So, last week I slipped a little. Just a small stumble over something I didn’t see coming. I guess it was more like someone I didn't see coming. It was the keynote speaker at an autism conference I attended. Wait, sorry, that sounded like finger pointing. It wasn’t the keynote speaker, who tripped me, I tripped over myself. I got in my own way.  Again.

Sure, what the keynote spoke about, what he said may have been what tripped me up, but, I’ve gotten fairly use to falling, hoping no one sees it, brushing myself off and jumping up again. This time was different. This time, I didn’t have the hands there that always pick me up, so I stayed down a little longer than usual.

The keynote speaker was a very respected autism researcher and he was fabulous and brilliant. When I saw all the science and research info in his bio, being the kind of person who took geology with all the college jocks so I could avoid chemistry, biology and any number of other “real” sciences (just kidding geologists), I expected to be bored and check my Facebook newsfeed. Boy, was I wrong. I was mesmerized and didn’t once check Facebook.

The science of autism and the research that goes into it is fascinating. We are just beginning to understand the incredible facets of the human brain, and therefore, we are also just beginning to understand autism. So, I sat in my chair listening, taking it all in and not really caring where my friends checked in for lunch that day.
 
As I sat taking notes and making a list of questions I planned to ask this incredibly brilliant researcher, he began talking about the causes of autism and that’s when I started to slip. I felt that same ache in my heart that I felt 13 years ago, that same doubt and wonder that slowly crept up my spine, that same guilt of not knowing how or why and what, if anything, I had to do with it. And just like that, I stumbled and was on my ass. Again.
 
I’ve been here before. Lots and lots and lots of time. What did I eat when pregnant? What was I exposed to when pregnant? What did I feed my son? What did I expose him to? Was it my genes or my husband's genes? How did it impact him and not my other kids? What caused my son's autism? It’s been a long time since I stumbled back here and it took me a little longer to get up. Did I mention that I was at a conference? Overnight with no kids? Plenty of time to stay on the ground and not get up, and with the one set of hands who always helps me up playing Fortnite in his bedroom 45 miles away, I allowed myself to stay down for a few hours. I hadn't been down that long for quite some time.
 
So, yeah, I stumbled. I wondered. I questioned. I blamed. I Googled. I fell. Hard. Again.
 
And as I lay there, surrounded in doubt, guilt, wonder and worry, my phone tinged. A text alert. I almost didn't get up. I almost didn't get it. After all, I had fallen and decided maybe a little wallowing alone in a hotel room was just what I needed. But, then I remembered, I'm not on this journey alone. People need me. My son needs me. I picked up the phone and for the first time since I had stumbled, the tears fell.

"Hi”. Two simple letters, one simple word that pushed me back up on my feet and reminded me that "how", "why" or "what" wasn’t nearly as important as "who". And “who” may have not been physically there to pull me to my feet, but, his simple “hi” was enough to get me off my ass and move forward. There is no time to go back and going back does not do him, or me, any good.

"Hi baby. I miss you." No response back. None was needed. He knows. My son knows that even when I stumble, even when I go back, even when I fall really, really hard, I will pick myself up and be there for him. Always. Sure, I may lick my wounds for a few days, but, I get back up and feel stronger from the fall. This wound licking is NOT because I wish my son were someone else, it is not because I think he needs "fixed" or "cured", it's because like any parent, I want the world to see him as I do, brilliant, gifted, funny and determined and unfortunately, that does not always happen.

Yes, I know, the science of autism is incredibly important as it leads us all to understand the what, the why and the how, but, for me, a mother loving a child with autism, the who is what matters most. The who is here, present and indescribably amazing. The who needs supports and resources to help others see how amazing he is and what he can offer this world. The who needs to be understood and accepted just as he is. The who needs me. And the who, my son, keeps me going forward and picks me up when I trip over myself and fall. Hard. Again. Thank God, because I’d never get up without him.

