I spent over an hour looking for it. I searched in the kids' closets, in the abyss that we call the basement (where the once beloved toys go to await a yard sale or a trip to Goodwill) and in our “formal" living room” (where the toys that are still occasionally played with remain). I was determined to find the object of my search. Imagine if I were as unwavering in my cleaning and organizing as I were in my searching how much easier it would be to find said object, or any object for that matter!

I refused to give up I because I knew it was somewhere.  “It” was a bag of wooden toy blocks tucked away and long since forgotten with two teenagers and a preteen in the house. My best friend’s 1 year old was coming to play and as her "auntie", I was determined to have a fun playdate and that meant finding the missing bag of blocks among the forgotten dolls, dinosaurs and Legos.

Then, finally, I saw the purple handle sticking out from under a pile of mittens that my teenage wannabe drops on the floor due to her 8th percentile height that leaves her unable to reach the mitten bin on the top shelf. I pulled it out, scraped off the dog hair and dust bunnies (sorry sweet Peaches) and relished in my victory and dogged determination at my discovery. I put the bag with the other toys I dug out (literally) and finally went to bed.

The next day, when my friend’s beautiful girl came to play, I was ready. At first her inquisitive eyes and grabby little hands were set on the various toys that lit up and made noises. She went from item to item pushing buttons and clapping each time she pushed the magic button, so proud at her amazing discoveries. My goodness she is a delight!

As toddlers are wont to do, she quickly left any and all toys behind and went to the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. Since my days of child proofing are long gone, I wanted to distract her with something that would not poison her. "The blocks!"

I quickly went to the bag and dumped the blocks on the floor as I sang out her name. I had no idea the impact those scattered blocks all over my family room floor would have on me. In an instant, a long forgotten memory that was tucked as far away in the darkness of my brain as the blocks were in our hall closet, hit me. Hard.

The benign wooden blocks, in various colors and shapes scattered among the light up toys, took me back 12 years. There in my memory, along with the blocks, was my son, aged 3, on the floor playing. Unlike my bestie’s daughter, he was not picking up the blocks and making sweet block music, nor was he crashing down each and every tower I built, instead he was rolling all over the blocks that lay scattered on the floor.
 
Ryan would scatter the blocks on the carpet, almost making a trail of blocks, then he would roll on top of the blocks from one end of the pile to the other, seeking sensory input that his body was unable to receive in the way you and I can. From the sharp, pointy triangles, to the smooth half-moon circles, Ryan did not discriminate. Each block provided different sensory sensations to his body, and by the giggles and smiles it was clear that those sharp and smooth edges felt glorious. 

At first I thought it was funny, but, the more I watched him, the more it worried me.  I knew this was not "normal". I remember trying to redirect him. "Ryan, look what Mommy built!" "Do you want to knock it down?" But, my son, who at times appeared deaf to his name, just continued to roll away. Not caring at all about what was the "right" or “normal” way to play with wooden blocks, Ryan found his way, and his was was “right” for him.
 
My revere was broken when my bestie's daughter yelled, “wooo” as the next block tower crashed to the ground while she clapped happily at this fun game of cause and effect. Then she picked up two blocks and clacked them together (blocks are quite musical). While she enjoyed her musical blocks, I built another tower and waited, and sure enough, CRASH, she toppled the blocks to the ground again. As I applauded her victory, in what I once believed was the “right” way to play with blocks, I longed for the chance to go back in time with my young son and roll over those blocks letting him know that his way was “right” too.
 
Yeah, I know, beating myself over the head with a bag of blocks isn’t going to change what was, but, those blocks acted as a reminder to allow my son to “play” in a way that is comfortable for him. For example, my suggestion to have an end of the year pool party for the cast in the musical as a way to increase his social opportunities, may seem “right” to me, but, it clearly does not seem “right” to him. He has no plans of playing that way. There are other ways to engage him socially without making him feel nervous and overwhelmed.
 
As a parent loving a child with autism, there is a fine line between showing your child what is “typical” and making them feel and be someone they are not.  Just like I crossed the line with those stupid blocks all those years ago, I know I have crossed it many, many more times since then. I hope that my son knows that just like blocks don’t come with instructions on how to play “right”, parenting doesn’t come with instructions either and sometimes we get it wrong.
 
Over the years, my son and I have taught each other how to play and neither way is “right”, sometimes, how we play is just different. My bestie’s beautiful girl may have played with the blocks just like I expected her to, however, when she climbed on top of the little toy table (which I also found in the bowels of my basement) that I set out for us to color on, I couldn't help but smile at the irony. This adorable neurotypical toddler did not play with the table "right", after all, tables aren't for standing on, however, climbing on top of that table felt “right” to this little daredevil more than scribbling with a tasty crayon she'd preferred to chew on than draw with. And in her mind, and mine, she was not wrong.

"Play:  engage in activity for enjoyment and recreation rather than a serious or practical purpose."

Yep. Guess I missed that twelve years ago.

There is always THE group. THE crowd. THE posse of friends that have such a tight circle surrounding them that very few "get in". We can all regress for a moment back to our teens and picture THEM standing in their circle. Maybe you desperately wanted in, but, refused to admit it. Maybe you tried unsuccessfully to penetrate the impenetrable fortress like walls of this desired circle, only to be rejected time and time again. Maybe you were one of the ones afraid to try, admiring the circle from a distance as you watched one person after another bounce off those tightly enclosed circular walls only to walk away dejected and embarrassed for even making an attempt. Or maybe you were the minority. The one who didn't want "in" the one who thought being "in" was so "out". Bravo to you.

