I'm betting you celebrated it (perhaps too well). Poor 12, a neglected, often overlooked number in the realm of all things birthday, but I'm here to tell you, 12 should not be taken lightly.

There are 12 months in a year, not 13, not 16, not 21....12. What if there were only 11 months? What if, say, April was disregarded. No flowers blooming, no warm sun heating up the still brisk air, no April showers to bring May flowers. A beautiful part of spring that we just take for granted would be gone. Yes, I realize the spring season would still be upon us, but it would be shortened by one month which might mean a longer winter. Uh, no thank you. I am grateful for 12 months.

There are also 12 hours on an analog clock face....12 hours in the AM, 12 hours in the PM. What if the 12th hour was deemed to be not as important as the ever famous "11th hour", so it was removed? And what if this removal caused us to miss the beautiful orange glow of a sunrise and the red, pink and gold of a summer time sunset. Or horror of all horrors, what if the 12th hour was when the season finale of True Blood or Downton Abbey aired?!! Let's also not forget that 12 equals a dozen. That's a dozen eggs, a dozen chocolate chip cookies and Ryan's personal favorite (ok, fine, it's mine too) a dozen donuts! AWEnestly, if there were only 11 donuts in a box, the donuts wouldn't fit in the donut box evenly and they would slide all around getting gross green icing and sprinkles on my perfectly glazed coffee roll. And without the 12 pairs of ribs we all have protecting our heart and lungs, those vital organs would be vulnerable to so much more than plaque build up from our dozen eggs, our dozen cookies and our dozen Krispy Kremes. I don't need any fewer ribs to add to my risk factors.

The number 12 may not be important enough for it's own birthday card, but the number 12 has historical significance even if Hallmark wants to overlook it. In the Bible, Jesus picked 12 disciples with each apostle representing the 12 tribes of Israel. The Greeks also found the number 12 ideal as they designated 12 major gods to hang out and chill on Mt. Olympus. There are 12 animals in the Chinese Horoscope...which, in case you are wondering, it is the year of the snake....your welcome. There are also 12 signs in the Zodiac Calendar. Dan and I both fall under the zodiac sign Taurus which would explain our natural bull-headedness. And just last year, 12/12/12 occurred and that will be the last triple date in this century....hope you enjoyed it.

Yes, without 12 drummers drumming on the 12th Day of Christmas, the holiday season wouldn't be quite as festive. And to downplay Ryan's 12th birthday because it does not bestow upon him the title of teenager, nor does it give him the freedom to get behind the wheel, cast his ballot, or have his first legal sip of beer, would be heartbreaking...to both Ryan and me. 12 is a beautiful number. I have had 12 years worth of hugs, kisses and snuggles. 12 years of watching a scared little boy overcome some of his fears only to have them replaced by others. 12 years to "see" how different the world can be when you step outside of your own box. 12 years to guide this beautiful little boy into adolescence with both laughter and tears. 12 years to fight for him, protect him and rejoice in him. 12 years of birthday cakes (vanilla cake with butter cream icing only) with candles blown out twice because, well, birthday candles only come once a year. 12 years of understanding how autism may be a part of Ryan, but not what defines him. 12 years x 365 days=4,380 days which amounts to 105,120 hours of loving this beautiful gift that has been given to me, although at times I feel unworthy of such a precious gift.

Yes, so many beautiful reason to celebrate Sweet 12. As kids, birthdays are about the cake, the number of candles to blow out and the presents that matter most, but, to those of us who love them, it's not the presents, it is the present. The here and now. And although we may reflect on birthdays past and how much our kids have grown and accomplished, and we may worry for a flashing moment what the birthdays of the future may hold, we recognize how quickly 12 will pass by, so we try and respect time and glow in the glory of all that is 12.

As my boy slowly morphs into a teenager and straddles that gap between childhood and adulthood, I will be there to help balance Ryan when he is unsure which side of the gap to stand on and I will try not to make him fall in the gap as I desperately cling to 12 for as long as I can. And even though I was told "no happy tears", by Ryan as he left for the bus today, I promise that at exactly 1:39 PM, when Ryan will be "officially" 12 (and while he is in school and can't see me), a tear or two may drop as I reflect on the significance of 12 and I count my blessings (a number much, much bigger than 12) for all that 12 has given me while I guiltily eat one of the 12 chocolate chip cookies I purchased for his 12th birthday. I really wish he couldn't count to 12.

First day of the 2013-2014 school year and as usual I have mixed emotions. As a stay at home mom, I sit here at the computer for the first time in over two months in total, utter silence. No SpongeBob, no Sports Center, no bickering, no whining about having nothing to eat and being "so bored"...just silence. The silence is both welcoming and deafening. I can't believe summer has come to an end and that my babies are out the door again in the big, scary world without me where I have limited control over what they eat (AWEnestly it's probably healthier than what they eat here), who they hang out with, where they glue the eyes on their snowman (I have major craft control issues) and most importantly, why I didn't do a better job preparing them all summer before they stepped out the door today. Sigh, yes, although uninvited, Guilt came over for breakfast this morning.

Many of us mothers have Guilt over for coffee or mimosas (depending on how your morning went) on the first day of school. Whether Guilt arrived to remind you that your child didn't open up a book this summer or look at a single math flashcard or learn to tie their shoes or to ride a bike without training wheels or to suggest that maybe you shouldn't be THAT happy that the kids are gone, Guilt just shows up at your back door and sadly, you let her in. AWEnestly, it's not your fault....the summer just flew by and although you thought there was plenty of time to accomplish all those perfect mom tasks you had made up your mind to do in early June, between shuttling kids to this camp and that camp and sleepovers and vacations, "it" (the list is endless) just didn't get done, but yet, the kids got on the bus smiling and seeming no worse for the wear.

Well, this morning Guilt plopped her uninvited butt at my kitchen table, which by the way was still covered with the remnants of all the last minute school supplies I was shoving into backpacks while the kids were screaming, "I'm going to miss the bus!", to creep into my conscience about the discussion I had last night, and then again this morning with Ryan, my now official middle schooler. Middle School, THE end of childhood and the beginning of hell. Don't worry, I didn't tell Ryan that the middle school doors are actually the threshold of hell. I didn't want to scare him for goodness sake because I most certainly wanted that child to get on the bus so I could save myself $50 shopping without him at Wegmans, but I'm afraid with the mixed messages I gave him, hell may have sounded like a better option to him. Middle school is tough for a lot of kids, but when you throw in a touch of autism, well, let's just say, it's a whole different ball game....in hell.