​Good things come to those who wait. We have been waiting for a long time. Some of us, much longer than others. But we waited. We advocated. We raised awareness. We knew what others didn’t. And now our patience has paid off.
 
Julia is here.
 
Julia, a muppet with autism, has found her way to Sesame Street and she is gonna chase the clouds away for many young children with autism. I am so incredibly grateful that Sesame Street has brought Julia to life, but, selfishly, I wish Julia would have come about a decade sooner. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE that FINALLY autism has become so mainstream that adults, kids and now muppets with autism are showing up on your television screen, on the big screen and on Sesame Street, I just wish for my son and the kids who came before him, Julia would have come sooner.
 
Julia is going to do amazing things for young children with autism. A-mazing things. Kids are going to be more aware, more accepting and hopefully, more kind. The end result will be more, not less. And for many years, autism was perceived as "less" and I think that is why ten years ago, we weren’t ready for more…or for Julia. Ten years ago, differences of any kind, weren’t as accepted as they are today.
 
Sure people with autism and their families have been waiting for Julia and for the world to see what they have always known, that people with autism are more like “us” than they are different. Autistic individuals may process information differently than most of us, they may not communicate in the same way and their behaviors may be different, but, in the end they want to be loved and accepted just like all of “us” and just like every muppet on Sesame Street.
 
Had Julia come when Ryan was younger, he might be more willing to take risks socially now that he is in high school because the children in his preschool and elementary school watching Sesame Street would be aware that different did not mean less. They would understand that when Ryan didn’t respond to his name right away it didn’t mean he wasn’t listening or he didn’t care what they had to say, it just meant he needed more time to respond.
 
Those kids would have grown up understanding the reason Ryan had to be taken out of class before the fire drills was not because he was “weird”, but, because the noise was too much for his body to handle. Julia would have helped Ryan’s classmates understand his sensitivity to noises, his fabulous way of communicating through scripts and his desire to be included and accepted in the classroom, on the playground and in the cafeteria regardless of his limited eye contact when his friends approached him.
 
If Julia would have taught Ryan’s classmates HOW to interact with a classmate with autism, all of the burden of RYAN knowing how to interact with THEM wouldn’t have fallen on his tiny 5 year old shoulders. Ten years of awareness and acceptance would have made a big difference. Ryan’s classmates would have had ten years to understand autism, to understand him and to accept him, just the way he is. Oh Julia, I love that you showed up, I just really wish it would have been sooner.
 
Now that Ryan is in HS he struggles to interact socially and because he is “not much of a risk taker”, he doesn’t make many efforts to try. And because there were no muppets on Sesame Street with autism for the past ten years, his classmates don’t have a clue how to interact with him. This lack of awareness and education leads to isolation, it leads to depression, it leads to accepting that being alone is better than risking a social catastrophe.
 
If Julia would have showed up on Sesame Street ten years ago, Ryan might not feel so ashamed of the word "Autism", because kids would have been taught autism may be different, but it is not less and he would believe that too.
 
Julia could have really made a difference for Ryan. I hope that for the parents just hearing the words, “Your child has autism” they realize that there is a tiny yellow character with orange hair living on Sesame Street who is going to help them and their child pave the way to awareness and acceptance. She has arrived just in time for your child and his friends.
 
Thank you Sesame Street. I know that maybe the time wasn’t right ten years ago and maybe “we” weren’t ready for a little girl who flapped her hands when she got excited or had meltdowns when a siren went zipping past Sesame Street, but, we are ready now. Thank you for giving her to all of us. We really, really need her.

My yard (and my pool) are filled with leaves, so, I guess that means the falling star I wished (begged) upon, for just one more month of summer, burned out before my wish reached it. Never trust a hot, firey, ball of gas burning in the atmosphere thousands of miles away, to make your dreams come true.