​Regardless of which category you fell under, chances are, you knew which circles you belonged in and which ones you didn't. These so called social circles start as early as grade school and last well into adulthood. I'd imagine even in the nursing home there is a coveted circle that the elderly desperately want to get in. I think the hardest time to find your circle though, has to be the early teen years when you are trying to figure out exactly who you are, and if a circle is even the shape you are looking for, which one fits you best.

As a teenager, there are many circles, each one having their own size, their own walls and their own people occupying the circle. Some circles are easier to get into and some are not. There is the athlete's circle and unless you can catch, throw, run, jump, skate, or dance, chances are good they won't let you in. There is the geek circle that only allows kids with a certain GPA and a specific number of Honors courses on their transcript to break through these walls. There is the rich kids circle and entrance to this circle is based on the clothes you wear, the car that drops you off in car line and the neighborhood where you hang those clothes and park that car. There are endless circles each with specific entrance criteria. Sometimes the circle fill up quickly and chances are if you weren't in the circle before the circle closed, you may not ever get in.

​What if, as a parent, you had a child that you thought didn't even know the circles existed? A child whom you believed didn't see the circles at all, therefore, never really felt bad that virtually every circle was closed to him and he was left standing alone outside the circle. That because of an autism diagnosis, and his diminished social awareness, you hoped and prayed he wasn't aware that the people standing within the various circles didn't believe he quite fit into any one. What if the circle's inhabitants saw your child as a square whose different edges would not allow him to fit within the confines of any circles, but, because you believe he didn't see these differences, you thought it was no big deal?

​Then one day, you realize he has seen the circles...across the cafeteria, standing around the lockers, hanging out at the high school football game and he has wondered what it would be like to be in, but, recognizes he is out. He is older and wiser now and understands what he has been missing being alone on the outside of the circle. He recognizes that his differences make it hard to even know where to begin to try and break through any one of circles to find one that fits. Then everything you believed, everything you held onto crumbles and you begin to wonder if you were in fact blind to the circles, not him. You may even begin to wonder if you were blind to him and the circle he has spent years building around himself.

​When Ryan was little, I use to worry that he wanted friends, that he wanted in the circle, any circle. Then one day, he told me, he didn't have any friends and that it didn't make him "sad at all". So, I stopped putting my wants for him in check and started seeing the circle the way he did, a nondescripts shape that he had no desire to enter.

​I spent years trying to help Ryan make friends, then I spent years believing he didn't really "want" friends. Until two weeks ago when someone opened a circle and Ryan clearly wanted "in". He just needed to know how to step through the open circle and somehow make it feel like he fit. We practiced what to talk about, what to say, how trying to "fit in" might feel and all the things about him that made him worth being a part of any circle. It took an invite to a party and the conversations that followed to make me finally see the circle that mattered the most. The circle that Ryan created. A circle big enough for only one.

​Ryan spends every weekend alone. I'm not telling you that to garner sympathy for me as his mom or to make you feel sad for him, it's just a fact. It's hard to know if Ryan prefers to be alone or if being alone is just easier. I think it is a mix of both. Over the years, I have tried to intervene. Sometimes with success (short periods of time with a specific plan and a "safe" friend) and sometimes with less success ("When is he going to leave?").

​Ever since we first heard The A Word, I have lived with the fear that Ryan will spend his life alone, no circle ever opening for him and never letting anyone in the circle he created for himself. Ryan is protective of his circle because when he lets others in, it gets confusing for him. There are social nuances, slang, facial expressions and body language he doesn't quite pick up on and that makes him feel like the circle is closing in on him thus making his circle feel unsafe. However, in recent months, I have watched him take risks and step outside his circle. I see him looking in to other circles and wondering if there is one that will make room for him. I also see him considering making room for others in his circle.

​I understand now that Ryan has always seen the circles, but, until he was ready, the circles didn't hold much shape for him. From things we have discussed and changes in his behavior, I believe now more than ever, Ryan longs to break through a circle and find one that fits. The desire to be included is there. 

​It's easy to point the fingers at others and say, "they won't let him in", but, Ryan and I have discussed that maybe the first thing he needs to do to find a circle, is to let someone into his. To open his self-enclosed circle long enough to let someone in so they can see all that is amazing and unique inside his circle. It is only then, when he finally lets others in, that they may reciprocate.

​I know that Ryan is considering opening his circle. I believe he will open it, if and when, he is ready. And I know that as his mom, the one person he occasionally allows to enter his circle, that no matter how hard it is, I need to step away from his circle and let him decide who is worthy to enter. Not too far away though. Never, ever too far away.

I grew up across the street from what I deemed my "second family". This family built a house right across the road when I was four years old. My family had five girls, their family had three girls. We were never at a loss for doll babies, Barbies and tea cups. I practically lived at their house, when they weren't living at mine.

Even though I was young, I remember the first time I met what would become my "second family" on their grandparents' farm, which was "up the lane" from my house. As I have aged and my memory has been inundated with Spongebob's cackle, Dora's Spanish lessons, and teeny bopper show laugh tracks, I don't remember too many details of that first meeting all those years ago. Long forgotten are such specifics as what the girls were wearing, if they had lost any baby teeth yet, if they were nice, shy, or funny, but, one memory that is still engrained in my aging brain, is the image of their father. Yes, even after years of Spongebob, Thomas the Tank Engine, Dora, and the Teletubbies, my brain can still see him on the wooden porch smiling and sitting...in his wheelchair and I'm sure like any child, I stared. 

Although I had been raised properly and told not to stare at people's differences, I'm sure I did. It was the first time I had ever seen anyone missing limbs and in a wheelchair and like most children, I did not do everything I was told. Sadly, even though adults know better, sometimes they don't do as they are told either. And sometimes their words, their actions hurt.