Ryan woke up to a new Adventure Time app (some television show that I was also glad was not blaring in my family room this morning) with some video game guy named Bemo as his alarm clock at 6:05 this morning. Ryan came trotting into our bedroom almost as happy as Christmas morning, mimicking the app in his head, which was apparent by his smile. This was a happy, almost 12 year old who was not worried in the least about all the things I fear for him in middle school. Ryan could care less if all the boys are wearing high black socks (which is a look that reminds me of what my grandfather wore while sitting on his porch reading the paper), he happily put on his short socks because they are more comfortable. Ryan doesn't care that very few middle schoolers pack their lunch, he proudly shoved his new lunchbox in his backpack refusing to succumb to chicken nugget pressure. Ryan doesn't care if kids in middle school herd together at lunch time like sheep, he assured me he'd be "just fine" if he decides to eat alone. Ryan prefers some alone time so he can decompress from the pressure of having to pay attention to what the teachers are saying, especially when he is so distracted by his new sneakers that have "too long of a tongue". No, Ryan's only stress probably came from an over anxious mother who wants him to be himself without quite being himself. And so this is why Guilt showed up today while I was eating my granola, soggy from my tears.

"Ok, Ryan, now remember, lock up all the characters from Adventure Time, SpongeBob, The Rabbids and Mario Super Smash Brothers in your special lockbox in your brain, since there is no place for them in middle school because kids might tease you if you script the show or make silly noises.....Oh, and if your nose runs, please get a tissue, don't lick it....And if your nose gets dried up, please don't pick it with your fingers and for the love of heaven, DO NOT adjust your "stuff" in the hallway, at your desk, on the bus or at lunch, no matter how much "they" are sticking to your legs....Remember what I said about trying to find your friend at lunch so you don't have to sit alone, you are in 6th grade now, so you can sit with anyone you want....Oh, but, don't forget the most important thing though Buddy, BE YOURSELF"! Do you see why Guilt showed up today? How can my sweet boy, be who he is, if he has a nutsy worrying mother telling him, for the most part, to not be himself so he doesn't get picked on, bullied, or teased. Now that I think about it, I guess I did leave my back door open for Guilt to just waltz right in and eat my granola.

Mixed messages for sure. Of course I love Ryan and believe he is perfect just the way he is, but middle school kids may not think that and leaving Ryan alone and vulnerable in the cafeteria, almost makes me puke my granola. Unless you were able to block out your middle school years through hypnosis, we all remember what it was like. Of course it wasn't all bad, but if one person made fun of you for wearing Jordache jeans and carrying a purse, well, you just tend to remember (I hope "she" reads this blog and feels badly about the obvious damage "she" caused me). Trying to fit in when you care is difficult, trying not to stand out when you don't give a shnikie (Ryan's substitute word for sh**), can be even harder....at least for mom.

As I sit here waiting and worrying for the bus to return my boy to me, Guilt has decided to stay for both lunch and dinner. I fear Guilt may make a permanent residence on the basement couch during these scary middle school years. Ryan's biggest concern for middle school is how hard the schoolwork will be, not who he will sit by at lunch with his plain lunchbox ("Mario lunchboxes are for elementary students"....sigh, more guilt) packed with a cheese sandwich cut in triangles EVERY single day, or if bullies on the school bus will make fun of his no longer in style, short socks even though their high socks look like they belong in a nursing home. The line between Ryan being himself and not being "too different", which could make him a bulls eye target of bullying, is very fine. Even as Ryan's mother, I have a hard time walking it.

Now that Ryan is a big kid, there are some adjustments he must make. Ryan should no longer use his tongue as a tissue for his runny nose, nor should Ryan use his fingers to pick his dried nose. Ryan must learn to adjust his sticking to him "stuff" in private, or at the very least, through his pockets, even though we have all witnessed many grown men do this regardless of their age or location (having different "stuff", I try not to judge too harshly). And although Ryan cares little about that "fine line", he will have to walk it by learning what is socially acceptable without compromising who he is in the face of bullies.

The most important thing for Ryan to learn and one day understand, is that his mother, who tries so hard to protect him, love him and do right by him, will continue to screw up....a lot, and regardless of how much his mother has learned over the years, Guilt, Denial and Clueless will still occasionally stop by for a quick bite. I just pray that any damage I do, can be undone or at the very least, forgiven with some "I will try harder" warm chocolate chip cookies (from a bag, sorry, but I don't think I did enough damage today, or any day for that matter, to actually bake from scratch) that are baking in the oven now.  And even though I know Guilt will still be here when Ryan comes walking through that front door this afternoon, happily moaning at the smell of melting chocolate, Guilt isn't touching my boy's chocolate chip cookies. Guilt, my friends, has already taken enough today.

Kid birthday parties. Year, after year, after year we plan them, we clean up after them and then we swear we will NEVER have one again....until the next birthday rolls around. You know when I was a kid (here we go), kids didn't have a birthday party EVERY SINGLE YEAR. You were lucky if you ever had one party, or if you were lottery winning lucky, you might have had two. I don't mean have a couple of friends over for a sleepover, I mean a guest list, decorations, cake and party hats. My two parties occurred on my 13th and 16th birthdays, both surprises, both awesome. You know why they were awesome? Because I did not have a party EVERY SINGLE YEAR.

In this day and age, planning birthday parties is tough, I mean really tough. Since Jimmy had a clown, your kid wants a circus. Since Susie had a pony, your kid wants a petting zoo. And if the twins down the street had a combined pirate and princess party, well, your kid wants you to adopt another child his age so his party can be two times the fun. It goes on and on and on, trying to keep up with the Joneses' kids or at the very least, the Joneses' kids birthday bashes and their over the top party bags (that cost $20 a piece to fill and get tossed in the trash in less than 72 hours when the birthday party attendee isn't looking). It's ri-damn-diculous and that's why, for the most part, our family doesn't give a hoot one way or another what the Joneses do or don't do, but when it comes to birthday parties and children, well, it's a little harder to tell our kids that the Joneses really kind of suck. After all, it's your kids only 5th, 9th, 14th (insert any number in here from 1 to 70 because when your kid is 70, chances are if you are still here you won't remember your kid let alone his birthday) birthday, so a celebration is certainly in order. Well, let me tell you, regardless of your kids dream of an over the top party theme and venue, what's even harder than keeping up with the Joneses, is having a child with an Autism Spectrum Disorder wanting to keep up with their siblings, regardless of their last name.