Along with the leaves, the crisp air and everything pumpkin flavored, tis the season for germs too. We've already had one stomach virus, three colds, a sore throat, and a horrific cough that I immediately assumed was the first east coast case of Enterovirus D68 (My parents actually called to see if I was "aware" of this horrifically contagious virus. Silly parents.) that has been plaguing the mid-west. Thanks to all these nasty little germs, when the seasons change, sadly, so do my kisses. That's when my full smack them on the lips kisses quickly morph into, at best, a kiss on the cheek, or during a serious stomach virus outbreak, perhaps a quick peck on top of the head (as long as no vomit hit the top of their head) or a butterfly kiss to a fairly germ free area, like the elbow.

When kids are little, they love smooching you right on the lips, germs be damned. And it's cute and adorable and you enjoy it (germ spreading and all) because you know it wont' last forever. The kisses, the snuggles, the hugs, will change as quickly as the seasons. They may become fewer, less publicly displayed, given only in exchange for a bribe, or disappear all together. The love that was once behind the kisses may feel like it changes too and I guess in a way it does, but, it does not make the love or the kisses any less real.

Kisses come in various forms depending on the kisser, the kissee and whether or not flu shots have been administered yet. There is the peck on the cheek kiss, the smooch on the lips kiss, the butterfly kiss, the Eskimo kiss (which is called a kunik and the nose rubbing thing is not done because Eskimos believe their lips will freeze, it's done because typically noses are the only thing exposed in subzero temperatures), and the French kiss (blush). There are kisses reserved for our children, for our parents, for our grandparents, for our friends, and for our lovers. Believe it or not, there is actually a science for studying kisses, it's called Philematology. Imagine if under your yearbook photo you had "Future Philematologist" as your chosen career path. I bet you wouldn't have had any problem finding a prom date, as long as your date's parents didn't see the yearbook.

I wonder what a philematologist would call a kiss that nearly suffocates you? What kind of hypothesis could a kissing scientist make of a hard to breath because while kissing, the kisser's nose is pushed so hard on the kissee's cheek that air stops circulating to the kisser's lungs, type of kiss? This is not an intentional kiss of death like a mafia mob boss places on his next unsuspecting victim's cheek, signaling an equally unsuspecting "swim in the river", no, this is a kiss to the cheek of a boy who can only tolerate deep pressure smooches to his cheek. Butterfly and Eskimo kisses are not wanted here. I guess that rules out a move to Alaska or Antarctica for Ryan.

I have always been a snuggler. Many days my lips would be chapped form kissing the tops of my babies sweet smelling heads. Each of my kids were smooched and suffocated with my love equally. When Ryan was little, before we heard The A Word, my friend Denial would assure me that my worries of "something being wrong" with Ryan were ridiculous because Ryan loved to be snuggled and smooched. Denial was right, Ryan did love snuggles by someone he trusted, someone he knew, but, it took years for those snuggles to be reciprocated. Years until those sweet chubby arms found my neck, and even longer until those sweet tiny lips found my cheek. I hoped upon hope that one day, my snuggling would be returned, but, while I waited, I kept on kissing, hugging and snuggling. It was so worth the wait.

For a while, Ryan tolerated my kisses, even smiled after he received one. In time though, as Ryan got older, my smooches would often get rubbed off immediately, and vigorously, even if they weren't "wet" and even if I appeared relatively germ free. Ryan's removal of my kisses did not happen because Ryan was a germaphobe like his mother, it was because my light, gentle kiss on the cheek, or the head, was as bothersome to Ryan as the Mafia's Kiss of Death.

One time, Ryan's Occupational Therapist, Miss M noticed my little smooch to Ryan's cheek that he immediately tried to rub off with the palm of his hand. I hadn't noticed Miss M observing us because by then, I had grown use to this behavior and tried not to take it personally (uh-huh, right). So, I was surprised when Miss M explained that it was the light touch of my kiss that caused Ryan discomfort, so in order to remove the "feeling" of my soft, tickly, feeling kiss, Ryan would apply deep pressure to his cheek to sort of counteract the light touch of my kiss.

