The keys, the way they glistened and jingled, not to mention, the sheer volume of them, fascinated me. The large key ring with what appeared to be thousands of keys hung from his belt loop and made that swishy, jingly sound as he walked. We always knew when he was coming down the hallway.

With soooooooo....many jingly, shiny keys, how did he know which key unlocked which door? As a 6 year old, the school seemed huge and the possible doors for which those keys could open seemed endless. Surely, I felt, our school janitor, Mr. B, must have had some type of magical power or super brain to remember which key fit inside which door. 

Mr. B was a gentle giant...at least that's how I remember him. He knew every nook and cranny of the school as it was his job to keep the school running and to keep the inmates from running the asylum. We all knew there were doors that kids weren't allowed to go in, the "Staff Only" doors that were shrouded in mystery and rumors that always made us wonder what exactly was behind THAT door.  Mr B knew. He knew what was behind every door and he knew the right key he needed to open it. Finding the right key, was the only way to get into that mysterious room without blowing it up, knocking it down or doing some type of damage in the process to see what lies inside. And the person who holds the key, gets the thrill of opening the door and seeing just what is behind that door. Mr B was so lucky.

It took a lot of convincing (fine, bribing, threatening, etc) to get Ryan to audition for the select choral group as a sixth grader. After all, this was NEW, this was DIFFERENT, and Ryan didn't do new or different very well at all. Mr. Myers never doubted Ryan's vocal ability, but, initially, he doubted Ryan's desire and commitment. With minimal eye contact, no chit chat, and lack of enthusiasm for "new" at the audition, it's easy to understand how Mr. Myers would have assumed the door was locked and how difficult it would be to open it and get in. I explained to Mr. Myers that autism makes "new" difficult for Ryan, but, ultimately the choice was his and I'm certain at the time, Mr. Myers had no idea he held the key. I don't think when Mr. Myers decided to give Ryan a chance he heard a magical "click", but, I assure you, he unlocked a door that may have never been opened had he not held the key.

Once Mr. Myers unlocked the door, something clicked inside Ryan that we have never seen before. Over time, he literally and figuratively opened up. Ryan's confidence soared instilling in him a sense of pride we have never witnessed before. He has become independent and courageous and this has enabled him to reach out socially and take risks he would have never taken before Mr Myers opened the door. Ryan has found an outlet where his social differences aren't as noticeable. When Ryan is singing, he becomes a leader, an example, a voice that others wait anxiously to hear. 

This confidence, this leadership has lead Ryan to places he has never been, places that a worried mom feared he would never go because she could not find the key, she could not unlock the door.  By unlocking this door, Mr. Myers has unwittingly opened other doors that may have forever remained closed. How do you ever repay someone who shows up with the right key and unlocks a door you have waited 10 years to see what was inside? There is no gift, no gesture grand enough, so you just say, "thank you" (1.5 million times) and you spend the rest of your days being grateful that he took a chance, he searched for the key and he unlocked the door. 

I think just like my elementary school janitor, Mr. Myers knew all along what was waiting behind the door. By listening closely, Mr. Myers could hear what was on the other side of that door. Not only could Mr. Myers hear it, he could see it too. He could see past the differences, see past the autism and just see Ryan which took away the mystery, the doubt of what was behind the door. Mr. Myers knew that Ryan held the key all along, he just needed someone to help him turn it.

Ryan's dad may have passed down the key and I may have lead Ryan to the door that I hoped the key would one day open, but, Mr Myers helped Ryan turn the key. Without him, Ryan may have stood at the threshold of that doorway forever, never taking the chance to open it. What a tragedy that would have been. We may have all played a role in helping Ryan open the door that quite possibly could have forever remained lock, but, Mr. Myers gave Ryan the confidence he needed to try the key and open the door on his own. 

So thank you Mr. Myers for opening a door that I believe will lead to a series of other doors for my beautiful son. Thanks to you, now Ryan holds the key and I believe he has the courage to use that key to open more doors that may have once remained closed if it weren't for you. Doors that will prove to him, and others, that what lies on the other side is not mysterious, strange, or terribly "different", it's just a room waiting to be filled with friends, happiness, love....and music. 