Some kids on the autism spectrum may not want a party at all. They may realize that the loud, out of the ordinary routine is not their party bag, so they may choose a new video game and some cake with family and call it a day. Others may want the whole nine yards. "If brother had a big, blow out party, then why shouldn't I?". Why, indeed? Well, AWEnestly, I could list about three dozen reasons why because I have listed them all in my head numerous times, but rather than saying or thinking the reasons out loud, I went ahead and planned a party, knowing full well the party would blow up and I would be left standing with cake on my face. If a child with an ASD wants a party, careful planning must take place. Maybe you have to pick a sensory safe location with minimum noise and chaos, or maybe you have to bring all your own snacks because they have to be red dye and gluten and casein free or maybe, just maybe you have a guest list with not one single name on it. Ouch. Yep, as a mom, that empty guest list really, really hurts.

Ryan witnessed Kyle having birthday parties EVERY SINGLE YEAR (no circus or petting zoo, yep the Joneses win....if creepy clowns in your family room and animal poo on your lawn is winning), so of course Ryan wanted birthday parties too. So, not wanting to short change Ryan, every August, I get in party planning mode, however, the first step to planning Ryan's birthday parties always breaks my heart. You see, it's hard to have a party when your child can't come up with a guest list. A guest list is typically comprised of friends, and well, without friends, there is a whole lot of birthday cake leftover, especially when those fabulous over-priced, over-sugared store bought cakes can only fit your child's current favorite character on a 1/4 sheet cake. By the way, that feeds 15-18 people, trust me, I know.

When Ryan was 5, we had his first real birthday party. Denial and Clueless helped me plan it. The guest list was easy for the 5th birthday, because at that age, you invite everyone in your child's daycare class. Done. The location was a piece of cake (pun intended) too and of course with Denial and Clueless' party planning expertise, they insisted on Chuckie Cheese. That's where the Joneses had their kids party and so of course I had to have Kyle's first big birthday party there too. Denial and Clueless reminded me that Kyle had a blast and they assured me Ryan would love it too. I wish I could go back in time and slap myself for listening to those overzealous fools.

Ryan's guests most certainly had a blast, screaming, jumping in the ball pit (after I checked for hypodermic needles...of course I did), and playing the loud, bright obnoxious video games. Regardless of the noise level, the flashing lights of the stage and the sensory overloaded atmosphere, Ryan had a great time too....for awhile and on his own. When it was time to celebrate my beautiful boy with pizza, cake and the "Happy Birthday Song" led by a giant sized mouse named Chuckie, all the guests were at the table except the guest of honor. The guest of honor could have cared less about that table full of "friends" happily waiting for him. My boy had reached maximum overload and decided the safest place to be was in the tubes above the party....alone. I distinctly remember begging him to come out of the tube and to join his guests and a giant creepy mouse who were all waiting for him. Eventually, the lure of the cake and soda were too much for Ryan and he climbed down. The funny thing is, Ryan could have saddled up to any table in that loud, obnoxious, hideous place, regardless of the kids who were seated around the table, as long as there was cheese pizza and white cake with white icing and he would have been thrilled. I would have been thrilled had some angry, aggressive Chuckie Cheese moms taken their overstimulated frustrations out on Denial and Clueless rather than each other and stuffed them both in the dirty a** ball pit. Denial and Clueless did get one thing right, Kyle had a blast...again.

As Ryan got older, party planning got harder. For many years, it was just family which suited Ryan fine, it was his mother, still peeking over the Joneses fence wondering what their child who was the same age as Ryan did for their kid's birthday. For the past couple of years, Ryan had just a friend or two (that I would have to suggest because he couldn't come up with names on his own)....simple and easy. Every year, regardless of the size of the party or the location, comping up with the guest list still proves to be most difficult. With each new birthday, I have asked Ryan who he wants to have at his party and each year I am met with complete and total silence. I would ask about kids in his class at school and he would tell me that he "hadn't seen them in awhile" (awhile being about 6 weeks) and he rarely could even remember his classmates'  names because, once school was out, their names and their faces didn't matter anymore. 

One year, we planned Ryan's party for the week after Friendship Camp (i.e. social skills group) and decided to invite some of the boys from camp. Even in a group of only about 8 boys, I still had to ask the camp counselor who Ryan spent most of his time with because he could not tell me on his own. I'm here to tell you, that party could have been a skit on Saturday Night Live. Between all the no red dye, no gluten, no dairy, no bugs, no loud noises, no sunscreen and no unexpected movements as well as the in depth discussions on dinosaurs, weather events, the periodical table of elements, planets and the intricacies of the various levels in Mario's world, I did not need any creepy clowns, pooping horses or Joneses family ideals, because whether they intended it or not, these amazing kiddos were the best entertainment around. These amazing boys were unique, they were quirky and they were Awesome! Yes, Ryan had a meltdown after being reprimanded for his rudeness when a birthday gift didn't make the cut, and of course he let the kid know it, and yes two hours was PLENTY of time, but, Ryan and his guests seemed to enjoy themselves. As one parent put it, "My son was just happy knowing he was finally invited to a birthday party".

Needless to say, when your kid has a hard time coming up with a guest list for his own party, they don't make it on too many party lists either. It has been four years (yes, as a mom you know how long it has been) since Ryan has been invited to a birthday party, thanks to a sweet little girl and her family that included the entire class. Sure, Ryan gets invited to my friends' kids' birthday parties and I am always so grateful, but, AWEnestly, it's not the same. As heartbreaking as it is for me to constantly run Emma and Kyle to parties while Ryan is left out, I don't know that not making the cut on an invite list matters to him as much as the indignation he feels for not getting to bowl, mini-golf, bounce, swim, etc. Yes, what ticks Ryan off is not WHO doesn't include him, but WHERE he hasn't been invited to go. That is a big difference. On more than once occasion, I have taken Kyle and Emma to the bowling alley, sports complex, public pool, etc for a birthday party and just paid for Ryan to participate too. Of course, this leads the parents of the birthday kid to offer Ryan pizza, cake, drinks, etc and I feel like the freeloader trying to score my kid a free meal. Sigh....birthday parties. Blahhhh!