My neighbor was a war hero who lost both legs in a trench in Vietnam. Prosthetics have come a long way in the past 40 years. Back in the 70's there were no fancy, high tech, bionic looking legs that could be covered with a pair of pants and a matching shoe, so, many disabled vets returned home from Vietnam in wheelchairs. Their differences, their "disabilities" visible for all to see.

Even as a child, it didn't take me long to realize that there was so much more to my neighbor than his wheelchair. His disabilty paled in comparison to his abilities. After awhile, I no longer saw the wheelchair, I only saw him.

Perhaps that experience at such an early age taught me to look past my son's autism, past his "disability" and see him. Trust me, I'm perfectly aware that an autism diagnosis, a pervasive developmental disorder, is not the same as a physical disability. That's like comparing apples to oranges, but, believe it or not, some folks like to compare. They can't tell the difference between an apple and an orange, or at least they don't care enough to look past the labels and see anything other than two round fruits. So, before you start blasting me about comparing my neighbor's struggles to my son's struggles and telling me "that's like comparing apples to oranges", well, you are preaching to the choir. Unfortunately, not everyone is sitting in the choir with me.

Not long ago, when I was discussing Ryan's autism and a particularly bad day he recently experienced, someone (who happens to be familiar with the physical difficulties a person in a wheelchair endures, but, takes little time to understand autism), said to me, "I don't really feel sorry for Ryan. At least he's not in a wheelchair." Wow. 

I was initially dumbfounded and mumbled something like, "you can't even compare the two". Looking back, I wish I would have had an apple or an orange (wouldn't have mattered at all) to shove in their mouth and said all of this....

First and foremost, Ryan does not want anyone's sympathy or pity. Most days he is happy in his own skin. Second, just because Ryan's disability isn't visible, just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. This invisible disability doesn't make Ryan's difficult times any easier or his heartache any less just because you can't see it or because "he isn't in a wheelchair". Apples to oranges.

Yes, Ryan can easily jump up and sprint down our stairs (he actually sort of crashes down the stairs) when it's time for a few Vanilla Oreos without any special accomodations in our home. However, Ryan does need accomodations when it comes to learning at school because although he "looks fine" his brain processes information differently.

Ryan has two perfect working legs that can walk, run, and jump. He is strong and more than capable of running away from the bully in the school yard. Yet, when Ryan was being bullied for two years, due to his language deficits, he was unable to find the words to tell me.

Although Ryan could physically run up to a group of friends on the playground and say, "Hey guys, want to play some basketball?", he doesn't and chances are pretty high that he won't. Communicating with friends and initiating a conversation is very difficult due to the way autism impacts his social skills and his social awareness.

Even though Ryan is big enough and strong enough to knock over several defensive lineman and could physically become an outstanding football star, he won't. The pads, the equipment, the shouting and even the grass are too much for his overloaded sensory system to handle.

Yes, autism does make some things more difficult for Ryan, but, there are so many more things that come quite easily to him. I know that, Ryan knows that and we are both incredibly grateful. We both recognize that there are others who have struggles far greater than Ryan. We do not compare apples to oranges.

An autism diagnosis may be a disability that you can't see, but, for Ryan, that's ok because just like anyone with any type of disability, be it an apple or an orange, Ryan wants you to accept him, to see him and to see his abilities and not his disability.

Yes, sadly, sometimes even adults "don't know better" and they say ignorant and hurtful things. I'm sure just like Ryan, my neighbor had heard his fair share over the years. 

And although my neighbor may have spent the past 45 years with a disability which required a wheelchair to get through life, that did not keep him from living. He may have gone through most of his adult life unable to stand on his own, but, his abilities, his successes and his happines stand for themselves. The proof lies in the faces of his beautiful children, grandchildren and great grandchild. I bet none of them see the wheelchair either.

When it comes to disabilities, comparing one disability to another is truly comparing apples to oranges. An apple is an apple. An orange is an orange. If all you ever concern yourself with is what those fruits are labeled and how they look on the outside without bothering to take the time to see what's on the inside, then you will miss the incomparable essence of them both.

The warmth of the sun on my face, the smell of hot dogs in the air, the twinge in my aging back from metal bleachers, the sound of laughter and shouts of "wear it" from voices that once belonged to boys and that now belong to men echoing off the dugout walls, and then finally, the crack of of the bat. Yes, baseball season is in full swing and after a winter that felt like it would never end, I for one, love it. 

As an old timer softball player married to an old timer baseball player, the ball field is a place of enjoyment for our family. My husband and I had both hoped with the birth of our first son, that the love of the game would be passed on in the gene pool. It didn't take long for our wishes to prove true. My oldest son, Kyle, has been throwing, catching, and hitting a ball since he was able to stand. In fact, his first full sentence at the age of 12 months (he is a gifted gabber like his mother), was,“Where da ball?”. 

As a junior on his high school Varsity baseball team, my first born has strangely become a starting left fielder. It's weird seeing him out there, because my son has spent his entire baseball career as a middle infielder, a position he could play in his sleep (well, not really, that would be rather dangerous).  Who knew the boy who loved to "turn two" would feel an even bigger rush throwing a kid out from left field at the plate? Regardless of where Kyle plays on his Varsity baseball team, or his Legion baseball team, to this mother, he has always been and will always be, my relief pitcher. 

Sometimes my ball player needs an inning or two to get the job done, and sometimes he is the closer. He steps up to the mound, throws three pitches and we have a victory in the record books. With college looming over the baseball diamond for my baseball player, I fear that without my back up, the seasons ahead could be long and lonely.