Of all the comments I get, the good, the bad, the inspiring and the ouch I need a glass of wine to dull that kick in the face, the one that seeps deepest into my psyche is, "You are so patient. Ryan is lucky to have you". Ummm...yeah, sure I am and of course he is...most of the time. It's so easy to believe that I am a patient, fabulous mother ALL OF THE TIME when what you see as you scroll down your Facebook Newsfeed is the highlight reel, which, like most social media users out there, is what I post 99% of the time.

Yeah, I occasionally post the old F you autism when I'm feeling frustrated and overwhelmed, and had the day from hell, but, mostly, it's the feel good stuff that I share. You know why? People want to feel good. They want to know that their two year old who was just diagnosed with autism five minutes ago is going to be just fine. They don't want to know that their kid may be wearing pull ups until they are 8 or that the change of seasonal clothing is like water boarding for your child or how you fell apart at the apple orchard over a stupid bee and threatened to Uber your kid a cab home. At least not every time they check in on Facebook. There's no quicker way to be blocked, hidden or unfriended.

However, when I started The AWEnesty of Autism, I promised to be just that, AWEnest. So, today, for all of you who believe I am a patient, fabulous mom that belongs on a pedestal right next to Mother Teresa (ok, NO ONE has ever even slightly suggested that), I want you to know that I fall off that patient mom pedestel with great regularity. And I fall hard.

Today, I will share the parts you don't see on the Facebook highlight reel, the unused footage that wind up on the cutting room floor during editing. Moments I'm not proud of, but, moments that make me real. I hope by splicing some of my initial cuts into today's highlight reel you will see that what ends up on the cutting room floor has a place too and that just like me, you understand that being a patient, loving mother doesn't mean you don't go batsh** crazy every now and then.

So here you are, 7 edits that didn't make the evening Facebook highlights, but, wound up as out takes for you to see later. When you were ready. Out takes that are as real and AWEnest as the highlights:

1. After returning home from a horrific morning at his brother's soccer game, where all the other soccer players' siblings were playing, running and having a blast, while my sensory overloaded three year old was trying to climb back into the womb to escape the whistle, the wind, the sun and the squeals, I looked at him fearing something was "wrong" and out of that fear I said, "Why can't you be NORMAL like the rest of those kids?" Yep, I said it. The N Word right to my three year old's face. A face that had not yet been diagnosed autistic, but, that was different enough that it struck fear in my heart. I wound up in my bedroom sobbing for thinking it, for worrying about it and for saying it...out loud...while Ryan continued to line up his Thomas trains scripting happily away. Yeah, that moment wound up on the cutting room floor, buried deep underneath a floor tile, hoping to never be unearthed again. But for you, I just unearthed it.

2. On the day Ryan turned 8, tired of having to scrape yet one more pair of poopy Buzz Lightear underwear in the toilet, I looked my beautiful, sweet boy right in his gullible face and said, "It is against the law to poop your pants after you turn 8." Yeah, he never pooped on Buzz again, so my awful lie worked, but, I may pay for that lie by spending purgatory next to a police officer wearing dirty Buzz Lightyear underwear. At the time, it seemed totally worth it. Place this in the "Unused Footage" pile please.

3. While still hanging with my BFF's Denial and Clueless, I wanted Ryan to follow his big brother's footsteps (footsteps that were so different from his own), so, not only did I sign my sensory sensitive kid up for soccer, I had to practically sit on him while bribing him with any type of sugary treat you can imagine to put on those God awful clunky, plastic shinguards. Just so he would "fit in". Guess how well a child with sensory processing struggles "fits in" on a windy, sunny, whistle blowing soccer field? Ryan should have kicked a goal right at my head. Needless to say, sitting on a 5 year old trying to make him be something or someone he is not while shoving a Tootsie Pop in his mouth not only is bad parenting, it is NOT something that folks want to see while trolling on Facebook, so the shinguard moments did not make the highligh reel.

