Well, it's officially Halloween and I'm sad to report that the only horror movie I watched this Halloween season was the Rob Zombie remake of Halloween. I love to freak myself out during the creepiest month of the year. Comcast has every horror film of the past 40 years currently On Demand, but of course they aren't found in the "Free Movies" category. I mean, why would Comcast just put a bunch of classic horror films On Demand during the ghost and goblin time of year and let their, already sucked dry by outrageous monthly fees customers, watch these highly acclaimed, slasher films for free? That would be too logical, too kind and too cheap. Now, if perhaps you stumble across Halloween in say, oh, July for instance, it won't cost you a cent, but come October when you really want to watch a good old fashion "let's leave the lights on tonight" movie, about All Hallows Eve and scare yourself silly, plan to shell out some cash. Comcast's greed is almost as horrific as the horrendous choices young, wannabe stars make in horror films (AWEnestly, who goes to an abandoned house where people were murdered to make out on Halloween night?). If I knew how to resurrect Michael Myers, I'd tell him Jamie Lee Curtis works at the Comcast office and I'd punch the address into Google Maps for him.

Since I haven't performed any séances of late, instead of sicking Michael Myers on Comcast every Halloween, striking fear in their greedy hearts, I should send Ryan into the Comcast office demanding candy and free Halloween movies, wearing a scratchy, hard, uncomfortable, not made of Hollister cotton, costume. Ryan would never harm a flea because first of all, a flea is a bug and he won't go near a bug even to destroy it, but, mostly because Ryan has a beautiful heart and a logical brain. Raising a knife is against the law, but raising one hell of a fit when attempting to put on a costume, well there in no law against such behavior in the crimes code. Chances are, after listening to the whining, screaming and complaining spewing out of Ryan's mouth, the Comcast staff would take their chances with Michael Myers....in the office alone....with the phone lines cut....on Halloween....with a full moon.....and neighbors in surrounding offices, who conveniently, never hear anyone scream. I can almost picture the free Halloween movie line up on my TV now.

Lot's of kids get freaked out over Halloween and AWEnestly, who can blame them? Ghosts, vampires, devils, monsters, zombies and Miley Cyrus (shudder) costumes are everywhere. That is down right scary stuff. It's enough to make the bravest kids shake in their fake, made of fabric, with elastic straps that break after trick or treating at two houses, costume shoes. Add some creepy spiders, weird, scary noises, bright flashing strobe lights, squealing motion sensing decorations, varying routines and a touch of autism, and my friends, you have your very own house of horrors.
 
Halloween tends to be very difficult for many kids with an ASD. There is a ton of sensory overload and lots of changes in routine. Even the slightest change in routine can be upsetting, from decorations in the house, to family members dressing up and looking "different". Loads of sugary snacks and horribly uncomfortable costumes that we stuff their highly sensitive bodies into, can lead to a toxic, Halloween horror meltdown. At our house, costumes have always been the biggest Halloween horror. There are the horrible, surely may suffocate you plastic type costume, or the must be made of porcupine quills fabric type costume. For a kid with an ASD, choosing between sticky, hard plastic or jaggy, scratchy fabric is like asking a vampire to choose between garlic or sunlight as his preferred method of torture. Yes, costumes are surely the garlic for an ASD child on trick or treat.

Ryan's first trick or treat outing occurred when he was just 14 months old. The sweet large headed fella had just learned to walk so what a perfect time to drag him around the neighborhood in a costume. A week before trick or treat, Denial and Clueless went costume shopping with me. Since Ryan loved to have me sing Winnie the Pooh to him at least 10 times a night, the exact same way, holding him in the exact same position, and never interrupting the song since I would then have to start at the beginning again (clearly, I was as naïve and stupid as the starlets in horror movies), it seemed only logical that a Winnie the Pooh character costume was in order. So, off we went to the Disney Store for the sweetest, furriest, tickliest, scratchiest Eeyore costume we could find. Hooray! "Won't he look adorable!", squealed Clueless, as she held up the Eeyore costume. "But, Ryan doesn't like hats, or anything on his head, maybe the hood will bother him?", I worried. "Don't be ridiculous!", Denial chimed in, "It's not a hat or a hood, it's a donkey head and Ryan will love it!". So consumed with the cuteness of the costume and the thought of "every child trick or treats", I plunked down my $36 and began counting down the days until trick or treat.

When trick or treat finally arrived, Ryan let me put the costume on, but he immediately began tugging, pulling, digging and "no, no, no'ing" while tearing off the hood, I mean head. With every pull down of that head, I pulled it right back up. Without the head, Ryan looked like a headless Eeyore and that was not cute and cuddly, that was just down right frightening. Not to mention, I paid $36 for this adorable costume and come hell or high water, Ryan was going to wear it. As Denial and Clueless accompanied my family out the door to begin our night of gleeful fun, I assured Ryan that the hood, I mean head, would keep him warm on such a cool night. Well, by the fourth house, regardless of the temperature outside, Ryan and I were both sweating. Between having to carry Ryan because he detested that stupid costume, and me chasing him down the street to pull that freaking head back up, the night was a disaster. At that point, Michael Myers, Jason or Freddy Krueger could have snuck up behind me and I would have grabbed their hand and begged them to take me to dinner. 

After the Eeyore costume was sent out to pasture, I didn't even bother to try costumes for a couple years. It made me sad, it made me angry, it made me resentful, but I knew the battle just wasn't worth it. After Eeyore, the next "costume" Ryan wore, consisted of a cotton skeleton tshirt and cargo pants. It did the trick, but I still wasn't satisfied because technically, it wasn't a "costume". Year, after year, Halloween after Halloween, it was the same old story. Ryan wanted to trick or treat because his brother did, because the neighbors did, because the kids at school did, and because there was an obscene amount of candy just on the other side of that costume. Denial kept telling me that I needed to push Ryan because trick or treating was like a kid rite of passage. "EVERY kid does it.", Denial sneered. So I pushed, I pleaded, I begged and I bribed all with less than fun results.

Over time, Ryan finally relented and accepted costumes, and most of the costumes he would somewhat "willingly" put on, represented "real" people. Costumes that Ryan knew weren't imaginary or pretend. For example, Ryan wasn't going to be a dinosaur because he was well aware of the fact that dinosaurs have been extinct for millions of years. Ryan certainly was not going to be a zombie because zombies don't exist (for all you Zombie Apocalypse believers out there, please don't share your beliefs with Ryan, or me for that matter). For three years in a row, Ryan was a doctor. A doctor is someone he is familiar with, someone "real". One year, Ryan wore the top and the bottom scrubs, one year just the top, and one year just the bottoms. Although Ryan's incomplete costume stressed his OCD mother out, it didn't matter to him at all, he still got candy.