As with so many things in life, sometimes we need back up. The second string quarterback stands on the sidelines at the ready when the starting quarterback has thrown one too many interceptions. When the starting point guard pulls a hammy sprinting down court, you have the kid on the bench, anxiously waiting for the coach to give him the nod. The theater understudy, who has worked as hard as the lead actress memorizing her lines, anxiously awaits, and silently prays, that the lead gets laryngitis so the understudy finally gets her shot in the spotlight. And in baseball, you have the relief pitcher, the guy who comes in when the starting pitcher is worn out, has lost speed, or can no longer throw a strike. The relief pitcher, who is fresh and ready to go, steps on the mound, throws a curveball and saves the day.

As a mom, I am the starting pitcher. I play most of the game, regardless of the condition of my arm, or how tired I am, but, some days I need back up, especially when it comes to my middle son, Ryan, who has an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) diagnosis. Ryan is a smart, loving, wonderful 13 year old boy, but, some days, when I am tired, when I have thrown as many strikes as I can and I am still struggling to keep the lead, I need to take a seat on the bench.

I get up early, pack the same lunch EVERY SINGLE DAY, make sure the homework is done, email the teachers, check for bees, check for thunderstorms, check for scratchy tags in shirts, tie the shoes just so and get everyone where they need to be, inning, after inning. I may see more playtime, but, it is big brother who is called from the bull pen when I can no longer get the job done. Big brother is the one person, my younger son calls “friend” and the one person who is called in when I’m beat, broken, and can no longer throw the ball across the plate. 

Big brother gets the math that mom stopped understanding in 3rd grade. Big brother knows the teenage lingo and informs his little brother about what’s cool and what’s not. Big brother sees the next impending storm looming over the horizon and helps his little brother take cover. Big brother senses when the game is about to be lost and steps up to the mound, throws a few strikes and saunters back to the dugout with his biggest fan glowing in the victory.

As my oldest son, aka, my relief pitcher, quickly approaches the end of his junior year, with SAT’s, ACT's and college visits on deck, I know it won’t be long until he is “called up” and his little brother and I will be looking for back up. Like any parent, I will bask in the joy of this new game for my first born, but, I will stress over who can take his place on the roster. The playing field will change, but, I know my ball player will continue to check in when he is on the road. For now, with one more year of having my closer step up when I need to sit down, I will enjoy the crack of the bat, the smell of the hot dogs, the cheers from the stands, and the relief I have when my back up steps in and saves the game…on and off the field.

Back in the old vaudeville days, the section of seats way in the back, (aka, the cheap seats), where typically your rowdy, rude, hecklers sat, was known as the Peanut Gallery. Maybe these patrons were annoyed that they couldn't see the performers or the stage well. Maybe they were envious of those who could afford front row, orchestra seats, or maybe they were just rude, judgy folks whose ignorance allowed them to take pot shots at people trying to do their best. Whatever the reason, The Peanut Gallery patrons had a reputation for being critical and rude. A word of advice for those folks planning the Grammy's for next year. You may want to seat Kanye West in the Peanut Gallery, where it will take him much longer to storm the stage and embarrass someone (mostly himself) with his rudeness, heckling and ignorance. 

Since the Peanut Gallery seats typically had the worst view of the stage, it only stands to reason that the seats would be the cheapest seats in the house and that those sitting in the cheap seats, would be sold the cheapest snacks. Yep, you guessed it, those folks sitting in the Peanut Gallery were sold....peanuts. So, not only did these rude hecklers shout at the performers on stage, letting them know what a horrible job they were doing, every now and then, these Peanut Gallery patrons would chuck a peanut at one of the performers on stage. I have not had many opportunities to perform for a crowd on a live stage, but, none the less, I've had a peanut or two thwap me in the head over the years.

It's kind of ironic that the cheap seats in the Peanut Gallery are where most of the boos, heckles and criticism come from. After all, these seats are the farthest away from the stage, with the worst view of the performance, so with such a limited view, how can the Peanut Gallery patrons be so quick to judge? These Peanut Gallery patrons do not have an up close and personal view of the performers and typically, when seated in the cheap seats, they have a hard time taking in the entire scene on stage. Even with such a limited view, those in the Peanut Gallery criticize and heckle the loudest. I'd like to say that even if the boos and heckles came from the highly coveted box seats, it might be more acceptable because after all they have the best view of the stage, but, unless, you are on the stage, unless you are in the scene, it's probably best to keep your heckles, your boos, your judgement, and your peanuts to yourself. 

If you are a parent loving a child or an adult with autism, chances are good that you have had a peanut or two chucked at your head by someone in the Peanut Gallery. Typically, these peanuts are thrown by someone with a very limited view of the stage, a very limited awareness of the characters in the scene and someone who has never been on the stage with you. Sometimes, this heckler may be someone close to you, someone who may even have a better seat, a better view, but, this heckler still thinks your performance deserves a peanut or two to the head. Even if this someone has the best box seat in the house, and has a perfect view of you and your child, chances are good that they still have no idea what goes on behind the scenes, and even if they did, they would probably still throw peanuts at your head because they have never been on the stage. It's easy to be critical while sitting comfortably in the audience with little to no idea how much work has gone in to making the scene go off with or without a hitch. My advice? Practice throwing peanuts to score a good head shot to such rude audience hecklers.