This year was different. This year was great. This year, Ryan had a friend. Yep, I just said the "f word" and I didn't even stub my toe. This friend invited Ryan to his birthday party and the invitation came in the mail addressed to him, not Kyle, not Emma....Ryan. He beamed from ear to ear while I hid my tears of joy from him. Not only did Ryan happily attend the party, he also had his first, on his own, without siblings, sleepover and aside from letting the party host's parents know he would only eat the pancakes if they were buttermilk pancakes and insisting on taking his drink to the food and drink free basement, it went beautifully! Not only did my boy make the guest list, he loved the location too!

Yesterday, Ryan celebrated his 12th birthday and the location, the design on the cake and what the Joneses' kid did for his birthday didn't matter at all. What mattered yesterday was the guest list. The list that contained one name that Ryan came up with on his own. The FRIEND, that he mini-golfed with, video gamed with, dined with, walked the puppy with, played with and shouted, "follow me" with. The guest who watched me wipe away tears with a cheap, very scratchy sports complex napkin and asked if I was ok as I explained that my tears were "happy tears" while I put more money on his token card. The guest who spent 7 hours with my son, (and Ryan only walked away twice for about five minutes of alone time) and went home and told his family how much fun HE had at Ryan's birthday party. The guest who finally enabled Ryan to celebrate his birthday in a way he never knew he wanted. And the guest who helped a mother stop peeking over the Joneses' fence wondering what their kid was doing and helped her recognize that regardless of the birthday venue, the balloons, the cake, the clowns, the pony rides, and the obscene amount of money spent on the perfect party bags, it is the guest list, the WHO, not the WHAT, not the WHERE that makes a birthday party successful, even if there is only one thank you card to mail. 

I'm glad we aren't the Joneses. Chances are they will never learn such a valuable lesson that was taught to me by an 11 year old boy, because the Joneses will be too busy cleaning up pony poop, wiping clown make-up off their best party glasses and planning next year's bigger and better party with Clueless and Denial at the helm to ever truly "get it". So to Ryan and his very special guest, thank you for teaching this old dog new tricks. For opening my eyes and allowing me to see in a way that only children can. Yesterday will be forever emblazoned on my heart and the bonus of not having pony poop on my shoes, well, that's just the icing on the cake.

The beginning of August may mean school is just around the corner for some while others are still waiting for the last summer trip to the beach to bask in the sun, relax with friends and family and jump the ocean waves. And now, thanks to 26 seasons of Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, we know precisely what is lurking under those waves. Which leads me to wonder why, oh why, does the Discovery Channel air Shark Week in early August at the height of beach season for so many folks? Why not in December when many of us are bundled up in coats and scarves sipping hot cocoa and dreaming of a white Christmas? Nope, those programming guys air hours of shark attacks, sea lion lunches and miles of surf and sand scaring viewers with what might lie right beneath your boogie board during the still hot summer weeks of summer. Of course the bigger question is why do I, a certifiable nut bag who is constantly borrowing the lifeguard's binoculars to determine if that dorsal fin belongs to a big, scary shark, or a kind, happy dolphin while my kids splash in the surf, sit up until 2 AM watching such a terrifying week of blood and horror at the height of summer? Well, it's simple...we aren't going to the beach this summer. With no beach trip I can safely sit on my couch watching Shark Week knowing full well, that even though we have a salt water pool, sharks can't get in there. Can they?

No beach trip this summer has certainly alleviated my shark attack fear (oh, and my riptide fear as well), but the downside has been the constant complaining from my children of "everyone else went to the beach this summer". Between our fellow beach vacationers having alternative plans this summer and the addition of a new puppy (who, by the way, has teeth almost as sharp as a Great White), no sandy beaches or ocean breezes for us this year. Yes, it's disappointing, yes it sucks when friends post their happy families having the time of their life at the beach on FB, Instagram and Twitter and yes, no beach sunsets and shark patrol binoculars has left a gaping hole in our hearts, but we will survive. The irony is, the one person who has grumbled the loudest is the one who hates the scratchy sand, the bright sun, the annoying wind and the sticky sunscreen that goes along with every beach vacation. Complaints, moans and groans from the kid who lasts about 20 minutes before he starts begging to go back to the beach house where he can sit inside the air conditioned bedroom and play video games. Regardless of the sensory overload the beach inflicts on Ryan's overly sensitive system, beach vacations have become part of our family's summer time routine, even though for years I was advised to try a trip to the mountains instead.

It didn't take long to discover that the beach may not have been the best vacation venue for Ryan. On his first trip to the beach, when he was about two, we were THAT family. The family that inevitably parks their numerous umbrellas, inflatable kiddie pool, cooler, enough toys to entertain the entire beach, and over-sized beach towels covered with sand routinely shaken in your direction, right next to YOU. The obnoxious family that has a crying, whiny child that the stupid, selfish parents refuse to take back to the beach house regardless of the impact it is having on your day. And to add insult to injury, throw in a CD player that played Thomas the Tank Engine (loudly) over and over and over again. Yep, we are, okay, we were, THAT family for many years. It's a miracle that the other beach goers didn't throw Dan and I into the ocean with a bucket of chum attached to our beach chairs.

Ryan hated the sun, but he also hated the feel of sun hats and sunglasses which would have alleviated some of the torture. Ryan hated the sand, but failed to recognize that rolling off the towel and into the sand would bring more sand and more wailing. Ryan hated sunscreen, but was too young to understand that crying and rubbing his eyes would only cause the sunscreen to burn his corneas which inevitably lead to more tears, more shrieks, more sand stuck to his face and more beach goers searching for chum. The only thing that soothed Ryan (to the detriment of anyone who had ears) was the Thomas the Tank Engine songs. I promise you, between Ryan screaming, my shouting and the Thomas music, it was the safest, shark free summer in OBX history. Even the sharks didn't want any part of this beach action.

As I sat in the sand with Ryan's giant head digging into my chest trying to block out everything beach, Denial sat there soaking up the sun, singing along with Ryan and assuring me that all kids act like this at the beach and I had nothing to worry about. As the sand slowly worked it's way into my "boom box", suffocating the cheery British chaps singing about happy Thomas trains, doubt was slowly working it's way into my heart. I knew this kind of protesting about what most kids love, had to be extreme and not "normal", but I took Denial's advice and hit repeat (again and again) on the slowly dying boom box while everyone else around us moved farther and farther away.