Another year, Ryan was a police officer, because I let him carry a toy gun (judge away, he put the freaking costume on) and the following year, he wore a costume that sort of resembled Keanu Reeves in The Matrix. Ryan never saw The Matrix movie and Keanu Reeves was as foreign to him as John Wayne, but, I think I told Ryan it was just a different kind of police officer costume and I let him carry an even bigger gun (Wow! How do I sleep at night?). Even though Ryan willingly put these costumes on, it still wasn't easy. There were still endless complaints of things being too itchy, too big, too little, too chokey, too smothering, and on and on and on. I started to dread Halloween.

Then just three years ago, the unthinkable happened. Ryan found THE costume, the costume that transformed him from whiney, grumpy, horror film nightmare, into a trick or treater extradordinaire! The costume that not only Ryan embraced, but the costume that allowed me to take a black eyeliner and draw a fake mustache on his face! The costume that literally came alive with facial expressions, sound effects and mannerisms. The costume, that in my mind, performed miracles! Luigi Saves Halloween!! Hallelujah! Yes, folks, that Halloween it was Michael Myers vs. Luigi and hands down, a video game controller beats out a big, shiny, butcher knife, every single time! Who knew?! My grumpy, irritable, sensory overloaded, terrorizing boy became Luigi in every sense of the word and it was hands down the best trick or treat night ever. For Ryan, Luigi made sense. Luigi felt familiar. Luigi made trick or treat what it was suppose to be....FUN!

After I decided to leave Denial in a dark alley with Michael Myers, I took off my own mask and was finally able to see that Ryan did not care as much about trick or treating as his possessed, scary, crazy mother did. I wanted Ryan to be like all the other kids...to wear a costume and just pretend for a couple of hours. Pretend to be a ghost, a fireman, a dinosaur....a neurotypical kid. Autism makes pretending difficult, black and white thinking makes imagining in color next to impossible. Ryan's black and white world and his horror of costumes, made Halloween and my denial of autism,
paralyzing. Begging and pleading with Ryan to behave in a certain way and to pretend to be someone he is not. Asking Ryan to be a doctor when clearly he is a Luigi.

Yes, for years, I was as scared as Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween....always screaming, running in circles, and trying to stay alive without sinking into madness as I tried so desperately to make Ryan wear a costume that regardless of the size, he would never, ever, fit into. It didn't matter how hard I tried to stuff him in the costume, or how many adjustments I made, tugging it this way and that way, or how many layers of comfortable clothes I put underneath the costume, there was no hiding who Ryan was and how he struggled behind the costume. A costume I had created for fear the real Ryan would be rejected. Whether it was trick or treat, soccer, or baseball, for years, I tried to pretend and hide who Ryan really was behind various "costumes" in an effort to make him "look" like everyone else. 

Regardless of how scratchy the costume is Ryan wears this year (9 hours until trick or treat and it has yet to be determined), it will never be as uncomfortable as the one his mother wore for years. The costume I wore to hide my fear, my anger, my guilt and my naivete. So consumed with my own costume, that sometimes I lost track of the little boy who hid behind his own. A costume Ryan had to create in a world where only once a year, we celebrate looking different. It took years of patience, understanding, and acceptance for me to embrace the differences in my boy rather than hide from them. Sometimes those differences are hard for me to understand, but they are no longer hard for me to accept. And if I'm being AWEnest, I still have moments when my costume calls to me from the back of my closet, where it is hidden in shame, and although I may take the costume off the hanger occasionally, I do my best to never, ever put it back on.

Trick or Treat is the one day of the year, that kids hope they don't look like anyone else. Children search for the perfect costume, working so hard to look different than who they really are, day in and day out. With only a few hours until go time, Ryan is still struggling with "who to be". Ryan has asked repeatedly, why he has to wear a "stupid costume" just to get some candy, and every year I say, "That's the tradition of trick or treat". Maybe this year, we will break away from tradition. Maybe this year, Ryan will do the exact opposite of everyone else. He will not pretend to be someone he isn't. Ryan can wear his silk shorts that are too short, but comfortable, a Hollister tshirt, and he can script the latest Total Drama Revenge of the Island episode that is routinely running in his head while licking his lips and face until they are fire engine red. What a welcome relief that would be for Ryan, since the other 364 days of the year, he tries so hard to be someone he isn't, by trying to "look" like everyone else.  Maybe this trick or treat, for a mere two hours, Ryan will celebrate his differences instead of hiding them under a costume.

Tonight, on Halloween, Ryan just might trick or treat as Ryan. A boy who is growing comfortable in his own skin and who is learning to be proud of who he is, regardless of what costume others think he should wear. With such a comfortable "costume" I realize there is no point sending Ryan to the Comcast Office trick or treating, since they will find nothing scary about a boy in silk shorts that are two sizes too small and a Hollister tshirt. On the other hand, if the folks at Comcast don't have just the right type of candy, perhaps, a little of the former, scary, terrorizing Ryan will come out and maybe, just maybe, I will get some free horror movies after all....in November....right when all the free, year round Christmas movies cost $4. 

The Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB) rates content as "Mature" when it is "generally suitable for ages 17 and up". This is because somewhere along the way, it was decided that the majority of 17 year olds can handle "intense violence, blood and gore, nudity, sexual content and/or strong language". Well, this is your first and only rated M warning for today's blog post. Yes, I'm aware my blog is not a video game (if it were, Ryan would be so much more interested in it) or an app (you can however, read my blog on your mobile device via various Bloglovin apps...shameless plug, sorry), but, I felt it was only fair to warn you that today's blog is for Mature Audiences only and here's a hint, there is no "blood and gore", no "intense violence", no "nudity" (you are so very welcome) and no "strong language". So, guess what content in a Mature rating  is left? You got it, "sexual themes". You have been warned. If you are not over the age of 17, please get a parent's consent to continue reading.

I'd be willing to bet the whole farm, that when Dr. Richard Ferber introduced his controversial Ferber Method or "Ferberizing", he had no idea his methodology would lead to a Mature Audience rating in an AWEtism blog after 20 years of parents loving or hating him (all babies and toddlers, I assure you, are not part of the Ferber Fan Club). Obviously, Dr. Richard Ferber has never met me. Some parents (those who got 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep a night after "Ferberizing") worship Dr. Ferber. However, those parents who tried to let their babies "cry it out" (Yeah, I said the taboo words Dr. Ferber, what are you going to do about it?) only to give in because their poor, exhausted, shredded, heart couldn't take one more shuddering, gut wrenching sob, from their innocent, all they want is to be cuddled, baby, want to lock Dr. Ferber in a room, and not answer him when he calls out that he is thirsty, hungry, anxious or has to pee. Is it obvious which side of the Ferber fence I fall on?

