​This was the toddler who could not wear hats or mittens and who struggled with the change of seasons because that meant wearing different or new clothes. The little boy who wore the same doctor's costume (shirt only) for three Halloween's in a row because costumes and change were terrifying.
 
This was the elementary student who sat alone at lunch and stood by the door at recess afraid of thunderstorms, bugs and the possibility of an ill-fated social encounter.
 
This was the middle schooler who almost didn't audition for Chambers Singers because it was new and taking risks was too much for him to handle. The middle schooler who couldn't wear cargo shorts and khaki pants like all the other kids because his body just wouldn't allow it.
 
This was a new high school freshman who felt like he was invisible and that no one knew he existed within the walls of his high school. The freshman who believed he had no future because he is autistic.
 
This is a teenager who still worries about taking risks (because sometimes things don't go as you plan), but, overcame that worry and took a risk by auditioning for his high school musical where he has never danced a step in his life. A teenager who once felt like he didn't belong yet now declares his fellow cast members "family". A teenager who told his directors and his parents that he has "never felt so confident and proud of himself in his entire life" as he did tonight on that stage taking risks.
 
This is my autistic son. Crushing stereotypes, destroying fallacies, proving "experts" wrong and showing every single person on that stage and in that audience the real meaning behind, "different, not less". The most important person he proved that to, was himself.
 
The lady clinging to this teenager is his mother. A mother who felt her face would crack from smiling every time he walked onto that stage. A mother who remembers the toddler that struggled with change, the little boy who was so worried and anxious, the middle schooler who wanted to find his place, and the new freshman who felt so isolated and hopeless. A mother who now sees a teenager demonstrating confidence, pride and joy in a way the two of them once only dreamed about, by taking a risk, by stepping way outside his comfort zone and by believing in himself.

A wave of nostalgia swept over me as we drove past my 15 year old son’s former daycare on a cold, dreary January day. It seems like just yesterday I was dropping off my boys (and most of paycheck) to that glorious setting where they were cared for and loved, but, in reality, those days have disappeared as quickly as the snowflakes hitting my windshield. As I lingered at the stop sign deep in my melancholy, the building and the time it represented, left me wishing I could go back, if only for a moment.
 
I glanced over at my son, sitting next to me in the passenger seat staring out the window. The look on his face, although a face now more mature, wearing glasses and in desperate need of a shave, still looked the same. He looked deep in thought, almost concerned, as he stared out the car window and just like I did all those years ago when he was a toddler tucked safely in his car seat staring out the window of the back seat, I wished I knew what he was thinking.
 
I smiled as I pointed at his old daycare playground. “That’s where you use to play when you were little”, I reminded him. He looked in the direction of the playground, but, didn’t say a word. Then I recalled another wish I had in those early day. I wished every single day, as I approached that very same playground at pick up time, that just once I would not find him playing alone. I felt that same ache in my chest as I did back then.
 
Pushing that ache to the side, I snuck another peak at my boy, who still hadn’t responded, but, was staring out at the playground as if trying to remember when exactly he played there and with whom. It was a long lonely time ago…for me.
 
I had so many wishes back then, when I felt something was “wrong” with my son, but, had yet to see all that was “right”. In fact, there were times that I probably spent more time wishing than I did doing.  As I watched the daycare, the playground and my son’s childhood slowly disappear in the distance, I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I had no doubt the wishful face all those years ago looked younger and less wrinkled than it does today, but, the face staring back at me now is wiser, more educated, more aware and spends much less time wishing and much more time doing.
 
Ryan and I spent the rest of the ride, as we almost always do, in comfortable silence, so my brain had plenty of time to reflect on how my wishes have changed over the past ten years. And here are a few that popped into my head as we drove quietly along:
 
My wishes then:
 
For him to fit in.
 
For him to “be like everyone else”. (Most guilt-ridden wish. Ever. I'm sorry Ryan.)
 
For “it” not to be autism.
 
For him to eat more than one thing.
 
For him to never need a haircut, his teeth cleaned or a strep test.
 
For him to talk to me.
 
For him to know how very much I love him
 
For him to connect with me.
 
For him to connect with his brother.
 
For him to tell me about his day.

For him to say “I love you” just once after the fifty times a day I told him.
 
My wishes now:
 
For him to feel confident and comfortable wherever he is.
 
For him to be exactly who he is and NEVER be anyone other than that.
 
For people to understand “it” (autism) does not define him.
 
For him to feel happy and loved.
 
For him to be accepted.
 
For him to find success, in his way, in his time.
 