Although the sun, the sand, and the sunscreen were not Ryan's friends, the ocean....oh, the ocean....most certainly was. The pull and hug of the ocean tides was the relief my poor, over-stressed boy needed to regulate his taxed out sensory system. As much as Ryan loved the feel of the ocean on his legs, his belly, his chest, there was a down side to that deep pressure, salt water hug. The inevitable rash that comes from the sand, the saltwater and long, loose fitting swim trunks. This burning, itchy rash would typically start on day two of vacation (yep, that's still five more days to go) and of course it took one gentle, salt filled wave to lap up against Ryan's irritated skin for the howling to begin. No matter how soothing the tides may have felt to my sweet fella, it was just not worth the fire burning on the back of his legs. Goodbye ocean....see you next year.

Every year, while planning for our annual pilgrimage to the seaside, I would ask Ryan's pediatrician what I could do to prevent the rash from appearing in the first place. He would suggest antihistamines, various creams and lotions and inevitably a different vacation venue like the mountains, the city or perhaps a day trip to the zoo. That's when Denial would stick her fingers in my ears and I would walk out of the pediatrician's office mentally making my list of beach trip items, including the latest lotion that would inevitably prove futile.

Yes, I ignored the doctor, yes I ignored my conscience and yes, I pretended each year wasn't as bad as I thought and we would pack up our umbrellas, our cooler, our beach towels, our sand toys and our Velveeta Shells and Cheese and head back to the beach year after year. On one particular beautiful sunny beach day when Ryan was about 8 years old, it took him all of thirty minutes to announce, "I'm done. Let's go back to the beach house." Are you freaking kidding me? It took twice the amount of time to apply sunscreen on moving targets, pack lunches, fill the cooler and drag the beach chairs, towels, boogie boards and sand toys to the desired, coveted perfect beach spot. So when Ryan announced he'd had enough after I finally plopped my exhausted butt in my beach chair I said, "tough luck kid" and ignored his complaints.
 
Needless to say, I couldn't ignore Ryan for long once I sensed the other beach goers hatred filled, chum searching gaze. I tried distracting Ryan with sand toys, snacks, beverages and paddle ball. My tactics worked for about fifteen minutes. The whining persisted, the complaining got louder and my nerves got more and more frazzled. So once Ryan hit melt-down mode, out of complete and utter frustration, he kicked sand at me. Big. Giant. Mistake. Just like a Great White Shark, I saw red and went into a frenzy. I snatched Ryan up, plopped him on his beach chair and screamed, "You just bought yourself an extra hour!". Yep, I decided to punish my child for kicking sand in my face by making him stay at the beach longer...the horror! Most kids would have laughed at such a "punishment", being forced to play in the surf, build sand castles and eat junky snacks as a form of punishment, but Ryan wasn't most kids. To Ryan, that extra hour was punishment as it was for all our friends who were with us.

It took years of patience, years of tears and years of me ignoring the pediatrician's advice for a change of venue, but last year between Ryan growing up and accepting that his horribly selfish parents were going on a freaking, happy, smiling beach vacation come hell or high water, last year it all worked out because good old mom finally found the secret to beach peace. Swim jammers. I'm sorry if you were expecting some light shining down from Heaven kind of moment where I buried Denial in the sand and took a leisurely sand free vacation to the mountains. I'm way too selfish for that moment. Nope, the secret to Ryan's beach happiness (and for all who vacation with him) came in the form of swim trunks that fit like skin and don't rub, chafe or cause swimmer's rash. My boy could enjoy the squeezy tight hug of the ocean which made the sun, the sand, the sunscreen and his mother yelling, "Please don't go out so far!", while holding the lifeguard's shark binoculars, much easier to bear. In fact, he really, really loved it. Ahhhhh...finally.

Our family, with the exception of one, loves the beach, so no, we have yet to change our vacation venue and the mountains still await us (of course there are snakes in the mountains which one other family member, who happens to be the one in charge of planning vacations) hates. This family wanted to be like all the other fish, heading in the same direction as the rest of the fish in their school. We didn't want to be like the Great White Shark traveling alone being forced to vacation in sensory safe locations. Selfish? Yes. AWEnest? Most certainly. But, until you have lived with the isolated feeling of being that big fish swimming alone while all the other fish swim together putting on their sunscreen without screams of torture, taking the perfect, no family member is scowling because of the wind and sand, beach photo in white shirts and blue jeans (that is so predictable, please, please wear something different) and going about their vacation with the other fish in school not concerning themselves with the fish whose family's needs are so different from theirs, then you can't and you must not judge. 

It took time, but Ryan has truly learned to love the beach. He wears sunglasses, sunscreen and form fitting swim jammers. And although he may still be the first one ready to head back to the beach house, he lasts much longer than thirty minutes these days. We may have tortured Ryan over the years by subjecting him to environments less than pleasing and this most certainly was in part because we wanted to swim in the same school of fish with all our friends, swimming in a group and heading to the same vacation spot. However, Ryan's torture from sand, sun and saltwater also occurred  because the world will always be sticky, scratchy and bright, and trying to adapt to that world while mom is on shark and snack patrol and dad is on riptide watch, is the safest place for my beautiful son to adapt. Being thrown to the sharks alone with only a bucket of chum to cling to and my boy would never survive. Unlike his family, Ryan may never want to be part of a school and he may always prefer to be traveling the waters alone, but my son will never, ever be completely alone....we will always be swimming a few feet behind him.

Yes, Shark Week scares the crap out of me which of course is part of the lure. However, I also think the Discovery Channel programmers, marine biologists, and all those who love and fight for the understanding and survival of sharks, want those of us who are uneducated and whose only conception of sharks was created by Steven Spielberg and a mechanical shark in 1975 to realize, that even though sharks may not prefer to go along with all the rest of the fish, sharks have their place in the ocean. Without sharks, the ocean would be filled with fish who all want to be the same, going in the same direction and who fear swimming outside the group. If we can put our prejudices and our misunderstandings aside, we may understand what amazing, strong and beautiful creatures they are regardless if they forego the traditional school of fish and prefer to swim alone. 

Coming from a fish who has always preferred to swim in a school surrounded by others pushing me and guiding me to go the same way as them, I am at times saddened, yet inspired by my big fish who cares little of what direction others are heading. He has his own path in mind. Ryan may be traveling in waters often designed for those swimming in a school, which at times makes survival difficult, but he and kids like him have proven to us group folks that being alone very rarely means being lonely and that being who you are, regardless of your differences, takes more courage, more strength, and more survival skills than all the Great Whites freaking us out on Shark Week.