When Ryan was younger, there were many snide remarks about our parenting from the Peanut Gallery. I would love to tell you that my aim was great back then and that every heckler wound up with a peanut shaped welt on the side of their head, but, sadly, I was not throwing peanuts yet. Back then, the hecklers got the best of me as I stood on the stage, the glow of the lights bathing me in self-doubt and fear. I think the hecklers could smell my fear as I stood on a stage, acting in a scene that felt surreal even to me. Autism was a new character to me, a character I had never shared a stage with before, so trying to find my place on the stage, trying to make the scene work, was scary and confusing, which sadly, only fed the fear and increased the heckling.

Back then, Denial, Guilt, and Clueless were on stage with me, and trust me when I tell you, we felt each and every peanut chucked at us from the patrons sitting in the Peanut Gallery. When hecklers in the cheap seats, with such a limited view, would witness a full blown sensory meltdown, that to the ignorant audience member looked remarkably like a tantrum, heckles like, "if he just had a little more discipline", or "if there were more time outs, more consequences, more grabs by the shirt collar, maybe you wouldn't have this problem" along with other critical remarks, felt like a peanut shooting machine gun against my transparent skin. 

Sometimes, even the quiet ones, in the good seats, without so much as a boo or a hiss out of them, would look at me and I felt the peanuts pelting off my head. You see, unlike Ryan, I can easily understand emotions conveyed from someone's eyes and I knew and felt the look of "Well, maybe if you just didn't give in to him all the time....". I recognized the condescending smile to my face and the eye roll to my back. Of all the heckles, of all the looks, my personal favorite heckle would come at meal time. Ryan's palate is dictated by the texture of every piece of food he puts in his mouth, so when I'm told by a heckler that, "He will eat it when he's hungry.", I kind of want to shove a handful of peanuts in their face....hard.


Even when I was on a stage filled with others, there were times, that I felt so terribly alone, questioning every move, every line and every choice I made and this made the hecklers' words, and their peanuts, feel more like a direct shot to my heart, than to my head.

Now, as a seasoned performer, I have learned over the years that even though I felt alone on that stage, I wasn't. I may not have known the other cast members personally that I was sharing a scene with, but, they knew what was going on in that moment on stage, and the work that went on behind the scenes to make the performance as successful as possible, regardless of what those in the Peanut Gallery may have observed. There isn't a parent loving a child with autism that I have met that hasn't felt heckled by someone in the audience, someone not on the stage, who has criticized their performance and had the occasional peanut chucked at their head. 

We may have all had that initial fear as we stepped on the stage with autism, we may have all felt the sting from each and every peanut, but, in time, we have learned that this is our stage, and how we act out each and every scene is for our child, not for the audience. Sure, every now and then a peanut thwacking me on the temple still hurts, but, my skin has gotten thicker with time, experience, and awareness. 

The folks in the Peanut Gallery, who have such limited views of the scene being played out before them, either due to a lack of awareness or due to a lack of concern, will always be ignorant, rude, and careless with their heckles, boos, and peanut tosses. It took me a while, but, I have learned that even if I were on that stage receiving an Academy Award for my performance, there will always be someone who thinks I don't deserve it, there will always be a Kanye West making me doubt that my performance is worthy of such an award. The difference now is that I am the one handing the Peanut Gallery patrons their cheap bag of peanuts to throw at will because now I know that the only person whose opinion really matters when it comes to my performance, is the one who has been standing on the stage with me all along.

Two funerals, three deaths, four days. No, that's not a clever name of a Hollywood movie and no, Hugh Grant was not there. "Two funerals, three deaths, four days" are six words that describe a crappy week for some people I really love.

No one likes to go to funerals. Funerals are sad. Funerals are depressing. Funerals are a reminder of our own mortality and how fleeting life really is. Even though we don't like to go to funerals, even though we don't want to go, and even though we try and contrive any excuse possible as a way not to go, most of us don something black and show up anyway because it is the "right" thing to do.

We may have ongoing battles in our head as to whether or not we should attend the funeral. "Well, I didn't know him that well, but, I use to work with his wife ten years ago." Or "I can't go, I have to ______ (insert any word here from "work", to "skydive", to "wrestle alligators") and the family probably won't expect me to go anyway." And my own personal, I hate funerals go to, "I think it's just for close family and friends.". Whatever battle wages on inside my head, "supporting the family" usually wins out for me, and off I go, dread in my heart, tissues in my hand.

As I attended my second funeral in four days last week, I watched the Funeral Director who has officiated every funeral I have attended since I was a child, and I wondered, how does he do it? Such sadness, day in and day out. Grieving families and friends tending to matters their hearts want nothing to do with, but, handling the affairs anyway because their brain insists they must. I guess Funeral Directors recognize what most of us try not to think about, that death is a part of life. Death is inevitable. Death happens to all of us. I'm not implying that Funeral Directors have a lack of compassion, in fact, to do that job, I think you would need to be very compassionate, but, I think you also have to see death in a much more concrete, literal way.

I believe like a funeral director, Ryan gets the black and white version of death. Death is a part of life. Death is a part of nature's life cycle. Death is inevitable. Death is gone. The ambiguity, the abstract ideas of death, well, that is much harder for Ryan to understand.

Last week, I had to share with Ryan the sad news of the death of our dear, kind, next door neighbor who always happily celebrated Ryan's triumphs with me and frequently eased my worried mother's heart, at his setbacks. Through my tears, I watched as Ryan's brain took in the information then he quietly laid his head on his knees. As tears pooled in the corner of his eyes, there were no questions, there were no words exchanged, there was just quiet understanding.