"Ferberizing" is a methodical sciency way of letting your baby "cry it out" (although Dr. Ferber doesn't call it that). For those of you who have never tried to Ferberize, or your PTSD brain has caused you to block the entire moment from your brain, the drill is, you put your baby in the crib while the baby is awake and regardless of how loud that baby cries, screams, or sobs (I seem to recall that there are allowances in the plan for babies who cry so hard that they vomit....how gracious), you may check on your baby to try and reassure them that you haven't abandoned them for a better, not so loud baby, but you never, ever, pick that baby up. The main difference between the good old, "cry themselves to sleep" and "Ferberizing" is that with the Ferber Method, you go in and check on the baby, and gradually extend the time between each check in. The idea is, that once the baby realizes that all the crying, screaming, kicking, and wailing is only going to get him a brief pat on the bottom with a reassuring "shhhhh....." from a stressed out, nearly maniacal woman that bears a slight resemblance to Mommy, the baby figures, it's just not worth it anymore and eventually fall asleep on their own with little to no tears. That's how it's suppose to go.

For wussy moms like me, I prefer the other name for The Ferber Method, "graduated extinction". Yes, I realize that "extinction" refers to extinguishing the negative behavior, ie, a baby crying it's face off, but, I find it ironic that extinction is also a word used when something no longer exists, like the cuddly mommy that used to hold, snuggle and feed the baby. Unlike the extinction of dinosaurs that occurred after a comet came barreling through the earth's atmosphere, for a bit of a quicker extinction, I decided a long time ago that I would happily take the quicker, fiery, explosive earthquakes and ruinous tidal wave extinction over the wailing, rip my heart, out "gradual extinction" of a baby's cry...especially my baby. Cudos to every one of you who successfully "ferberized". I pass no judgement on you, in fact, most nights I am consumed with jealousy of your, most certainly used ear plugs, success.

My epic failure at Ferberizing my babies has left a crater the size of a dinosaur extinction comet in our home. At ages, 12 and 7, both Ryan and Emma still have not learned to sooth themselves to sleep at night. Every night, Mommy needs to lay down with each one of them until they fall asleep and then I sneak out of their room praying the bed doesn't creak, I don't step on some sharp, pointy action figure and spew a stream of obscenities, or that they don't sleepily notice the vacant spot next to them in their bed and come pitter pattering (ok, fine, Ryan is 12, he no longer "pitter pats", he stomps) down the hall, into my room completely indignant that I left them alone. "You know I can't fall asleep without you." Stupid Ferber, maybe he was right. Maybe a little "graduated extinction" would not have been as bad as say, the extinction of the pterodactyl.

I'm going to go out on a limb here, and guesstimate that about 70% of the time, when I am snuggled with my love bugs, tucked under the covers, I end up dozing off too. AWEnestly, who wouldn't? A warm snuggy bed, freshly shampooed kid hair next to you on the pillow and children who don't go to bed until 10 PM....yeah, I'm dozing. Needless to say, this musical beds leaves very little time for Dan and I to sit down and watch television, have grown up conversation or have "adult time". This is when anyone under 17 should cover their eyes, turn off their computer, and quickly post that hideous picture of me sleeping with my mouth open to Facebook. We are approaching the M for Mature Rating section.

Clearly, "adult time" is important in every marriage and when you have to sneak out of your kids' beds in order to have "adult time", only to find a child waiting in the hallway "later" with a Mario blanket wrapped around him like a cape when you thought he was sound asleep in his bed, clearly, there is a problem. Yes, I am aware that laying in bed with my 12 year old son is bordering on creepy, and I understand that the time I spend making Ryan feel safe and secure has an impact on "adult time" with my husband (just as an aside...the statistic of married adults averaging "adult time" three times a week has got to be skewed by newly married, young, not so tired, childless married couples. I hate those imaginary statistical couples.). And if you throw in a touch of AWEtism with a fear of Ferberizing, well, let's just say, that I created my bed, and now I have to lie in it....when I'm done in my kids beds....after I wake up and finally get to my bed.....to find my husband snoring.

Yes, I have made my bed, as far as failing to Ferberize, but believe it or not, significant sleep problems can occur in 40-80% of kids with an Autism Spectrum Disorder. If you don't believe me, just ask so many sleepless mothers, but be prepared to have them fall asleep standing up as they try to share their stories of endless, sleepless nights with you. There are various theories as to why kids with an ASD have trouble sleeping. Some studies suggest that kids with ASD have sleep rhythm disturbances which may have to do with abnormal melatonin regulation. Melatonin is a hormone that helps regulate wake/sleep  cycles. There are also a slew of medical problems, mostly digestive issues, in kids with ASD that can effect their sleep. As I have shared before, many kids on the autism spectrum are extremely sensitive, so the slightest change in the environment, like a light being on, the sun coming through a window, the blanket falling off them (or not covering them in the exact way it was 10 minutes ago), the feeling of a mother's knee in their back when said mother is trying to sneak out of bed, or the sound of their parents' bedroom door closing and locking, can disturb them. Any sensory experience, no matter how slight, can cause these kiddos to wake up and stay up.

With my growing concern about Ryan's age (puberty is right around the corner, or heaven help me, right outside our front door) and his inability to fall asleep on his own, I decided to discuss my concerns with an expert who lectures on such topics as puberty and sexuality in children with ASD while attending an Autism Conference. Big. Fat. Mistake. This "expert" told me to "get out of that bed right now", in a not so nice way, and then suggested I make a recording of my voice telling Ryan that I love him and assure him that he will be fine, as a substitute to me lying next to him. I swear to you, I LOL'd, in that "expert's" face because I thought surely she must be joking. I'm sure my 12 year old, who craves routine, sameness and loves his Mommy like no other, will totally accept me lying on the floor, then the doorway, then the hall, then finally my room while playing a recording of my voice. For a minute, I wondered if Dr. Ferber changed his name, and his gender! After being certain, "she" was not "he", I then decided this "expert" and Dr. Ferber would be a perfect match on match.com. Just as I began to walk away, horrified at laughing in her face, for good measure, this expert yelled, "and get out of your daughter's bed too". As I tried to slink back to my seat, trying desperately to make myself invisible and feeling like a total failure, I prayed this expert did not see where I sat down, terrified she would call on me to share my horrible parenting with the rest of the conference attendees. Why I didn't walk out that conference room door and head right for the bar is beyond me, but I'm glad I didn't. As the expert began telling us a bit about herself, one of the first things she said was that she had no children of her own. And that was it in a nutshell.