That was when I learned about the positive and calming effects of deep pressure for kids with an ASD. A light touch, like a kiss, for someone with a heightened sensory system, tends to alert the nervous system, putting the fight or flight mode into high gear, but, deep pressure, like a big squeezie tight hug, a squeeze to the arm or shoulder, can have a more calming effect.

There are weighted vests, weighted blankets, weighted shirts for kids and adults with an ASD that offers them the deep pressure their sensory system so desperately craves. Many experts believe that the reason many kids and adults with an ASD love water is because water provides that feeling of deep pressure, the sensory input their nervous system needs to help calm them down or just to make them feel better.

It is this same deep pressure need for Ryan that has caused our kisses to change as quickly as the seasons. The easy, gentle kisses of childhood have been carried away with the summer sun. They have been replaced with kisses that border on a take your breath away, knock you over, strip all the final leaves off the trees, winter time nor'easter. When I go to kiss that teenage cheek, in order to get that deep pressure feeling Ryan's sensory system craves, Ryan pulls the back of my head and firmly pushes my kiss so tightly against his cheek, I am almost knocked over. I laugh and tell Ryan he is going to suffocate me or break my nose, and he eases his grip and starts giggling. Ryan understands that my kisses reaffirm my love for him. Ryan may not need or want that kiss, but, he knows it's something Mommy loves to do. So, although a kiss to the cheek may not be what Ryan needs to understand my love, I am fortunate because Ryan has found a way to tolerate my kisses. I just need to take a deep breath, get my balance, and have an Ear Nose and Throat doctor on standby, before going in for a goodnight kiss.   

I have always been grateful that for the most part, Ryan has tolerated my snuggles, my hugs, my kisses. For many parents loving a child with an ASD, those light touches are too much for their sensory sensitive child to handle, so many kids pull away from a loving touch quickly, or don't allow it at all. These parents have had to find a different way to show their love and the lack of kisses and hugs don't make a parent's love any less, in fact, I believe it makes their love that much deeper. These moms and dads have put away their wants, their needs for hugs, snuggles and kisses, to give their child what they need, and after all, isn't that what unconditional love is ultimately about? Putting someone else's needs before your own....no matter how much it hurts.

This is why, even though Ryan no longer kisses my cheek ("Your skin tastes gross", and yes, I have tried numerous lotions and they all make my skin "taste gross"), I am grateful for any stolen kiss I can give to him, even if those kisses almost break my nose and lead to a slight loss of oxygen. So, regardless of the change of season, and what germs may be silently lurking in my house, I will happily risk a 48 hour bug for a 10 second deep pressure, possible cervical vertebrae misalignment kiss, to give Ryan and me what we both need to feel happy, calm and loved. 

If the Philematologist I contacted earlier is reading this post, please disregard my call. Like so many things on this autism journey, Ryan and I figured this out on our own.

When I awoke Tuesday morning to what I believe is the real official, there is no denying summer is over, and the kids are officially back to school week, through my bleary eyed, I wish I liked coffee morning haze, I saw a scuttlebutt on the news about some private nude celebrities' photos being leaked over the internet. Of course, like any good 45 year old mother who has three kids to get ready for school, I tossed aside the waffles and quickly turned to social media to see what all the hulabaloo was about. And sure enough, Facebook and Twitter were trending the news that photos of Jennifer Lawrence, Kate Upton and numerous other celebrities in various stages of undress, were downloaded from private phones for the entire world to see.

Ironically, I just watched Kate Upton in the movie, The Other Woman this weekend, and the bikini she was wearing in the film certainly qualified as a "various stage of undress" and although I get and respect the whole invasion of privacy stuff, I failed to see what all the excitement was about.