Later, when I asked Ryan if he wanted to attend the funeral services, with total panic and horror glimmering through his own watery eyes, he yelled, "No, I can't handle it Mom. My body can't handle it. Please don't make me go.". I calmed Ryan down and assured him that he did not have to go. Relief washed over his face, as his body visibly relaxed. Ryan told me, in no uncertain terms, that he decided he would "never attend another one of those for the rest of his life." AWEnestly, who can blame him? Wouldn't that be the choice we all would make, if it were as simple as not wanting to go?

Understanding and processing death is difficult for all of us. When you add the black and white, concrete, literal thinking of someone with autism, processing and understanding death is even tougher.  

In the movie, Temple Grandin, produced by HBO, Temple (played AWEsomely by the fabulous Claire Danes), asks the question most of us at some point and time have wondered, "Where do they go?". After seeing her favorite horse at boarding school die, Temple asks her teacher, "Where do they go?". The question comes up again, after watching cattle die at a slaughter house, "It was here, and now it's gone. Where does it go?". And yet again, at the funeral of her beloved teacher, Temple asks her mother, "Do you know where they go?". To which her mother says, "No". At that point, Temple decides to leave the funeral because in her concrete, literal thinking way, she declared, "I said goodbye when I saw him. He's not there. I've got him in my mind.". What a perfectly AWEsome, yet literal way to process death.

Many believe that people with autism do not feel empathy or sympathy. I have watched my son cry for people and pets who have died, and I have watched him shed tears and try and protect those who are left to live on, heartbroken in their grief. Ryan feels sympathy, how he displays his sympathy may not be what you expect though. 


Ryan's literal mind struggles with terms such as, "passed away" or "lost" and overhearing such words, in what appears a cold, rude manner, Ryan may say, "They are not lost, they are dead.". "Passed away" is ambiguous and "lost" is not "dead". These words surrounding death, make no sense to him. 

Although many tears are shed at a funeral or memorial service for someone who has died, there often are smiles and laughter over good times and memories being recalled by loved ones. That laughter may confuse Ryan since after all, death is gone, death is final, death is sad, so why are people laughing? The emotions that go along with grief can be confusing for someone who struggles to process the emotions of others and who struggles to read the various facial expressions and body language that are part of such an emotional time.

The two funerals Ryan has attended, I worried. I worried in Ryan's confusion to understand death, that he may say something inappropriate, like "Where do they go?". I worried that Ryan may behave in a way others would deem rude or disrespectful, like scripting a television show or video game in a silly voice rather than offering heartfelt condolences in his Ryan voice. There is a lot of hugging and touching at such a sad time, and Ryan does not care to be hugged by strangers. All of these things could lead others to believe that Ryan was demonstrating less than funeral appropriate behavior.

You see that confusion, that type of behavior, those comments may be acceptable if demonstrated by a young child, but, since you can't "see" autism, when such "inappropriate" or "wrong" behavior is displayed by someone who is "old enough to know better", it's hard as parent not to show others judging Ryan how "wrong" they are, even at a funeral. This is why I worried. Fortunately, at both funerals, Ryan proved me wrong and did his best to be patient, kind and sympathetic.

For many people when a loved one dies, religious and spiritual beliefs come into play, and these belief are equally as vague and abstract as the concept of death and dying. To try and explain a soul or heaven, something such a visual, literal person can't "see", is hard for them to understand. "If Jesus came back to life, why can't so and so?". "If God loved so and so, then why did He let them die?". Questions difficult to answer, answers difficult to understand.

I may not be able to answer all the questions that are circling in Ryan's brain when it comes to death, and I may not ever be able to answer the big question, "Where do they go?" in a way Ryan can fully understand, so rather than focus on where they "went", I try and focus on where they "are". I try to explain to my visual boy, with his photographic memory, that where those we lost are, is in our mind. We can still see them through pictures our brain took when we think back to a happy memory we have. And recalling those pictures, helps us miss them a little bit less. As I explained this, I watched my son's face light up, recalling the pictures he has stored in his amazing brain, of our beloved neighbor who always greeted Ryan with a warm smile, regardless of how many times she was ignored in return. I watched the confusion and sadness slowly fade away, being replaced with understanding and joy....and a picture in his mind.

I am ill-equipped to answer, "Where do they go?", however, I am equipped to answer where they "are". I can remind Ryan of all the places our friend or family member had been, of all the places we went together and of the all the good times we shared. I can assure Ryan that no matter how much time passes, we can always "see" them in the pictures lovingly stored in our mind and "feel" them in the love we have in our heart. Isn't knowing where they "are" comforting to our grieving, sad heart? 

As with so many things in life, even when it comes to death, trying to help Ryan and his AWEsome brain understand something so troublesome, I wind up being the one learning from him. 

Well, it's the week all of us middle age'ish (vomit) housewives have been waiting for since we turned the first page of Fifty Shades of Grey and wished our best friend got the flu and we were the one who stumbled into Christian Grey's multi-billion dollar empire. In just 24 hours, all of our Christian Grey necktie and Red Room of Pain fantasies (or horrors, depending on your perspective) come to life on the big screen in Fifty Shades of Grey, the movie. And while we sit with our girlfriends giggling and critiquing how "Jamie Dornan is soooo... not Christian Grey" or how we could have totally been a much better Anastasia than Dakota Johnson, our husbands will be anxiously awaiting our return from the theater. And depending on just how far the Motion Pictures Associations of America decides to go with this R Rating and how far your imagination can take you, you might be just as excited to get home to your man too, even if he doesn't own a helicopter....or a flogger (I don't want to know).

Don't worry folks, this blog post does not need an R Rating, nor does it come with a blindfold, riding crop or handcuffs (Sorry, I hope you are still reading) because although I loved reading (and I'm sure I will love watching) all about "fifty shades of f***ed up" Christian Grey and his various shades of painful pleasure, this is a PG Rated post, with zero shades of gray.  