This expert has no idea...no concept of what it is like to wrap your world around your children. Sacrificing whatever it takes, including sleep and "adult time", to make your children feel safe, secure, and loved. Yes, I understand that at age 12, it is long past time for Ryan to learn to sleep on his own. Puberty and all the fairly gross things that accompanies it, will make this transition somewhat easy for me, but unfortunately, difficult for Ryan. Ryan is different than typical teenage boys...in his mind....and in his heart, but his body and the changes it will go thorough are not. This is a boy who still holds my hand as we walk into middle school (yes, that's right middle school....surrounded by tons of kids), kisses me goodbye at the bus stop and wraps his arms around my neck and lovingly says, "Mommy, I love you so much" in public. I am what makes all the things that go bump in the night and the things that go thump in the day, a little less scary. In a world full of people, situations and circumstances that cause Ryan to feel rejected, the last thing I ever want is for him to feel rejection from his center of gravity. And this is why, regardless of the snickers or comments from his classmates, I will never tell Ryan not to hug me or hold my hand in public, because in his mind, and more importantly in his heart, that would be the ultimate rejection. I will, however, give the "I'm watching you evil eye" to those snickering, dorky middle schoolers or sick Kyle on them.

My fear of Ryan feeling rejected is what has prolonged this bedtime routine. In order to avoid hurting Ryan's tender heart, I have been waiting for him to say, "Mom, I'm getting too big for you to lay down with me at night, but don't worry, I still love you.", but, since that scenario seems nowhere near the horizon, I may have to take matters into my own hands. This time, though, I will not consult a proclaimed "expert" in the field of autism, I will find my own expert, someone who also made their own bed, but has finally figured out how to sleep in it. Someone who can come close to knowing my heart, and knowing my heartache. An expert who loves unconditionally, who knows how to make the covers "just right", and who knows how to function on 6 hours of constantly interrupted sleep. Someone who, hands down, is an expert, in the truest sense of the word, and whose advice I would never LOL......another mom loving a child with autism. We autism moms are a unique group, united in a club where we were initiated by fire, never once given the choice of membership. A club that holds us together like glue, and that no outsiders can join. As I seek advice from my fellow club members over the coming weeks, I will continue to try my best to stay awake while snuggling with my babies and hope that when I finally do get to lie in my bed, that I made without Ferberizing, that my husband is the only one who awakens when I, oh so quietly, close and lock the door and that a boy in a Mario cape stays asleep in his own bed until sunrise.

For those of us with kids, there is a moment, a quick blip of time, when our child does something extraordinary, something so out of the "norm", that we are convinced that our child is destined for greatness. I don't mean your average run of the mill, "I just want my child to be happy" (That is so lame, has anyone wished their child to be unhappy? Raise your standards people.), doesn't wind up in jail, or like Miley Cyrus greatness, but something extreme, like Nobel Peace Prize, Gandhi or Malala Yousafzai greatness. (Side note, Malala does not want to be remembered as the girl who survived a direct bullet to the head by the Taliban or the youngest girl to ever be nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize, she wants to be remembered for educating and empowering young girls in Pakistan. AWEnestly, no kid can compete with that, so in this instance you might want to lower your standards). We've all done it, we've all thought it, then we have all laughed at how naïve we were later when we realize that although "great" in our eyes and in our heart, chances are this "greatness", this extraordinary talent or skill, winds up being fairly ordinary.

Maybe your baby rolled over at 8 weeks of age which convinced you that your child must be absurdly strong and flexible and you immediately imagined him on the Olympic podium. And now today, your teenager's only form of exercise is stretching his arms out and contorting his body "just so" in order to take a "selfie" to post on Instagram. Maybe your son or daughter began speaking in full sentences by 12 months of age and you dreamed of becoming the parent of a famous orator, perhaps even the most famous, yet, often most ridiculed orator....The President of the United States. And today, this early talker, never, ever shuts up or gives in and some days you wish there was a mute button right next to their mouth. Maybe your pre-schooler picked up a toy string instrument and produced such a unique sound, you glimpsed a future where your child was first chair on the cello and that, oh so average, Yo Yo Ma guy was sitting sulkily next to your child in the second chair. Fast forward 10 years....the only music that "gifted" child cares about now, is the most recent JT and Jay Z collaboration that he recently downloaded to his iPhone. Or maybe, like Ryan, your child knew all his letters and the sounds they made at age 2, and was reading by age 4. It's easy to see why Dan and I were picking out our retirement home in some exotic location as we celebrated Ryan's freakishly early reading skills. Clearly, Ryan's large head had an equally large brain. A brain destined for greatness. A brain that will one day lead him to a lucrative career where he will be financially able to care for his, not nearly as smart as their offspring, parents. Today, asking that child to pick up a book and read is almost as tortuous as asking him to eat chocolate pudding instead of vanilla.

It was very obvious, at an early age (on his second birthday to be precise) that Ryan knew all his letters, upper and lower case, when he received a box of refrigerator letter magnets. As Ryan gently pulled out each letter, he named them all one by one as I sat on the floor, jaw hanging open, quickly visualizing which exotic location Dan and I would chose for our retirement. Ryan's letter recognition was not a direct result of me spending endless hours sitting on the floor teaching him his ABC's, but more than likely an indirect result of Ryan sitting on the floor watching entirely too many Baby Einstein Videos (good bye Mother of the Year Award...again). This love of letters led to Ryan's ability to read at a very early age.

Ryan first shared his hidden "greatness", when he read aloud the sign at Bruster's Ice Cream. My sweet boy had vanilla ice cream (and only vanilla...never, ever, any other flavor) dripping down his still chubby, baby cheeks, with rainbow colored sprinkles (never, ever chocolate, only rainbow) stuck to the end of his nose. He was just two months shy of his 4th birthday. Ryan looked at the sign and read, "ice cream, cakes and more". Holy crap, he just read that sign!! At first I blamed Kyle, "Did you tell him what that sign said?", in an extremely excited, yet somewhat agitated voice, as my eyes glazed with slight hysteria. After Kyle assured me he did not tell Ryan what the sign said (and quickly backed a few steps away from me), I asked Ryan to read other words. I pointed to sign after sign after sign, and sure enough, my budding genius read them all.