I can't believe it's August already. If it weren't for the Back to School newspaper ads, the pre-season football discussions at the breakfast table and the Christmas ornaments hanging in the Hallmark store (seriously?) I would think summer hadn't even begun. After all, the weather in the Northeast has been crap...many gray, dreary and below average temperature days has made it feel like summer barely glanced us by. With the addition of a new puppy, we have had a stay-cation this year, and a summer without the beach just doesn't feel like summer at all. Regardless of how much time Denial has plopped her butt poolside next to me, holding her umbrella and wearing her lightweight jacket, the inevitable fact is, summer is slowly coming to an end. The sun is setting earlier, the glow of the fireflies are becoming dimmer and my children are making me f***ing nuts.

I have a love-hate relationship with the routine-less days of summer. I love the no homework, no official bedtime and no 6:30 AM wake up call that summer time brings. I love the relaxed, lower stress level the kids exude when slugging on the couch, wearing jammies until after lunch and not worrying about what's due next. My heart fills with pride on the rare occassions when all three of them are out just past dusk playing baseball in the backyard with no screams of "cheater" or "I quit" as I sit swaying on the porch swing listening to the crickets and locusts sing their summer song. There is, however, a downside to this summer free for all.

I despise SpongeBob's annoying cackle blaring from my family room television 24/7 regardless if anyone is in the room or not. It kills me that the kids graze all day and constantly complain that "there is nothing to eat here". This cattle like grazing means we are always out of food, I am constantly taking out the trash (our garbage can is invisible to anyone who has not grown a child in their uterus) and the dishwasher never stops running....ever. I struggle several times a day to maintain my sanity as well as my voice as I constantly yell, "hands off" or "stop fighting" or my all time favorite, "close the freaking door" as the back porch is cooled off by the air conditioning. For kids who wait all school year for summer, it makes my skin crawl to hear them sigh, "I'm bored", which translates to "let's go somewhere and spend money". I think all those child experts who claim children need routine are absolutely right, but children don't need routine nearly as much as good old mom.....unless of course said child has an Autism Spectrum Diagnosis. I'm not sure who will jump for joy higher on August 26th when that school bell rings, Ryan or me.

Ryan also has a love-hate relationship with his routine-less summer time routine. Ryan is the first one to celebrate no homework, but the first one to claim he is bored when he is forced to step away from the video game controller or his Ipod battery is dead. Ryan loves staying up late, sleeping in, swimming, and whining for food since he is always "starving". This food he whines for is usually served following the words, "Can I take your order please?". Ryan also lives for the television shows that those oh, so smart television programmers save for only summertime (Total Drama Island, Avatar, etc) in order to load up my DVR and save no room for the higher intellect shows like True Blood. The downside for Ryan, which he may or may not get, is that with no school routine, Ryan tends to be a bit edgier, a little less understanding and a little less "checked in". Days without school sometimes make the days of summer very, very long.

Although the school day routine has long since faded from his memory, Ryan still runs a pretty tight ship during the summer months. He typically wakes up around 8 AM, barks out a "Can I have some Cinnamon Toast Crunch please?" (don't judge, that sugary sweetness is gooooood). A bowl of cereal and a glass of Welch's grape juice is served to him at the family room coffee table thanks to our new vicious puppy trapped in the kitchen (yes, I know grape juice stains are tough to get out of carpet fibers, but I'm also keenly aware of the permanent hearing damage that will occur if I force my son to partake his meal with Cujo). This is followed by some video game time, maybe some piano practice and then lo and behold it's time to eat again. For Ryan's lunch order, a grilled cheese sandwich (not too brown, with Giant's Italian Bread with seeds and Land O Lakes White American Cheese....never, ever yellow or orange cheese), fruit and a juice bag. This menu never, ever varies, unless of course there is leftover pizza which must only be heated in the oven so it tastes "fresh"). Ryan's afternoon may be filled with swimming (as long as it's over 80 degrees, the sun is shining and there aren't too many "annoying" people in the pool) then maybe some Legos, a little SpongeBob and typically a little more game time before dinner. After Ryan picks one of the five things he eats for dinner, he typically fills his evenings with the same activities he does during the day with an occasional family outing to see a movie, go bowling or take the puppy for a walk (he remains 15 feet behind the puppy at all times). Go to bed, repeat.

The one day Ryan breaks from his routine-less summer routine is shockingly his favorite day of the week and AWEnestly, half the reason he loves summer. It is the one day of the week I dread and Ryan lives for...grocery shopping day. Blah. And if I just happen to actually look at a recipe and  plan a meal or two thus needing an actual grocery list, well then, my boy is utterly jubilant. Typically, Wednesday morning is grocery shopping day and if I have to vary that schedule for any reason, you can bet I'm going to hear about it....repeatedly. If Ryan is at camp in the morning, then I may not even entertain the idea of going grocery shopping until camp is finished. This late day shopping trip usually "tortures" Ryan for fear his chosen bakery donuts will be gone, or heaven forbid, not fresh. Yes friends, grocery shopping Wednesday leads to Donut Thursday and that is Ryan's second favorite day of the week.

For many summers, I believed Ryan's gleeful grocery shopping adventures were a direct result of what was going in the cart, donuts, Vitamin Water, "fresh" fruit off the salad bar and the bulk candy. However, it took one memory lapse of spaghetti noodles for me to figure out that although Ryan certainly enjoyed what went in the cart, how it got in the cart was equally important. "Shoot, I forgot the spaghetti.", I mumbled. "I will get the spaghetti from aisle 9 Mom.", Ryan responded eagerly. Aisle 9? How did he know what aisle the spaghetti was in? I had been shopping in that grocery store for over ten years and if a gun was held to my head I would not have been able to say which aisle one could find spaghetti. Then it hit me like a donut filled shopping cart. For a boy who loves order, routine and everything being in it's assigned location, the grocery store is like Ryan's Mecca.

The grocery store has labeled aisles with everything right where the signs say they should be. The spaghetti is always in aisle 9 and the cereal is in aisle 4 (I just asked him and I'd bet all the donuts in the world he is right). Rarely does the grocery store logistics and routine change and so I learned when shopping with Ryan, my routine better not change either. Once when Ryan was little I skipped aisle 5. I remember this because he screamed, and I mean screamed, "5, 5, 5, 5" until I turned around and went down aisle 5 where Denial was stocking the shelves. I threw a jar of spaghetti sauce at her head. Yes, I should have known then, that skipping aisle 5 should not lead to such an ear splitting melt down, but I assured myself and Denial, that Ryan just really wanted whatever the he** was in aisle 5, regardless if it was the feminine hygiene aisle. You might be wondering, "Well what about the end caps that are always changing with the weekly Bonus Buys or Dollar Deals?". Well, you see dear friend, the end caps always change...they are SUPPOSE to change, so it does not matter what the end cap contains, what matters is that there is not a sign proclaiming spaghetti will be there and it's not. Routine and sameness make my boy so very happy.