Christian Grey may have been able to use his billions, his charm, and his charisma to blend black and white and come up with fifty shades of gray in order to blur the lines between right and wrong, good and bad, acceptable and unacceptable, pain and pleasure, but, I can AWEnestly say that Ryan, and many people living with autism, would find Christian's world of gray more disturbing than his Red Room of Pain. 

Gray is confusing. Gray is neither black or white. There are various shades of gray and these shades of gray change depending on various factors, such as lighting, point of view, and interpretation.

Ryan will never see the fifty shades of gray like Christian Grey does (Thank God. Although, allowing his parents to ride on his private yacht would have been nice.) because Ryan prefers a world that is black and white. Black and white is easier to understand. It's either black or it's white. Right or wrong. Lie or truth. Win or lose. Gray is left to interpretation. Gray is vague. Gray is not black OR white, it is black AND white. 

For Ryan, gray is baffling. Not being clear on what is right or wrong in a situation can make Ryan very anxious. Considering multiple perspectives, various options, and different points of views from situation to situation is extremely confusing. Ryan's black and white thinking makes him feel isolated in social situations where the world is filled with shades of gray. 

Many social rules vary from one situation to the next. Since autism already makes reading facial cues, interpreting body language, and understanding the idiosyncrasies of social language confusing, Ryan holds on to black and white thinking, because black and white makes perfect sense. Unfortunately, the reality is that most social situations are not black and white. Most social situations have various shades of gray, which makes interpreting those situations and responding in a socially appropriate way difficult. This struggle to understand the various shades of gray is why, most days, Ryan prefers to be alone in his black and white world. There is less room for error, less room for gray.

It's easy to understand why black and white makes more sense than gray. 

Truth or lie. "What do you mean it's okay to lie "sometimes"? Isn't a lie, a lie whether it's white, black or purple?"

Following the rules or not following the rules. "How can you bend the rules? Rules don't bend. It's a rule and rules tell you how to play the game, rules keep order, rules keep everyone in check, rules help determine what to do next, so you can't break rules or bend them." 

Helping or cheating. "Having another roll of the dice or taking another turn, is not helping someone learn how to play the game, it's cheating." (Chances are good if you "cheat" while playing Monopoly with Ryan you don't have to worry about being "flogged", you may, however, wind up with a Monopoly playing pieced embedded in your forehead.) 


Winning or losing. "There is no tie. Someone must win or lose. There is always a winner!" And God help you if you are the winner and Ryan is the loser. Just a heads up.

Right or wrong. Black or white. Zero shades of gray.

As black and white as the world may seem to those living with autism, unfortunately, I believe that more often it is the neurotypical folks who could benefit from a few shades of gray. Many times, those of us without autism see the world of autism in black and white. We see us and them. We see our way and their way. We see our world and their world. We see right and wrong. We see weird, not different. Very rarely, do we neurotypicals see the blurring of the black and white. We struggle to see the various shades of gray that might just help us understand that many people living with autism believe that they are in fact typical, and we are the ones who are not. 

Think about it, logically, black and white thinking makes sense. After all, a lie is a lie regardless of what color it is. Rules are made to be followed, not bent or broken. You either cheat or you don't. You are a winner or a loser, not a "tie-er". You are right or you are wrong. Black or white. Makes perfect sense.

I recognize that there are more than fifty shades of gray in the so called neurotypical world and in the world of autism, and trying to see everything in gray, black or white would really diminish the colors of all that we see in both worlds. Perhaps, in true Christian Grey form, we should throw on a blindfold and remove our sense of sight and try to feel what it might be like living in a black and white world. Perhaps removing our sight, will enhance our ability to feel and maybe then we neurotypicals will "see" that "we" may have it wrong and "they" may have it right. 

Perhaps somewhere between black and white is a shade of gray that helps us all understand that our differences make us who we are and that those differences are not right or wrong, good or bad, normal or abnormal, they are just various shades of gray. And even though it's hard for Ryan to see the gray, he is working on it. I just hope that the rest of the world works on it too. 

Ryan may not be able to see fifty, forty, or even ten shades of gray, but, if he can see one, if he can try and see your perspective, your point of view, your "gray", than hopefully you can see his too. Hopefully, you can see and accept this shade of gray without having to be flogged, tied up or whipped. Unless of course you are into that sort of thing (I don't want to know).

Well, I did it. I blinked. Yep, I had been warned not to, multiple times, but, I did it anyway and in the nanoseconds it took me to blink, my boy grew up. Not all the way up. Not so grown that he can vote, order a beer with his grilled cheese sandwich at Red Robin, or fill out a W-2 form, but, grown up enough that there are times I wish I had listened to those doomsdayers and propped my eyelids open so I would not in fact, blink.

"It goes by so fast", people decades older than me would say when they looked longingly at my beautiful little Ryan as a tiny baby.  "He will be grown in the blink of an eye", chimed the old folks who wistfully saw their own, now grown baby in the face of my son. "Enjoy them while they are young", they would shout as their own happy memories went careening through their mind in a "blink of an eye".
 
At the time I thought, "What a bunch of negative naysayers!". However, now, I realize that these folks had already blinked and they saw moments that were still ahead for me, but, were gone for them. So, why not ruin my joy for 10 seconds, right?! Back then, I thought these naysayers were ridiculous. I thought they were exaggerating. I certainly thought that an eye took much longer to blink, than 300-400 milliseconds, but, alas, as usual, this young'in was wrong, and my curmudgeonly, naysaying elders were right. The knew because they had blinked.