As I stood there, completely lost in my astonishment, ice cream melting all over my shoes, I whispered loud enough for the family sitting next to us with their meager, average child to hear, "My budding genius will be famous one day."  Denial, who happened to be sitting right next to me, greedily eating her chocolate ice cream cone, just snickered at me with a "yeah right" look on her face and said, loud enough for the average child family parked on the grass next to us to hear, "Well, if he's the next Einstein, why didn't he use all those words he knows to TELL you he could read?". Hearing Denial's words, I blushed at my possible premature outburst of my certain to be famous son, then quickly recovered by shoving Denial's ice cream cone in her face and continued bragging in my loud whisper voice of my child's new found Einstein like ability.

After my budding baby genius buzz and my ice cream sugar high wore off, I have to admit, Denial's rude, fun sucking, dream crushing question was legit. How could Ryan know so many letters, so many words, but still had so little to say? How could Ryan read the words, "banana split sale, $2 off today only", but could not utter a single word about how his day went. Ryan could read a book and read a sign, but he couldn't read the sadness that was written all over my face as I looked longingly in my rearview mirror waiting for any words, from my beautiful boy as he gazed silently out the window not replying to anything I said. Just like words that jump off the pages of a book, I knew the words were there, waiting to jump out of Ryan's mouth, but the difficulty lay in getting the words from Ryan's brain to his perfect little lips. 

Regardless of the discrepancy between Ryan's knowledge of words and his odd way of expressing them, I continued to tell myself that Ryan did not have a "speech" problem because he pronounced all his words correctly and he did in fact, speak, Ryan just sounded more like a parrot than a boy. After Denial refused to return my phone calls from the whole ice cream incident, I recognized that without Denial around, it became more apparent that Ryan's speech, his words, his phrases, were rarely his own. Every comment, answer, and utterance was something Ryan had heard somewhere else, or from someone else (chances are from television....good bye Mother of the Year Award, yet again). Frequently, the phrases Ryan used made sense and fit the situation even though he may not have come up with the words on his own . Just like Ryan's ability to put letters together to make words at an early age, Ryan figured out how to put other people's words together to make speech. Once again, proving to me, his great capacity to overcome and learn. I mean, AWEnestly, Ryan figured out how to talk without ever really knowing how to communicate, certainly a sign of "greatness".

It took a formal evaluation by a psychologist for me to hear the letters A-U-T-I-S-M to truly understand why Ryan had so many words, but so little to say. Along with that "A Word" I feared, I also heard a new, never worried about it because I didn't know it existed word, Hyperlexia. Hyperlexia is basically the ability to read words without any real training in reading before the age of 5. Here is the kicker, even though kids with hyperlexia may have a significant higher "decoding ability" (basically recognizing all those letters equal a word), their actual comprehension of what they "decode" is much lower. To this day, Ryan can read any words you put in front of him, but comprehending those words is a very different story (no pun intended). In addition to struggles with reading comprehension, some kids who are said to be hyperlexic, have trouble understanding speech. There are some experts who believe hyperlexia and that "A word" go hand in hand, but others believe there are various types of hyperlexia and some are completely independent of an ASD diagnosis. So, after all those years of wondering why in the world, Ryan could read the various types of Bruster's Ice Cream, but couldn't tell me why he liked vanilla, and only vanilla, and what made the rainbow sprinkles taste better than the chocolate, all came together. Even though Ryan didn't order it, he was given a scoop of autism, a scoop of expressive language delay, with a sprinkle of hyperlexia.

In order to address this accumulation of words Ryan had gathered in his big brain and help him put these words to use in his own speech, Ryan began speech therapy. We were fortunate enough to find a fabulous speech therapist, Mrs. P, who has been instrumental in Ryan's success. Ryan's expressive language (his ability to convey his thoughts into words with meaning) was impacted by autism much more so than his receptive language (his ability to understand what is being said). Ryan's difficulty with his expressive language is not uncommon for kids on the autism spectrum, which is why communication is so difficult for Ryan and why even though the words are all "there", it's easier to just stay silent.  

Over the past 5 years, Mrs. P has helped Ryan find HIS voice by teaching him, guiding him and most importantly, by having faith in him. Ryan looks up to Mrs. P because she "gets him", some days even more so than his own mother. Mrs. P knows how Ryan thinks and is often able to get him to "spit it out". Ryan still struggles somewhat with expressive language and his "social speech", and even though Mrs. P will continue to develop strategies to help Ryan figure out just what to say when, chances are conversation will never come naturally to him.  Even with the people Ryan trusts most, small talk and chit chat will always be down right uncomfortable for him and all the things he doesn't say, can't say, or won't say, will always be a little painful for me. 

Chances are Ryan will never be a famous orator, he most likely will not give eloquent speeches like the President (He would be a fabulous president though since he follows all the rules, doesn't cheat, and doesn't lie...perhaps a write in candidate for the year 2052?), and I promise you, Ryan will never be a fan of "small talk" since he has informed me before, "there is no point in it". However, 5 years since we first heard the words "autism", "hyperlexia" and "expressive language delay" regarding our beautiful, perfect son, Ryan has been able to amass all the letters and all the words that began forming in his brain at such a young age and create his own language and he is now able to come up with his own responses to all my annoying, nagging questions....most of the time. We still occasionally hear Jim Carrey as The Grinch, SpongeBob, Clark Griswold, and Austin Powers (Fine, I get it, I will NEVER be Mother of the Year...whatever!), but most of the time, the words that I hear today, come from the big brain and big heart of a very special boy who has worked so hard to make words leap from his brain out of his mouth. This boy may never be nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize, sit next to Yo Yo Ma or win Gold at The Olympics, but none of that matters, because I now know my boy is not destined for greatness....he has already achieved it.

For Emma's birthday in August, my girlfriend got her a metal detector because this was at the TOP of Emma's wish list and my girlfriend loves to spoil her. When I asked Emma why in the world she wanted a metal detector, and she proudly announced, "To find dinosaur bones!", I knew immediately that one day we would be looking for a small Liberal Arts college for her. After I explained to Emma that a METAL detector detects METAL (poor thing), she was even more determined to have one in her greedy paws because now, she was utterly certain buried treasure would be discovered in our backyard. Well, two months later, not a single gold or silver coin has been unearthed. No buried treasure, no thick, bent, kinked, never laid flat on your neck, herringbone gold necklace from the 80's (I got a new pair of shoes with my gold herringbone chain "trade in" cash), not even a circa 1950's Coke bottle cap. Emma quickly became frustrated that she wasn't striking it rich, so, she adjusted the setting on her metal detector, concerned that the metal detector just wasn't strong enough to detect the treasure most certainly buried deep under the wood chips of her playground. Perhaps the metal detector wasn't strong enough or sensitive enough to detect the smidge of metal buried deep within the grass, hidden by layers of soil and clay. 