Yes, my 16 year old son would have loved a quick peak at Kate's nude selfie (which makes me throw up a little bit), but, I failed to see the media fervor over such an event. I mean, a new sighting of Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster (clothed or unclothed) wouldn't have created such a social media storm. Is that because even though there have been over 3,000 sightings of the mythical creature, some folks still have a hard time believing Nessie is real since they haven't seen her with their own eyes? Or is it because a topless Kate Upton selfie is living proof to doubters that "they" are real, which is even harder to believe than a giant, 1,000 year old sea creature? Whatever you believe, this week was living proof that naked celebrity selfies beat out the Loch Ness Monster any day.

Just like poor, can't go viral no matter what she does, Nessie, and Kate Upton's hard to believe "they" are real "lung protectors" (my lungs are so doomed), myths, legends, lore and fallacies abound throughout our society. Whether it's believing in Big Foot or little green man, or believing that Kim Kardashian and Kanye West will grow old together, some myths are based solely on what others have heard, seen, or believe and for many folks, that's all the proof they need.

The mystery of autism and how this complex disorder impacts each and every person living with autism so differently, has lead to many beliefs and fallacies that result from "believing what you hear". Myths about autism are almost as far fetched as the belief of a 1,000 year old sea creature living in a big lake in Scotland and the belief that beautiful celebrities never take nude selfies.

I have to admit, back in my Loch Ness Monster tracking days, when my BFF's Denial and Clueless would bundle up for a cruise around Loch Ness in hopes of seeing a mythical creature we had heard so much about, I too fell for some of those autism myths. Myths like, "people with autism don't understand or feel love" (nearly killed me), "people with autism don't need friends" (another tough pill to swallow), "autism is caused by poor parenting" (ouch), and my favorite, "people with autism all have savant like skills" ("Oh, just like Rain Man"). It was hard reading, seeing, hearing, and yes, sometimes believing such things about my son, but, just like Nessie and her fan club, sometimes you can't believe sight unseen, sometimes, you truly do have to see for yourself. 

Of all the autism myths, one that is particularly frustrating for parents is the belief that all people living with autism have some savant type ability, like Dustin Hoffman portrayed as Ray in the movie, Rain Man. The truth is, approximately 1 in 10 people with autism have savant skills, skills that are considered profound and are outside the realm of what is considered "normal". These savant abilities are typically found in math, music, memory, or art. With only 1 out of 10 "Rain Man" type abilities found in the autism population, that means 9 of those people living with autism do not have some prodigious ability. 

It is true that many people living with autism have splinter skills, a certain skill or skills that is well above their overall functioning in other areas, but, that does not make them a savant. That does not make them bound for Las Vegas to count cards. 

For example, Ryan's memory, and nonverbal skills exceed his verbal language and executive functioning. This makes Ryan typical in the atypical world of autism. Ryan also has an intuitive gift of music, his ability to hear a note, immediately name the note and replicate the note, falls in line with someone who has perfect pitch. Does having perfect pitch make Ryan a savant? I use to hope so. I use to pray so. If I'm AWEnest, I use to pray, "If Ryan has autism, then please let him have some supernatural, crazy skill. Let him be the next Bill Gates, Mozart, or Einstein. Amen.". 

As I became more comfortable and accepting of The A Word, I eventually stopped looking for Nessie in every large body of water I entered and I also began believing that Ryan's memory and his musical ability did not make Ryan a savant. These unique and special abilities just made Ryan, Ryan. 

A dear friend of mine has a son with an ASD. Just like every neurotypical child is different than the next child, kids with ASD are equally as different too. My girlfriend's son is much more social than Ryan, but, he has a harder time with school work. Our two boys' strengths and weaknesses vary as much as their interests and their hair color. 

One time, like all mothers, my friend and I were comparing notes on our two boys. A mother loving a child with an ASD finds the most comfort in discussing her child with another mother who "gets it". When we were talking about our AWEsome boys, I remember my girlfriend telling me how so few people actually do "get it" and how little "real" information folks have about autism. It seems, when it comes to autism, that more people believe in the myths, believe in what they hear, not what they actually see, when it comes to The A Word.