4. The innumerable, countless number of times I have lost my so called "patience" while doing homework with Ryan typically does not make the highlight reel. Just an aside, Homework, Hades and Hell all start with the letter H. That is not a coincidence. There were times during homework where Ryan would get so stuck, so confused, so inflexible that his "brain felt like it was on fire". I would try every trick up my sleeve to try and reach him to try and help him, but, because there was only so much I could take at times, rather than remaining calm and throwing some water on the fire, feeling so frustrated and helpless, I would fling open his bedroom door and run out allowing the air from the open doorway to feed the flames instead. No one wants to see the damage in the wake of disaster.

5. During a bout of the flu, I made the GIGANTIC mistake of telling a bug phobic kid that he needed to drink more fluids in order to flush out the virus and then explained that a virus was a teeny tiny BUG that was making him sick. Yeah, I'm an idiot. It wasn't until the next day that I realized how badly I screwed up once I discovered that a child could physically hold his pee for 36 hours. Yep, 36 hours he held his pee for fear a bug would come flying out his, well, you know. This dilemma lead to hysterical sobbing and tears which necessitated me putting him on the potty and tickling him while he screamed, "the bug is coming, the bug is coming" as the flood gates finally opened...everywhere. You don't see that kind of drama on the Kardashians, do you? How many Facebook Likes do you think that moment would have received? Still waiting on that Dislike button Zuckerberg.

6. "Put your (insert a few of your favorite obscenities when losing your mind here) coat on RIGHT NOW!" Yeah, that happened. After I spent 20 minutes nicely asking, bribing and begging Ryan to switch from his fall fleece coat to his heavy winter coat. Seasonal clothing changes have never been easy. As I started to lose my patience, after asking no less than 20 times and knowing full well the bus driver was kindly waiting (as she so often did), my tone got deeper, louder and a little crabbier. So, when Ryan looked at me and said, "I won't put it on until you ask me nicely", well, that was about all the nice I had left. In the end, Ryan put his winter coat on while looking at me bewilderingly wondering where his nice, patient mommy went, then he climbed on the school bus and I went to the gym where I proceeded to sob for 15 minutes in the locker room. "Cut! Let's shoot that scene again please." Pretty please?

7. "I swear I am going to Uber you a cab!" Pause. Stares from strangers. "WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?" This was a lovely exchange after an ugly day at the apple orchard. A day where Ryan was so mean, so hurtful to both his little sister Emma and me, that I wound up sobbing between the Jonathan and Golden Delicious Apple rows. A day where a bee sent him into a swearing, freaking out meltdown that caused more than a few stares and comments. A day where I watched his sister's face fall yet again at his hurtful words and the day I explained to him what "Uber a cab" means. In the end, we did not need Uber, but, I needed a glass of wine...or two. 

Moments that don't make the highlight reel. Moments that out of frustration, sadness, and anger often caused by my inability to reach my son, take a toll on even the most loving, patient mothers. Moments that leave a trail of guilt and tears. I get that guilt comes with the word "mom", but, somehow losing your patience when your child has a "different ability" just kind of makes the guilt feel even more soul sucking.

We all have our not so proud mommy moments, regardless if our child has autism or not, because we are human. We are real. We screw up. So for all my supporters, who Like and Comment on my highlight reel, I am grateful for your kind words about my mothering, but, I want you to know that like most mothers, I lose it from time to time and that doesn't make us less, in fact, I think it makes us more. More real, more AWEnest, and in the end, even more patient. We learn from these moments. That doesn't mean we won't lose it the next week or even the next day, but, we learn that even in our worst moments, we are trying to do our best.

It has taken me awhile, but, I now realize, that no matter how many edits from the moment wind up on the cutting room floor, the end should always make the highlight reel. Because our ending always finishes with love, snuggles and a gentle reminder that mommy's frustration always fades away, but, that my love for him never, ever will. Now that is a highlight worth playing over and over again.

We had yet another college visit for my oldest son Kyle this week. As any mother who has been part of this tedious, emotion filled process knows, there is a combination of sadness and joy. Sadness, as you wonder how it's even possible that your little bird is ready to flee the nest, and joy, as you happily anticipate just how far his wings will take him.  