People buy metal detectors in hopes of trying to find precious, rare objects that get lost, discarded or carelessly tossed aside by others.  Emma was hoping to take advantage of other people's carelessness. Maybe Emma is right. Maybe there is treasure that lies just underneath her feet, undiscovered by so many who continually walk over top of it, never taking the time to dig deeper and discover the rare find that lies just below the surface, only concerning themselves with what they can "see". Emma's optimism, her determination and her childhood innocence makes me believe we need a stronger metal detector.

In this era of "What will they think of next?" technology, we have detectors that sense smoke, detectors that sense gas, detectors that sense radiation. What if a detector that could sense autism was created? Some type of wand that you could wave over a person and detect the "amount" of autism found in them. I wonder what it would detect in Ryan? Some days, I assure you, that detector would beep, screech and wail like a five alarm fire alert and yet other days, it would emit only a slight vibration. The autism detector would come in handy for those moments when Ryan's emotions and behavior are hard for him to control and even harder for his tired, old mother to explain. "Oh, do you hear that beeping sound, that's an autism detector, now you understand why my son is making those funny faces instead of answering your question about whether or not he likes middle school. He has a smidge of autism." Unfortunately, even if a high tech autism detector explained the "why" of Ryan's behavior by emitting a signal to let you know, yes indeed, autism has been discovered in his brain, some people still wouldn't dig deeper to try and understand it or accept it.

To those who know and love Ryan, at times, it is apparent that something is "different". Maybe its the fact he ignores your question, maybe it's the way he overreacts to loud noise and chaos, maybe it's his blatant, no holds barred AWEnesty or maybe it's the funny noises and faces he makes while imitating the latest television show playing in his brain. However, to those folks who don't spend a lot of time with Ryan, when they find out he has an ASD they seem surprised. "Really? It doesn't show!" or "Wow, I had no idea!" or my personal favorite, "But, he looks so normal!". My first thought after I hear such comments, is wow, I wonder what these people thought when Ryan completely ignored them or barked some demand at them in his "bossy voice". Most people probably just assume Ryan has terrible parents who have decided that manners don't apply to him. After I unruffle my feathers from such comments, then I start to worry that if those kind of statements come out of the mouths of grown ups, it makes me shudder to think what mean kids must say to Ryan when he is tic-ing, making funny noises or LOL'ing when the moment does not call for even a giggle. Kids can certainly be mean. Even though it was a looooooonnnngggg time ago, since I roamed the hallways of middle school and high school as a student, I still remember just how mean kids were.

We all remember the kids in school who were in the special education classrooms. The kids you would see in the hallways and at lunch, but who rarely shared a class with you. Back in my day, the special education classroom was reserved for only those kids with fairly profound deficits in learning, socialization, and behavior. We still had bullies back in those days, but only the meanest, nastiest bullies picked on these kids. For the most part, these "special needs kids" (I hate that label) were not tortured by fellow classmates. I AWEnestly believe this was because the struggles of these kids with significant special needs were so obvious and so tough that even the nastiest bullies recognized how cruel it would have been to mess with these kids. In my high school, we had a child who pretended to drive a motorcycle through the school hallways. Of course watching him maneuver through the hallways on his invisible motorcycle made you chuckle, but most kids, in kindness, would ask where he was going in such a hurry. Some kids, with such apparent special needs, would even be taken under the wings by the "cool" kids, a sort of, "I dare you to mess with this kid.". In so many areas of life, kids with special needs have a tough time and may appear very "unlucky", but in the food chain of public school, these kids often fall well above the "weirdos" in the kid assigned student hierarchy.

Now, as a mom who is all too familiar with the quirks, tics and odd behaviors that tends to go along with an ASD diagnosis, I can look back at kids in my high school and recall the "loners", "oddballs", "geeks" and "weirdos" that fell at the bottom of the high school hierarchy. Today, many of those quirky kids in my high school would    certainly fall somewhere "on the spectrum". Kids who may very well have had "special needs", but their needs weren't "special" enough to put them in a special education classroom or grant them a "pass" from being teased and ridiculed. These poor kids were thrown to the wolves in regular ed.

There was a boy in my high school that dressed in black from head to toe, every single day. Needless, to say, he was cruelly referred to as Johnny Cash (sans a country recording contract and pretty June Carter Cash by his side). Maybe the routine of black made this boy feel safe in a school full of kids who didn't understand him and who didn't bother to try. Had this dressed in black student been in high school today, he would have been considered "goth", but sadly, still "weird". Although Ryan wears an assortment of colors, I have no doubt that his standard 6 outfits that he rotates day in and day out gets noticed by other students and that this routine also makes him "weird" or "dorky". Ryan likes the comfort of the clothes he wears and knowing which shirt goes with which pair of shorts is just one less decision he has to make in a long day filled with varying choices and decisions. Ryan is doing 7th grade math in 6th grade. Clearly, not worrying or wasting brain power on what to wear is working for him.

Another boy in my high school English class was often found reading his Greek Mythology book lying on his back on the floor which apparently he found much more appealing than sitting at his desk like the "normal" kids. After 52 minutes of learning about Zeus and his BFF's on Mount Olympus, the "normal" kids would exit class with comments such as, "Did you see that weirdo?", "He just does that for attention." or "What the he** is wrong with that freak?" echoing off the school hallway walls loud enough for the boy who loved the floor, to hear. In the meantime, the boy gathered up his books, seemingly unconcerned by the meanies' comments, and quickly dashed down the hallway....alone. As far as I know, Ryan sits in his desk at school, however, he often studies his flashcards upside down on the couch and although I worry about him breaking his neck, Ryan assures me that "being upside down helps me concentrate". Maybe, the boy from my high school English class and Ryan have it right. Maybe SAT scores would skyrocket if kids laid on their backs on the floor of the testing room or better yet, took the tests hanging upside down. Maybe "our" way has been wrong all along.