Kids with an ASD not only crave routine, they survive by it. When children with autism struggle to process all the sensory stimuli bombarding them throughout the day, routine gives them a feeling of security. For kids on the autism spectrum every day feels like a loud, bright, painfully distorted funhouse. Having a routine helps impose order in such a chaotic world. Grocery shopping on Thursday instead of Wednesday not only gives Ryan cause for alarm that perhaps a different, less capable donut baker may be on duty that day, but, for him, that variation in routine would be like ripping Linus' blanket away from him when the Great Pumpkin fails to show....again. As Ryan's neurotypical (yet clearly certifiable) mother, I don't have to understand why routines help him, I just have to try and find a balance between his routines that make him feel secure and safe, and preparing him for all the times the world will repeatedly rip his security blanket right out from under him....Great Pumpkin or no Great Pumpkin.

When Ryan was little and we would be reading a book together, I would have to read the book the EXACT same way (same silly voice, same inflection, same goofy sound effects, same rhythm) every single time. If not, Ryan would yell, "No, no, no again!" and he would promptly grab the book and we would have to start over. Every. Single. Time. This "routine" caused me to drink more wine and consume more Ibuprofen, but, it also raised a red flag, somewhere in the deep, dark, recesses of my mind. A place I was not ready to go to because, sadly, as we read those books over and over again, Denial was still sitting on the other side of me encouraging me to start the book from the beginning again because I was the best mother book reader ever. To this day, when I read those same books to Emma, I read them EXACTLY like I did with Ryan. PTSD or a gentle reminder of a time when Denial held my hand and comforted me? Probably a little of both.

In a world that moves too fast, talks too loud and offers little predictability, it's no wonder Ryan loves his weekly pilgrimage to the organized, reliable grocery store. Yes, the donuts and all things sugar are a bonus, but knowing that the things he loves, the things that make him smile, will always be in the same place in the same order, well that's just the icing on the cake, or should I say donut. So for anyone out shopping at our local Giant (sorry Wegmans, your aisles are too scattered and don't flow well and not to mention your donuts "suck") if you can't remember what aisle the ketchup is in, feel free to stop us, because rest assured Ryan will know. And if you just happen to be behind us in Aisle 4 when Ryan spots an empty space where the Cinnamon Toast Crunch Cereal is suppose to be, plug your ears and shield your children, because there is going to be hell to pay.

As the summer days slowly become shorter and the kids begin starving for routine again, moms and dads will gleefully swipe the credit card for back to school supplies. And although the late nights and lazy mornings are quickly coming to an end, the school routine will make us all breath a little sigh of relief as order will once again, be restored to the universe, or at the very least, to the family room. And as you are back to school shopping if you happen to hear a child scream, "aisle 5, aisle 5, aisle 5" and observe a beaten down mother quickly turn her cart back to aisle 5, give her an encouraging smile and keep in mind that kids on the autism spectrum may have routines that vary from our own, but that does not make their routines any less important. In fact, their routine makes an intolerable world survivable.

Whether your routine is cracking open an ice cold beer after a long day at work, always checking your lipstick in the rear view mirror before exiting your car or grocery shopping on Wednesdays at a highly organized, rarely changing, great donut baking grocery store, some type of routine is important to all of us. And if someone who was unaware of your routine came up and ripped your ice cold beer from your hand or covered your rear view mirror with duct tape, you would go ballistic and rightfully so. As neurotypicals, we don't have to understand  or be able to explain the extreme need for routine for kids on the autism spectrum, we only have to accept it. Just like we must accept that summer is winding down and long nights filled with homework, sporting events and endless activities is quickly approaching. Yes, the routine-less summer routine is ending, so grab a donut and your security blanket, because CHANGE is just over the horizon. Lord, help me I hate the C word, but not nearly as much as Ryan.

For a kid who doesn't really like change or unexpected plans, my Ryan loves a good road trip. A fully scheduled, totally planned, do not take a new route or hit construction delays, road trip. Yes, my boy is usually the first one packed and ready to go. Out comes the Mario duffel bag as well as Ryan's glorious smile. He picks out the EXACT number of outfits he will need based on the days we will be gone as I kindly suggest he pack an extra pair of underwear, "just in case". "I don't even know what just in case means, Mom, so I am NOT packing an extra pair of underwear"...clearly he has blocked out the "leaking" potty training days....I haven't. Ryan's toothbrush, toothpaste, inhaler and the exact dosage of allergy medication needed are secured in a plastic sandwich bag (and once the toothbrush is packed, no way is it coming out of the duffel bag again until we reach our destination, therefore, timing the road trip announcement is critical). The Wii, Nintendo DS and his iPod Touch as well as all charging apparatuses are secured in a separate bag. Then minutes before we leave, Ryan packs up his lunchbox with enough beverages to hydrate a camel along with two, not three, not four, two freezer packs, as well as his Yoshi bag filled with enough snacks to sustain a family of four on a cross country road trip. To complete the necessary road trip essentials, Ryan grabs his Mario fleece blanket/cape, his shee shee (silky baby blanket) and his green Yoshi (no other colored Yoshi is worthy of the trip) that sleeps on Ryan's head every night. For Ryan, it's the snacks, drinks and all things electronic that make the journey so much better than the actual destination.

This week's road trip lead us to Penn State for the National Autism Conference. Ryan and Emma get to hang with their Grammy and Pappy and do some of their favorite Grammy and Pappy's house things, like feed the ducks at the local community park, go to Dairy Queen for ice cream, and eat lots of Grammy's good, cooking....hold the meat please. While the kids get more and more spoiled, I get more and more educated in order to better understand, help and advocate for my son from some of the top experts in the field of autism. I have attended the National Autism Conference on several occasions, but the first year I went (only months after Ryan's new label) and registered as a "parent of someone living with autism", unlike Ryan, the road trip for me felt harrowing, but even worse, the destination was utterly heartbreaking.