For him to believe in himself as much as I do.

For others to take the time to see how fabulous he is.

For the world to be more accepting of different.

For me to know then what I know now.

For me to go back in time and realize that most of my wishes then, were just that, MY wishes, not Ryan's.

Some wishes don't come true. And for that I am so grateful. Because you see, most of those wishes I had for Ryan then, weren’t really for Ryan, they were for me. Ryan did show me his love, even though he may not have said it. Ryan was connecting with his brother, he just didn’t connect the way I expected him to. Ryan was eating the only food his body would allow, not trying to drive his mother crazy. And dental cleanings and strep tests really do suck.

It’s ok to wish, and I still do, but, you really do have to be careful what you wish for, but, most importantly WHO you are wishing for. Today, I make sure that the wishes I have for my son are HIS wishes because those are the only wishes that really matter...then and now.

Birth: ​"The act or process of bearing or bringing forth offspring."

 I don’t know about you, but, when my kids were born it didn’t feel like “bearing” or “bringing forth” anything, it felt like someone ripped a tiny human being out of my body. Oh, wait, that's EXACTLY what happened.
 
Birth, they say is the easiest pain to forget. Well, I call bullshit. I totally remember that pain…even with an epidural.
 
Four years ago today, I gave birth to The AWEnesty of Autism and yeah, sure maybe using the word "birth" is an exaggeration, but, there were times, bearing my soul felt like something was being ripped from my body. Although I may have a flair for the dramatic, I do recognize that “bringing forth a blog” is NOT like having a human ripped from your body, but, there are quite a few similarities.

Just like most of us before we decide to bring forth offspring, we put some thought into it. We recognize the impact it will have on our lives, the responsibility, the love and the nurturing we must provide in hopes that our offspring will do good in this world. Before I started this blog, I wrestled with the responsibility and the impact my words would have on others and I wanted to make sure, just like with any of my human children I gave birth to, when I bore this blog, that I did everything I could do make sure something good would come from it.

After we have mulled over the good (loving someone unconditionally) and the bad (goodbye bar hopping) to this whole birth thing and we decide to go for it, the actual birth hurts like hell and while enduring that pain we start to wonder, “What the hell was I thinking?” I have to be AWEnest, digging into the depths of my heart and mind reliving moments that were so hard for Ryan and for me hurt like hell too, but, this time, no one was around to give me that beautiful epidural. I kept telling myself, just like I did in childbirth, "It will be worth it".

After you bring forth that child, you start second guessing every move you make. OMG, will he hate his name one day (at some point, yes)? Should I have made my own organic baby food (Hell, no)? Will this preschool increase his chances of getting into Harvard (Hell, no)? As with my children, I do a lot of second guessing with each and every word I type on my blog and on AWEnesty's Facebook Page. I worry that this belief may impact this person negatively or these words may give false hope to these people. I feel a sense of responsibility for this blog as I do for the actions of each of my kids. Just like raising an offspring you want to make sure you do your best to ensure your children do more good than harm and when mistakes are made, you can only hope that forgiveness will follow.

Here is the kicker though. Whether it was after a few glasses of wine or a very thought out plan, after a decision is made to bring forth an offspring into the world, although there are times you may feel alone, like when you are up nursing your baby for the fifth time and your husband is snoring loudly next to you and you fight the urge to suffocate him with your pillow, you really aren't. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and it does. Most of us have family, friends, teachers, doctors and other mom friends who impact our decisions as we raise our children after you bore your offspring. "Raising" a blog is no different.

Thanks to all of you, I have been able to bring forth this blog into the world, and you all have played a part to make sure I am making the best decisions as I raise it. Whether it's words of encourgament, criticism or helping me see another point of view, you are helping my "offspring" make a difference in the lives of the people it touches. I could not have done any of this without all of you...my village.

So, thank you. Thank you for four years of sharing, advocating and raising awareness. Thank you for inspiring me, inspiring others and inspiring hope. Thank you for helping Ryan and me teach, "different, not less". This whole birth experience and the years that followed would have been a lot more painful without all of you. Who needs an epidural when you have a village?

AWEnestly, I still would take the epidural...and all of you. 

I must have missed the casting call notice. The part was made for me, well except that the story takes place in England and my accent is more Central PA than British, but, damn, I know I would have nailed the part. I could totally see me in some fabulous Chanel dress with Christian Louboutin shoes accepting my Emmy award, but, I missed my opportunity.

Trust me, I know the part by heart. 