When my girlfriend would talk about her son, she would often be asked that mythical autism question, "Oh, what is he good at?". It may be rephrased in various ways, like, "What is his gift?"or "What is his special skill?". The words may be different, but, the belief, the myth, is still the same. If your child has autism then he or must have some savant type skill. And my girlfriend, who worried that her son was given this autism label, yet, didn't have some Rain Man like quality, would respond, "He's just Grant.".

"Just Grant", those two words, two words put together as a result of myth believers when one word should be enough, "Grant". The word Grant or Ryan or Hannah or Caden should never have to be uttered with the word "just" in front of such a beautiful name. "Just Grant" are two words that are filled with such meaning that, it's a wonder the words make it from my friend's heart to her lips. 

"Grant" should be enough, for these Loch Ness Monster, Big Foot myth believers. In fact, "Grant" should be everything, and to my girlfriend, "Grant" is not only enough, "Grant" is all she needs. However, for those who believe the myths, believe what they hear and not what they see, Grant, who falls in the 9 out of 10 kids with autism that do not have savant like skills, for some people, it may seem like something is missing. These are the same people who spend countless hours searching for mythical creatures like Nessie, Big Foot and E.T., looking for something they heard about and desperately want to believe exists, instead of seeing what really exists right in front of them.

Grant, is not "just Grant". Grant is a beautiful little boy who loves all things mechanical. Whether it's a $1.00 mechanical pencil, or a priceless heirloom, Grant loves to take things apart and create something new, using his imagination (which then dispels the "people with autism lack imagination" myth). Grant may not win his parents millions of dollars by counting cards in Vegas, but, that's okay, because Grant's parents already feel like they have struck it rich.

As a parent, it is hard to hear the words, "your child has autism". You spend days, weeks, months, and years convincing yourself that regardless of that label, your child will be okay, even though the myths of autism shroud a blanket of doubt around your heart as thick as fog over the Loch Ness Lake.

Whether it's a giant sea creature, an alien from outer space or a Kate Upton naked selfie, sometimes, seeing is believing. There are still many things we don't know about autism, many aspects about this complex neurological disorder remain as dark and mysterious as the alleged cave where Nessie lives on the bottom of Loch Ness Lake. However, there is one thing we do know, people living with autism want you to accept them, believe in them and SEE them with an open mind free of myths, legends and fallacies. 

Maybe if you do that, you will actually see for yourself and start believing in what is actually real, and not succumb to the belief of a tall tale that was told around a campfire, in a movie script or in a Google search in order to strike fear and ignorance in the hearts of the storyteller's listeners. You will see with your own two eyes, what his mother has known all along, he is not "just" Grant, he is Grant, and then you too will finally believe.

We just returned from four days at the beach. The beach....it's great to say the word "beach", type the word "beach" and think of the word "beach" and smile a real, genuine, feel it in your heart, smile. The word "beach" always makes me smile, however, for a few years, my smile went on a brief vacation to Siberia whenever The B Word was mentioned.

My smile didn't head north because I don't love the beach, oh no, I am, and always have been, a beach girl at heart...as long as it's not raining and the water is above 76 degrees and shark free. I have always loved the sand, the sun, and the waves, and believe me, I've got the wrinkles and sun damage from my carefree, SPF free days to prove it. However, once you have kids, days at the beach change. Carting kids and kids' beach essentials make the carefree beach days, not quite so carefree anymore. 

As young, carefree 20 something, I use to laugh at all the crap parents toted to the beach when I happily stepped onto the sand with a chair and a towel. Then I became one of them, sort of, in a way...not really. When you add a dab of autism to the sunscreen, swim diapers, shovels, pails, boogie boards, beach chairs and endless please keep them from whining, bribe them with anything regardless of the sugar content snacks, the once cool ocean breezes can feel as fiery as the gates of Hell.