It didn't matter to me that the bonus for checking the "Parent" box was attending a four day conference for only $25, what AWEnestly mattered more was the deep seeded anger and heartache I felt that I now belonged in that category. The why him, why me, why us started as soon as I received my name tag with the word "Parent" on it. It was the first time (except for maybe the moment the nurse put a newborn Kyle in my arms and I wondered, "OMG, now what?!") I did not feel extreme joy in owning that title. Forgive me, but I was naïve, scared and ready to vomit in the nearest garbage can. And that's when I saw her. The one person who I knew would hold back my hair while I puked and who understood how difficult this particular road trip had been for me.

Besides that dreadful woman at the registration desk who giddily smiled and welcomed me while she handed me my "Parent" tag, the first person I laid eyes on was Miss M, Ryan's first Occupational Therapist.  I hadn't seen Miss M in over two years and she was still unaware of Ryan's ASD diagnosis. Miss M was the first person who tried to help me worry less about the destination and enjoy each and every sight along our journey. Miss M guided me and helped me get back on the right road when I felt so terribly lost and alone. Over the years, Miss M repeatedly assured me that regardless of any fancy label placed on my son, that Ryan would be fine, mostly because he had a mother working so hard to reach him. I wondered if she would still feel the same way about me if she knew I was desperately trying to rearrange the letters on my nametag from "Parent" to "Teacher" (by the way, it's not possible).

Miss M threw her arms around me and that's when the dam that I had been holding back on the entire road trip burst, all over poor Miss M. I soaked that poor woman with my tears and I'm sure even with Oxiclean, the mascara stains probably never came out of her shirt. As I sobbed in her arms, I hiccupped out Ryan's new heartbreaking label and how much I hated that I was attending this conference with my equally new label of Parent of an Autistic Child. With Denial and Clueless waiting for me at the registration desk and Miss M wishing she had not stopped for that coffee and could have possibly avoided this train wreck, I tried to pull myself together, but to no avail. Miss M reminded me of Ryan's strengths and reinforced that I, and no one else, was his best advocate so I needed to pull myself up by my equally tear soaked boot straps and fight for him. I knew Miss M was right, but at the time, I felt completely incapable of fighting a gentle lamb, let alone this big, scary uncertain autism thing. Miss M believed in Ryan, so I had to believe in him too. The problem was, I didn't believe in myself.

After Miss M quickly ran away, changed her shirt and fled from the conference center, I motioned for Denial and Clueless to join me in our first Parent of an Autistic Child workshop. It was hard. I did NOT want to be at that conference, I did NOT want to wear that name tag, and I did NOT want to belong in the same room as "those" mothers, but, this first stop on our road trip proved to be vital for both Ryan and me. I will be AWEnest, I pretty much cried the entire four days of that first National Autism Conference, but through my tears I witnessed other mothers who were traveling the same journey as me, but many of them started out on their road trip weeks, months and years ahead of me. Those mothers had so many critical pit stops to share with me.

As I sat shaking and nauseous in those conference center rooms, I listened to those other road tripping moms' stories and in their stories, in their smiles and sometimes even in their tears, I saw the one thing I needed most, hope. That four letter H word made that six letter A word not seem so scary. Hope helped break the paralyzing fear that autism had on my heart and hope helped open my mind to discover that autism is not a road block, it's just an unexpected detour. And although I was still angry that this unplanned detour, on this unscheduled road trip was leading me to a particular destination I never wanted to visit, I began to understand that my worries and fears of how we were going to get "there", caused me to miss so many wondrous sights along the way.

When Ryan sat on the floor spinning and staring at the wheels of his cars figuring out the mechanics of how the car goes, while Denial and Clueless' kids were vrooming and beep beeping their neurotypical cars all over the place, why didn't I realize how much smarter my future engineer was than those destined for the pit crew vrooming boys? Why didn't I embrace his differences rather than worry about them? When Ryan could imitate every facial expression and every voice on all his Thomas the Tank Engine videos, why did I obsess over how weird it was rather than acknowledge his incredibly unique and utterly unbelievable memory? And why did I spend countless hours searching the internet for treatments wondering how to "fix him" and make Ryan be like "all the other kids"? The reason is simple, I had not yet gone far enough on my own personal road trip to understand what Ryan already knew....it really is all about the journey. Getting there truly is half the fun, if you allow yourself to take in the sights, and not worry so much about when and how are we going to get there?" 

Needless to say, the National Autism Conference this year was so much different for me than that first road side stop five years ago. It breaks my heart to see the parents who are as scared as I was, still clutching Denial's hand. As I actively participated in the workshops (not annoyingly so, like some people...yeah, you know who they are), I silently wished that at least one other mom new to this journey could see the joy in my smile, the acceptance in my voice, but most importantly, the hope in my eyes and that she traveled back from this road trip feeling a little less lonely and lost than she did when she arrived. Because no matter how lost and alone you may feel, there is always someone who has traveled a similar journey and recalls the shortcuts, the maps and most importantly the new and beautiful sights along the way. Even if that someone points you down a road that feels scary and uncertain, drop that clingy, dragging you down Denial's hand and grab onto a hand that will offer you guidance, compassion and HOPE.

We all worry so much about what lies ahead that we often miss the beauty that is in front of us today. I am as guilty as anyone. As I watched Ryan feed the ducks this week on our road trip smiling and giggling while he shouted, "I can't believe those stupid ducks attack each other for tasteless, old bread" and as I took in the beauty of my daughter, soon to be 7, surrounded by luscious green weeping willows (my favorite tree) it occurred to me how many times I have passed this park with not so much as a glimpse at the beauty it holds. So concerned about where I was heading, I failed to see where I was. When your eyes are so focused on the destination, you miss the glimpses of beauty that time so fleetingly grants us on this journey.

Of course we all need to have a general idea of where the road may take us, but we have to remember that unexpected stops, detours and road blocks along the way, may seem discouraging at the time, but, these unplanned surprises could be the very best part of the journey. So, keep your windows down, reduce your speed, turn off your GPS, and click off the radio. Open your eyes, your ears and most importantly your heart, because you never know what you might see. Just like Ryan, I suggest you pack up some snacks, grab your softest blanket and settle in because the journey may be long, it may be confusing and occasionally you will get lost, but never hesitate to ask directions from someone who is going the same way. And regardless of how many days you will be gone, take precautions by always, always heeding your mother's advice and pack an extra pair of underwear....just in case.