Funny thing is, although my heart breaks at the thought of my "babies" growing up and leaving me, through some of Ryan's childhood moments I swear I intentionally blinked rapidly, almost a self defense mechanism that put me and my friend Denial in the dark. I would repeatedly blink...open, shut, open, shut...wanting "this" moment, "this" phase", "this" difficult period to end and move on quickly to the next one. I would blink because I worried about how long "this" phase would last, what others thought when they witnessed "this" phase, and how long good old mom could handle "this" phase before I went through my own phase at a quiet, secluded, heavily medicated, location.

Now, as I look back, and can see for myself how quickly it's all going, I want to super glue my eyelids open. I blink (because my brain tells my eyes to do so) and then I think, WTF?! "WTF", an equally quick, abbreviated acronym that I say quietly inside my head almost as frequently as I blink, but, not nearly as frequently as my sweet little boy, turned teenager says....out loud.

It's true how quickly life passes by and sadly, you can't super glue your eyelids open, you really do have to blink (for a whole host of medical reasons that I can't get into here because I'm too dumb). I swear in this day of modern technology, the blinking has become faster, the pace quicker and the time on hyper-speed, all things my wise elders also warned me about. In this tech savvy day of texting, we are so hurried that in the blink of an eye, we can abbreviate a sentence and eliminate the swear word (WTF, WTH, GTFO, HS). We can shorten a hearty laugh to (LOL, LMFAO) and we can hurriedly abbreviate an expression of love (ILYSM, XOXO). In our attempt to blink quickly and move on, we often don't take the time to really swear when we need to, laugh when we can, and love when we feel it.

If I'm AWEnest, there were many times as we traversed the new, uncharted territory of autism that I did not want to feel so much, and would have loved an abbreviated shortened version of my emotions, but, since texting chat wasn't even known to me, I just tried to blink quickly instead. 

Even though Ryan took his good old time when it came to potty training, I couldn't blink fast enough to get through it. The shirt chewing and the remove every tag that could possibly be felt anywhere phase, destroyed many a shirt, so I tried to blink away that phase in order to have a little money left for retirement. The echoing like a parrot phase was so frustrating for both of us because Ryan couldn't communicate what he wanted and so I couldn't determine his needs and this frustration caused warp speed blinking. And although I would not want to relive those phases, I'm now smack down in the middle of the "WTF" stage. Blink, blink, blink, blink.

Back when Ryan refused to go number 2 on the potty, or stop chewing his shirts or only answered my question with my question, all I could think was, "When will this pass?" and "Why can't he be like everyone else?". Maybe not the best Mom of the Year thoughts, but, they were AWEnest thoughts none the less. Now, today, with Ryan's abbreviated, text like teenage language, I got my wish...sort of.

This WTF'ing has been happening as frequently, and as quickly, as a blink of the eye. And if I must say, in a shameful somewhat braggish sort of way, for a boy who sometime struggles with communication and finding the right words, Ryan uses WTF quite appropriately. A dropped Jello Vanilla Pudding on the floor, "WTF?!". A missing homework assignment that is due tomorrow. "WTF? It was right here!" as he scavenges his bedroom in search of the missing paper. A photo of our friends' adorable tiny white dog leaving the groomer with purple chalk colored ears, "WTF happened to Ruby?!" (after a disclaimer that he knows he shouldn't say WTF, but, well, the situation called for it). I guess I should be grateful there is an abbreviated form of swearing that enables my son to follow the rules of not swearing yet still makes him take pride in the fact that he looks and sounds like all the other teenagers. 

I've tried to explain to my literal language interpreter that even though he is not actually saying f***, the (F)*** in WTF is implied, therefore, it kind of is like swearing. "No, it's not! I didn't say a swear word!" and technically, literally he didn't....he hasn't.....and chances are....he won't. So, WTF do I do?

I guess instead of going back to my old ways of trying to blink this somewhat uncomfortable (albeit appropriately used and kind of funny) phase away, I need to heed the advice of those older, fun sucking elders of mine and remember that in a "blink of an eye", this stage too will be gone. This moment will pass and one day, I will miss it. I cannot blink slow enough to keep him here, in my home, where he can safely, "WTF?!" all over the place. Rather than blinking, I should prop my eyelids open and watch, mesmerizing in the moment when he is behaving like a "typical" (foul-mouthed) teenager.

With all the blinking I have done over the years, through the good moments and the hard moments, I have never once wanted to blink and open my eyes and find someone who is not Ryan in front of me. Yes, there have been times I wished for more neurotypical behavior and less autism like behavior. And yes, there were times I would blink so slowly in an attempt to shut out the tougher moments altogether. Then, inevitably, I would try and blink away that moment of guilt that engulfed me. Had I only listened, had I only realized how fast a blink was, I would have tried harder to take it all in slowly and never take my eyes off this AWEsome boy.

Now today, I am the decades older, grumpy doomsdayer, elder who snuggles my beautiful great-nephew and warns my big hearted, proud nephew that, "it goes by so fast" and that "in the blink of an eye" this beautiful baby will be crawling...walking...and WTF'ing all over the house, so "enjoy him while he's young". What I didn't say, but, what I thought and wished that someone would have said to me was, no matter where he goes, no matter what path lies ahead for him, on the good days and the bad, don't abbreviate the moment or the emotions, feel it all because "it does go by so fast". 

As I handed this sweet baby over, I sniffed his head one last time before releasing him, hugged my proud nephew and his equally proud girlfriend and thought, do not blink it away, because one day, you will wake up and he will be grown and you will be the one thinking, "WTF?!".