As we stroll along these foreign campus grounds, my mind wanders to scary places like, "Will he do too many tap hits at a kegger and kiss a girl who just ate peanut butter and go into anaphylactic shock?" and happy places like, "Will he find his future wife here...the woman who will give me beautiful grandchildren...many, many years from now?" As my mind races from sadness to joy like an uncoupled railway car, I try not to imagine the emptiness I will feel in our home without Kyle's loud, vibrant voice and presence, a presence that is so similar to my own that it makes my LOL as frequently as it irritates me.

As for the baby sister, Emma will miss Kyle terribly because he is the brother that connects with her, he is the brother who playfully teases her and loves her with all his heart, he is the brother who holds all three of them together. Like a coupler that holds two rail cars securely together, Kyle has always been the connector that has coupled Ryan and Emma together, keeping them from drifting too far apart. ​Without their coupler, I worry about just how far they will drift.

Ryan and Emma are so different, their rail cars filled with goods that neither are interested in or understands and without Kyle coupling them, I think those goods will become more diverse and less understood thus causing their cars to drift farther and farther apart. In some weird, twisted part of my brain, I have thought, well, maybe uncoupled, Ryan and Emma will bump into each other in a horrific crash causing their goods to spill all over the tracks and getting so intermixed that they will have to find a way to clean the mess up together. In doing so, maybe they will recognize the value of one another's goods and see that there is a way to stay close without the coupler holding them together.

I understand that with or without autism some siblings just don't connect. There may be no rhyme or reason, but, the connection is just not there. In many ways, I think Ryan has never forgiven Emma for arriving in his world, a world at the age of five he was just starting to slowly understand, and so he does not try to connect. It's hard for Emma to understand so she tries, time and time again, but, I realize that a moment may come when she stops trying to connect, when she see that there is no point crashing a train car against another train car with no coupler in sight to hitch them together.  

Without their coupler, Ryan and Emma may drift even farther apart and as hard as it is for me to accept that, I may have to, without necessarily pointing the finger at autism. Just like the world had to accept Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin uncoupling, I too may have to accept that Ryan and Emma may consciously uncouple and even though "they love each other very much, they will remain seperate". There are no bad guys, no one to blame, just two individuals riding on seperate tracks.

Next fall when Kyle heads off to college, I may be so consumed with my own adjustment to the change in the dynamics of our home that my worries of his departure uncoupling Ryan and Emma, may come much later (after I stop spending 24 hours a day obsessing over peanut butter kisses and tap hits). And perhaps in that time, when I am trying to adjust and uncurl from the fetal position, Ryan and Emma may or may not find a way to connect without Kyle's presence. Only time will tell and as I watch my oldest son, my baby boy, strolling from campus to campus, one thing I do know, I most certainly can not control time.

Along with figuring out this mother son thing over the years, I have also figured out that when it comes to love, kids, and yes, even autism, never say "never". Unless of course it is "NEVER kiss a girl who just ate peanut butter", to your severely allergic son, then "never" definitely applies.

As I painstakingly read through the horrible history of autism in Steve Silberman's new book, Neurotribes (love the book, hate the history), my heart aches for all the children who came before my Ryan. Children who were subjected to atrocities by the Nazis, "treatments" by the "experts" and abandonment by parents. Parents who had no understanding of the concept, "different, not less".

And even though it was the children and adults living with autism who suffered so horribly, I believe the mothers who came before me suffered too. The mothers who did not have Google, support groups, understanding, or even a voice like we mothers have today.

Neurotribes sheds light onto the dark history of autism. There have been moments while reading this book where I have felt enraged, sickened, devastated and at a loss for words. I want nothing more than to grab these mothers who came before me by the shoulders and shake them. I want to shout, "Stand up for you child! Protect him! Make the experts hear YOU and see HIM", but, of course I can't. Many of those mothers are long gone as are their children. I am as helpless for their children today, as they were back then. Voices silenced by time and timing.

If those mothers were able to hear my voice today, it would be a voice filled with sympathy and forgiveness. Of compassion and understanding. Of love and not judgement. Because I believe that if the mothers who came before me had listened to the voice inside their head and not the voice of experts, the lives of their children would have looked very different.