I've been watching The a Word on Sundance TV. It is powerful, well done, insightful and really, really hard to watch. I feel like Alice innocently glancing in the looking glass to just check my hair and accidentally falling, crashing back in time, to a time I never wanted to revisit again, wanting to look away but knowing I can't. 

The mother in the show is me....ten years ago with a really cool British accent. As I watch her grapple with the denial, heartache and fear of hearing The A Word, I swear I feel my heart racing and I start to sweat.

"OMG, yes!" or "I did that too!" or "You've got it all wrong!" were all expressions coming from behind my bedroom door, along with the occasional sound of quiet weeping. The past all too painfully real. I text my friend, who also could have been the mom cast in the role, and I ask her why the hell we are watching this show and subjecting ourselves to this all too familiar time in our past! Neither one of us responded...we were too busy being sucked into the looking glass.

The A Word will suck you in, wring you out and have you tuning in again next week wondering why you just don't turn on The Bachelor in Paradise instead. You will see yourself in the mother. You will see your child in the young boy. You will see your family members in the cast of family members portrayed on the show. You will understand these reasons why I believe that role of the mother was mine...or my friend's...or yours, if only we were to brush up on our British accent:

1. We know the denial that often initially comes with The A Word. At first, some of us refuse to see "it" and we think, "it" is just a stage or that he will outgrow "it". Then finally when we believe there is more to "it", and we actually hear The A Word, we wonder if "it" is a mistake. I mean, after all, there is no blood test to confirm "it" so let's go see someone else and see what THEY say. "It" was easier to say than "autism". Just ask the mom who stole my role.

2. We are so familiar with the excuses that explain away their persistent and obsessive love with (insert anything here from music to dinosaurs to trains to electric fans) that we would not have needed a script. Our facial expressions would be so real and so compelling when at first we believe their obsessive interest is "so cute" that other cast members would wonder where we studied our art of acting.

3. We all can feel the fury, the rage when "experts" tell us all the things our child won't ever do, that we are bound and determined to prove said experts wrong. There would not need to be any retakes of this scene as we have all lived it before.

4. We have all rummaged through our child's backpack convincing ourselves that the party invitation that every child in class received must be stuck in a book or a folder as we turn the backpack upside down shaking out all it's contents.

5. We know the hurt that comes when we realize that the invitation isn't lost. We feel the seething anger directed at the parents who decide it's ok NOT to include our child when we have always included their booger picker, their mean girl and their bully.

6. We relate to the primal, maternal instinct to protect our child and have considered, or actually pulled them, out of a school because that instinct to protect told us it was for the best. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn't.

7. We remember the shame we felt for wanting to hide the diagnosis because we kept hoping they were wrong and "it" was something he would outgrow. Along with the shame came all consuming guilt of constantly comparing our child to every other child on the playground, in the classroom, on the street.

8. We are all too familiar with wanting to find the next best treatment, the next best expert in hopes that The A Word would disappear or at the very least, make him seem more "normal".

9. We remember the strain The A Word put on our relationships with others and our desire or need to pull away from those who didn't get it.

10. We are all to familiar with experts watching our interactions with our child as we second guess our every move feeling certain the expert will tell us we are doing it all wrong.

11. We know the look of disappointment in our other children's faces when we are so consumed with their sibling that they feel less important and the overwhelming guilt that follows the look.

12. We recognize the heartache that others can't see all that is right instead of focusing on what they believe is wrong. And often at the top of that list, was the person reflected in the looking glass.

Yes, the part should have been mine...or my friend's...or yours.

As I sat down to watch the third episode of The a Word (wondering what freaking channel Bachelor in Paradise is on), it is no longer Morven Christie playing the role of Mum, it is me. It is me hiding by the school playground praying he will not play alone. It is me shaking out the contents of his school backpack certain the birthday party invitation that didn't come in the mail must be stuck in a folder hiding in his backpack. It is me scanning the web for something, anything to help him. And it is me sitting across the table in a psychologist's office when she finally says The A Word trying to convince myself (and her) that she must be wrong. 

After the show ends, I text my friend. I tell her the reason we watch the show, the reason we can't pull away from the looking glass, is because we can see how far we have come. The reflection of who we once were has changed and although it's easy to see ourself in that role, we have moved beyond it. Sure, we may have a few more grey hairs and a few more wrinkles then we did back then, but, we are proud of who we see today.

Most importantly though, we are proud to be cast as the role of Mum for our extraordinary boys and all they have taught us about their world and ours, knowing that they are teaching us and others that the only A Word that matters is Acceptance.