A girl who sat in my high school Algebra class would rock in her desk from the instant the bell rang to signal the beginning of class to when the bell rang signaling class had come to an end. The rumor was this girl was rocked so much as a baby, that she still enjoyed the soothing rocking motion as a teenager. It didn't matter that there was a "legit" reason this girl rocked back and forth and back and forth, her rocking behavior still made her "weird". Ryan has never been a rocker, but, when I brush Ryan's hair his hand flicks back and forth, back and forth because this flicking distracts him from the "terrible pain" the hair brush causes to his head. Algebra caused me and my head terrible pain. Maybe I should have rocked right along side that girl. Chances are highly probable, her grade in Algebra was much higher than mine and that the rocking helped her achieve that grade. Maybe every single one of these "weirdos" had it right, and maybe we neurotypical folks are the ones that are weird. If you ask someone with an ASD, I promise you that is precisely what you will be told.

Ryan does not race motorcycles through the hall, he does not have classes in the special education room, he does not have any physical attributes that screams, "I have a different ability!" and he does not have the ultra cool quarterback or the pretty, popular cheerleader taking him under his wing. Ryan, like so many kids with an ASD diagnosis, does indeed have a different ability, that certainly makes him special, just not quite "special" enough to step up one rung on the middle school hierarchy. Ryan's special, different ability, just happens to fall in the quirky, weird, uncool, geeky, category because to many kids, it is not apparent that there is a neurodevelopmental difference that makes Ryan sniff his left nostril, watch SpongeBob in his head when teachers bore him or roll his eyes back in his head to shut out the world when he is trying so hard not to cry. There is no autism detector that beeps when Ryan is acting "weird". These quirks, these weird behaviors are just what others "see" on the surface, rarely taking the time to look for the treasure that is buried deeper, hidden by the sniffs, the facial grimaces and the funny, subtle noises.

Since I doubt an autism detector will be created and installed in school lobbies anytime soon to help students understand there is a legitimate reason for what they see on the surface as "weirdness" in some of their fellow classmates, Ryan and kids like him will continue to be teased, ignored and misunderstood. Yes, I am aware of all the bully prevention taking place in most school districts, but when you have a child who wouldn't dream of telling you he is being picked on for fear he has done something wrong, or even worst, maybe he believes he deserves to be teased for being such a "weirdo", then all the "go tell a trusting adult" scenarios is as effective as Emma's Metal detector trying to locate dinosaur bones.

The thing is, just like Emma had to adjust her thinking about using a METAL detector to discover things made out of METAL rather than fossilized dinosaur bones, people have to adjust their thinking about autism. They have to stop looking for the differences in children with autism and find the similarities. Stop glancing at what's wrong with a child with autism and look deeper to find what is right. Take the time to dig for the strengths and bury the notion that differences are a sign of weakness. Look past the "weird" and find the "unique". Search below the surface and see the rare, precious treasure that lies hidden within. Just like treasure hunters, who take the time to find what others are quick to discard and carelessly toss aside, someone else's loss is your gain. I promise if you take the time to dig deeper, change your "settings", and sift through what only you can "see", you will make an AWEsome discovery, and even though this discovery will not make you rich or famous, it will certainly leave you wanting to unearth more. 

I stepped outside last week and I finally had to accept it, regardless of how much it hurt to think it, how much it hurt to admit it and how much it hurts to write it, fall is really here. Boo! When I took the puppy out for his nighttime ritual, the smell of fall was in the air. It was a crisp, cool night, the leaves were crinkling under my feet and the crickets were singing what must surely be their summer encore. The smell of sunscreen and chlorine had been replaced with dried leaves and wood smoke burning off in the distance. And as I waited for the dog to finish his "duty", he too sniffed the air perceptively, almost like he knew that change was right around the corner.

Don't get me wrong, I LOVE fall...apple picking, pumpkin carving, warm, toasty fires on a cool fall night and picking out all the Snickers, Peanut Butter Cups and Butterfingers from the kids' Halloween candy to keep my highly allergic son, Kyle, safe. The sacrifices we mothers make for our children is just unimaginable...including plaque build up in our arteries. (Yes, I know I could throw it all out, but when have YOU ever thrown out a Peanut Butter Cup?). Sadly, on the heels of a crisp, fall day is the dreaded return of bleak, dreary, depressing, icy, cold winter. Blah. I hate the snow, I hate the ice, I hate the cold and I sink into a seasonal affective disorder slump every time I look out at the brown, colorless landscape that is the Northeast from November until March. Even the laundry of winter is darker, heavier and uglier.

For someone who longingly shops online, just wishing for a little light therapy via a costly "lightbox" (ranging in price from $100-$300 which is precisely why Dan laughs at the thought of buying me one), so I can close my eyes and pretend I'm on a beach somewhere sipping Mai Tai's, it's hard to believe that there were a few years that with all the ugliness of winter, that winter, quickly usurped spring, summer and fall as my favorite season. Not because I took up skiing or because we "wintered" in Aspen with the likes of Charlie Sheen and Kevin Costner (hands down, Charlie Sheen would be the preferred neighbor as I imagine his parties would be much more entertaining). No, winter became #1, because in the Northeast, the chance of a severe thunderstorm or tornado "destroying our house" was slim (probably a less than 20% chance...my boy knows his weather statistics) and The Weather Channel was not blaring from every television in our home 24/7.

To say that once upon a time, Ryan thought storms were a "little scary", would be like saying Dorothy thought the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz were just a "little creepy". Just like Auntie Em's home, Ryan feared with every stormy day, that our home would end up in the vortex of a twister, crush a wicked witch and land in Oz. This fear, this phobia of thunder, lightning, wind and tornado watches, or heaven forbid, tornado warnings, became so intense, so prevalent, so consuming, that the chance of PM thunderstorms influenced our daily activities. If there was a 30% chance or higher of late day thunderstorms (we were really doomed if "some storms may be severe" was tossed up on The Weather Channel screen), a trip to the grocery store, out for dinner, or off to cash in our winning Power Ball ticket, was just not worth the horrible scenarios that played out in Ryan's head. Just like Dorothy (sans the ruby slippers) in Ryan's mind, there really was "no place like home".

Lots of kids dislike thunderstorms, lots of kids have phobias, fears and anxieties, however, for a child with an ASD, it often is what they fear, the degree that fear impacts their daily life and how they react to that fear that makes the difference. Anxiety Disorders and Autism Spectrum Disorders are frequently co-occurring (or co-morbid), meaning, they go hand in hand. When your kid is watching The Weather Channel (from April-November) more than he is watching Nick, Jr. at the age of 7, that is just a wee bit extreme. When your every day spring and summer plans must take into account the chance of a thunderstorm, or your son almost walks into the bus gate while running for his life in a rain shower for fear a tornado may appear at any moment and swoop him up, or you son worries more about the dew point than he does missing out on his school's once a year Family Fun Night (we all did have to take cover inside the school due to a tornado warning while Ryan sat safely and shakily in our basement watching the radar), that my friend is a problem....regardless of what Denial may say.