It would be easy to cast blame, to say to these mothers who came before me, "Why did you listen to the experts and not your heart?", but, we all know that times were different then. Today, I would never consent to some aniquated medical treatment such as a little "bloodletting" for the flu, but, if 100 years ago, an expert would have assured me that bloodletting would make the body aches and fever of the flu subside, I probably would have asked, "Which arm?". It's easy to look back in time and think, "those people were crazy!", but, "those people" were living in an era when bloodletting was a medically acceptable form of treatment for sickness and disease as was routine institutionalization, shock therapy and "putting him to sleep" for children who were "different". 

So, to the mothers who came before me, the mothers who had no voice, I want to say this:

I am sorry.

I am sorry that your child was born in a time when differences of any kind were viewed as something wrong, something diseased, something that needed to be fixed, hidden away or worse, eliminated.

I am sorry that "fixing" your child often required you to go against your innate instinct to protect and love your child. That "experts" told you they knew what was best for your child and you did not.

I am sorry that those "experts" often believed that locking your child away in an institution and performing awful treatments that no child, regardless of differences, should have ever endured was considered "best" for him or her. Treatments that ranged from abandonment, starving, shocking, experimental medication and tragically, sometimes even death.

I am sorry that as a woman and a mother, your gut, your intinct was dismissed and you were not taken seriously by those holding your child's future in their hands. I am sorry that you were often disregarded when it came to choices about YOUR child, the child you loved, nurtured and protected since the moment you knew they were a part of you.

I am sorry that not only did you carry the weight of guilt, but, often of blame as well.

I am sorry that deep inside you knew that although your child was different, you saw progress, you saw joy, you saw strengths, you saw love, yet no one believed you. Rather than seeing less, you saw more, but, your voice and your instinct was silenced.

I am sorry that once "treatment" began, you saw your child regress and were told, "that is to be expected" and you felt powerless to intervene.

I am sorry that you did not have access to the information mothers who came after you do. 

I am sorry that you lived every day wondering if you made the right choice, the right decision and that the guilt of not knowing, of doubting, ate at your soul.

I am sorry that your child failed to understand that your decision was based on what you were told "was best" by everyone, everyone except the voice deep inside your heart. 

I am sorry that children and adults who were different like your child were not heard or seen beyond their differences.

I am sorry that my apologies, my sympathy, my voice has come decades too late...for you and your child.

I am sorry that your child, and you, suffered so my child could thrive.

I am sorry.

For the mothers who are with me and who come after me. We must continue to advocate, educate, and be heard for the mothers who are beside us today, for the mothers who will come after us, and especially for the mothers who came before us. We are the voices of the past, the present and the future so make yourselves heard.

As for you Steve Silberman, at first I wanted to hit you with your big, wordy book, because the truth, the history, the "legacy" of autism was just too damn hard to read. However, as I near the end of the book, I realize that we have to learn from the ugly history to make way for a beautiful future, and that many legacies are born out of heartbreak, devastation, and loss. That learning from the past is the only way to move forward to a future where the mistakes of the experts and the mothers before us are not committed again. So, even though your words hurt Mr. Silberman, I am grateful for every single one of them. If I ever run into you, no need to duck, I promise I won't throw your book at you, I am, however a hugger, a hugger with a big, loud, shouty voice. You have been warned.

His name was Melvin. Melvin was in my grade and I first met him in elementary school. Melvin's family lived on "the wrong side of the tracks". And being on THAT side of the tracks meant Melvin didn't quite "fit in". Melvin wasn't exactly prone to cleanliness which meant Melvin didn't exactly smell real nice which meant no one played with Melvin. Ever. Aside for his lack of hygiene, Melvin was "odd" and he struggled academically. Back in my day, Melvin was labeled "retarded", "slow" and "weird". Today, Melvin would probably be labeled autistic or Intellectually Disabled (ID).

Melvin played alone, he sat at lunch alone and he walked to the bus alone. In a classroom full of kids, very few of those kids ever saw Melvin. There were times, not often, that I saw Melvin, as I quickly looked his way wondering why he was so different, but, yet, Melvin remained alone.