Although Denial assured me that all kids have fears and phobias and these fears are just part of "being a kid", it was a trip to Smith Mountain Lake in Virginia with friends that made me tie a rock to Denial's feet and toss her off the dock. We rented a fabulous lake house and a pontoon boat to float around the 32 square mile lake. Needless to say, with parts of the lake being 250 ft. deep, we were all in life vests and I was knee deep in paranoia...constantly checking life vests and keeping an eye out for the Loch Ness Monster or Jason to pop out of the lake right next to one of my children. Aside from my own personal, "need a therapist and some medication" phobias, the week was great with boating, swimming, fishing and tubing. The only downside was that throughout most of the week, The Weather Channel (Ryan found it immediately upon arrival) forecasted a 30% chance or greater, of thunderstorms, which put a bit of a damper in Ryan's mood . Guess how much my sweet boy wanted to go on a boat in open water with a 30% chance of thunderstorms? About as much as I wanted to go investigate a noise I heard in the middle of the night, by myself, in my pajamas, without a weapon down by the dock (why are people in horror movies so dumb?). Poor Ryan. It didn't matter that the sky was blue with only a few white puffy clouds in the sky, The Weather Channel does not lie!

After cajoling, threatening and finally, bribing Ryan, he got on his life vest (which of course he hated how it felt and smelled) and warily got on the boat with his eyes on the sky. Watching all the other kids swimming, tubing and laughing my heart ached as my boy repeatedly looked up at the sky with trepidation and asked how much longer until we returned to the house. Such fear and anxiety is not what a 7 year old child should feel when surrounded by a beautiful lake, great friends and as much junk food as the boat would hold to keep him happy. Ryan jumped in the lake a few times and tried his hand at fishing, but overall, Ryan was just weather obsessed. It's hard to see the ripples on the lake or hear the giggles from the other kids on the inner tube when all Ryan could see was darkening clouds, lightening strikes, tornadoes and devastation. Enough was enough. Time to stop listening to Denial's gurgling protests from the dock, and get my boy some help. Enter Dr. B.

Dr. B specialized in treating children with anxiety disorders. He was one of those quiet, sciency doctors with a warm smile and a kind heart and you could tell, Dr. B was fascinated with the inner workings of Ryan's brain. Dr. B decided to try a little exposure therapy with Ryan. First, Dr. B showed Ryan photographs of severe weather...lightning, tornadoes, hurricanes, etc. Ryan seemed unimpressed and he certainly did not demonstrate the reactions that a real storm evoked in him. Eventually, Dr. B moved to video clips of severe weather and while Ryan watched the clips, he blew bubbles in order to control his breathing. I remember thinking, "Are you freaking kidding me? Hundreds of dollars for bubble blowing?", but hey, I'm not the expert, I'm just the mom. We had to repeat this exercise at home and Ryan complained that it was boring. I asked him if watching the storms got him nervous and he said, "not really, the storms are on the computer." My literal thinking boy...I was starting to believe this exercise was futile. I asked Dr. Bob, if exposure therapy was effective for a child with an autism brain and he said, "Well, it is a bit more challenging." I thanked Dr. Bob, wished him well and took matters into my own hands. Sometimes, Mom does know best.

Even though we moms know we know best, our kids frequently do not believe this to be true. After all, we are "just" moms. Ryan reminds me regularly that I "don't know anything" other than  how to cook a meatless cheeseburger and make his bed. We moms can't help with homework, we aren't teachers. We can't help correct your swing, we aren't baseball coaches. So, we most surely can't tell you that the chance of your house being destroyed in South Central PA by a "deadly tornado" is relatively small because we aren't meteorologists. This mom, who doesn't know anything, decided to take my boy to an expert. Not an expert on autism, not an expert on anxiety, this dumb old mom, packed Ryan up and drove to Lancaster to meet with a weather expert, WGAL's meteorologist Matt Ritter. I called the station, explained our struggle and an appointment was made for Ryan to get a tour of the weather room and get the goods about storms first hand from an expert. 

Meteorologist Matt Ritter showed Ryan the Doppler radar, he explained to Ryan, how with the help of computers, they can track storms and pinpoint where that storm will hit. Mr. Ritter assured Ryan that very few tornadoes like the ones he has watched on The Weather Channel, occur in PA. The weather expert also explained the warning systems and what they mean, and with today's technology, meteorologists are able to warn people to seek shelter before a storm hits. Of course it didn't matter how many times I told Ryan this same info and begged him to turn off that fear inducing Weather Channel, which, by the way I eventually blocked (AWEnestly, that happened), Matt Ritter was the expert, not reassuring old mom. I swear, as Ryan gazed at the Doppler radar satellites, while we walked outside, I could visibly see his shoulders  relax....until we got in the car and he asked if it was going to storm before we got home.

Thanks to my outside the box thinking, a road trip to Lancaster, and Ryan's love of books on weather, winter has once again become my most dreaded season. As the final leaves fall, I will hibernate in my house, anxiously awaiting the return of spring and summer which will also mean the return of severe weather season. Ryan still gets a little anxious when severe weather is approaching and he will tell me that he feels "uncomfortable" when the wind starts blowing in the dark clouds, but Ryan's fear is not as consuming as it once was. Unfortunately, Ryan still buys into The Weather Channel "hype" by routinely checking his Weather Channel app on his iPod, but thanks to maturity, the voice of an "expert" and a better understanding of all things weather, the fear is not as great as it once was. Now, Ryan will go mini-golfing even if there is a 30% chance of a storm, but he won't let the opportunity pass without trying to convince you that Thursday would be a better day since there is only a 10% chance of a passing shower.

I recognize in an unorganized, big world, where Ryan feels so little control, there really is no place like home. For Ryan, keeping an eye on the sky and deciding when is the safest time for him to venture outdoors, is his way of exerting some control over his world. Although Ryan loves me as much as Dorothy loved Toto, I assure you, on a cloudy day, when the winds are picking up and The Weather Channel alert is blaring a tornado warning throughout the house, there is little chance my boy will run outside to save me and bring me to shelter. Chances are, Ryan will already be in the safest part of the basement, where there are no windows, watching the radar on his iPod, with a mattress covering him waiting for the opportunity to tell me once again, that I was wrong and that I really don't know ANYTHING. Ryan's right, I may not be able to predict the weather, and my assurances of a tornado never hitting our house could literally blow up in my face, but one thing we both know, I will always be by his side as we weather the storm together.