Even though I didn't see Melvin very frequently then, I can see Melvin today. He wore the same dirty, grey sweater with maroon stripes on the sleeves, thick, black rimmed glasses and pants that were always two sizes too small. I can't hear Melvin's voice in my head because he said so little, but, I can hear the other children's voices loud and clear. "Is there a flood coming Melvin?" "You stink Melvin!" "What's 2+2 Melvin?" Kids can be so cruel. Even though I never said it, I let it be said. Just. As. Guilty.

There were times though that I REALLY saw Melvin. Like when I shared my crayons with him, when I said, "Hi Melvin" as he zipped past me riding an imaginary motorcycle down the school hallway alone or when every kid on the bus told him "no room" and I scooched over so he could sit with me as I used my coat sleeve to try and inconspicuously cover my nose from Melvin's lack of hygiene odor. When I saw Melvin, REALLY saw him and was kind to him, I remember feeling proud of myself. Proud for being kind to the kid who was different, who didn't fit in, who wasn't "one of us". I also remember giving myself a little "well, aren't you nice" pat on the back. It took me 30 years to realize I did not deserve a pat on the back anymore than Melvin deserved to be taunted, teased and bullied for things he had no control over. Being kind should NOT come with a pat on the back. It should just come.

Now, as mother who loves and advocates for a son who in some ways is "different" just like Melvin, I see the way kids don't see him. I see the way some kids look the other way, you know the old "lets pretend we didn't see him trick" that fools no one...not even Ryan. I've heard the snickers as he walks away because perhaps his "Hey Dude" sounded a little rehearsed, a little uncool. Ryan knows when it comes to socializing with his classmates he struggles which is why he often stays to himself. In fact, in a recent paper about a special event he attended, Ryan wrote, "According to all the other students' behavior and personality, making a friend would have been very simple, but, I didn't because I'm horrible with socializing." Yeah, he gets it, but, he is still trying.  

Sometimes though, there is a kid or two that goes out of their way to say, "Hey Ryan!" or gives him a high five as he walks past. I believe most of them are genuine in their kindness. I believe they think Ryan is a nice kid and in turn, they want to be nice too, but, there are times, I see the old me in their eyes. I can see that little glimmer of pride on their face, that says, "Wow, with all the pressure of being cool, I just said hi to the kid who isn't cool!" If they weren't so busy texting with both hands I believe many of them would reach behind and pat themselves on the back, just like I use to. I get it, they are kids who don't get it...yet, but, you can teach them.

You see, it's not just the kids patting themselves on the back. Sometimes I see that same look of pride in the faces of the parents when their child is kind to Ryan. "Awww, look how good my kid is, being nice to THAT boy who is so different" as they walk away patting themselves on the back for raising such a great kid. Why shouldn't your child be kind? Isn't everyone, regardless of their differences, entitled to kindness? Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful when anyone shows kindness to Ryan, just like I'm grateful when people are kind to Kyle, Emma or me, for that matter. Just because someone looks different, acts different, or smells different, does not mean a simple act of kindness towards them deserves a pat on the back. Being kind should not come with a pat on the back. It should just come. Lead by example.

Teach your kids that although kids who are different may not react to their kindness in a cool, socially acceptable way, kindness should still come...without a pat on the back.

I hate that it took me so long to figure this out and I wish I could have a do-over. I wish I could find Melvin today. I wish I could tell him how sorry I am for all the times I saw him, but didn't. I wish I would have seen Melvin and not his sweater, his pants, and his glasses. I wish I could give Melvin a box of crayons just because I wanted him to have them not because I thought it was "the right thing to do". I wish I would have let Melvin sit with me on the bus regardless of how many days it had been since he bathed and not plugged my nose which would have made my kindness more about him and less about me. I wish I could go back and give Melvin the pat on the back he needed rather than the pat on the back I felt I deserved. I wish I had the maturity and awareness as a child that I do today as an adult. Mostly though, I wish nothing but unrewarded, unrecognized kindness for Melvin and all the other Melvins in the world.

​Being kind should not come with a pat on the back. It should just come.