When Ryan was little, The B Word, was almost as bad as The F Word. The sun, the sand, the wind, the sticky sunscreen and the shrill, ear piercing sound of the lifeguard's whistle was more than my sensory overloaded boy could take. You would think as a mother I would feel so badly watching my son meltdown as quickly as his overpriced Ice Cream Man popsicle, that I would have scooped him up and taken him back to the safety of his temperature regulated, sand free, ocean breeze free beach house, but, I didn't. Remember how I said I LOVED the beach? Well, come the fiery gates of hell or storm surge high water, this beach girl was determined to make my son love the beach too.

Year after year, as we endured tears and whining, bribes and threats, and after exhausting each and every possible distraction that would not make the sand feel so sandy, the sun feel so sunny, and the wind feel so windy, I would think, "Next year, he will learn to love the beach. Next year". 

Yes, each and every year, as the car was packed up and the beach gear was dragged up from the bowels of the basement, with the remnants of sand and dried tears (both Ryan's and mine) covering the shovels, the pails and the boogie boards, I would silently pray, "Let this year be the year my little man finally gets what all this "down the shore" fuss is about. Amen.".

For many years, my prayers went unanswered as I sat on my beach chair holding my sand covered boy in my lap as he burrowed his head into my chest and grinded sand into my second and third layer of skin in his attempt to protect himself from all things beachy. 

As I futilely attempted to remove each and every grain of sand from Ryan's stressed out body, I would see those "other mothers" and I can AWEnestly say, I kind of, sort of, really hated them. Those "other mothers" who sat in their beach chairs happily watching their children frolic in the surf and bury their siblings neck deep in the sand. 

Those "other mothers", whom I believed took for granted the perfect beach day. The mothers who stood along the shore, camcorder in hand proudly capturing such beautiful moments so that in their golden years they could reminisce these perfect child rearing memories in the years to come. As I stood by, tears streaking my sand covered face, silently and selfishly hoping a giant sand sinkhole would swallow those "other mothers" and their perfectly recorded memories up. Yep, I hated them.

Ryan oblivious to my tears, because he was literally blinded by his own sunscreen infused tears, would rub his eyes, which of course only made his wails of "burn, burn, burn" grow louder, didn't even know anyone else existed on the beach, let alone his feeling sorry for herself, trying to suck it up, mother. Ryan was too busy trying desperately to survive the onslaught of sensory stimuli, while I shot daggers at mothers I didn't even know and Ryan's big brother Kyle jumped in the waves....alone, hoping one day his little brother would join him. 

Little did I know, that my time, as a mom happily enjoying the beach with all her children, and Kyle's time (having a brother body surf the waves) was coming, we just had to be patient and wait. I hate waiting.

Being the beach lover that I am, as much as I wanted Ryan to frolic in the ocean like a dolphin and scurry across the sand like a crab, in terms of sea life, my son was more like an oyster than a dolphin or crab. 

Like an oyster, Ryan had a hard to penetrate shell that he used to protect himself from things unfamiliar trying to enter his safe, closed off haven. Over the years, Ryan has slowly allowed unfamiliar and foreign stimuli that are horribly irritating to him, inside his protective shell. And just like an oyster's natural reaction to a foreign substance entering it's shell, is to cover up the irritant to protect itself, Ryan too tried to protect himself by closing up to all things beachy. 

However, just like a pearl takes years and years to develop inside the shell of an oyster, over time, that once irritant that broke through Ryan's shell, has no longer become something to fear, but, something to behold. In an attempt to protect himself from outside stimuli, Ryan was creating something beautiful within the walls of his shell, something that I couldn't see from the outside. The beauty that lied within the shell needed time to grow and develop so that it could turn into something so exquisite and so rare, that was absolutely worth the wait. 

Finally this year, my oyster revealed the beautiful pearl that had been forming within. Yes, he whined about how long we were on the beach, and yes, the water wasn't his desired temperature, and yes there were too many "annoying people" around, but, this year, I sat on my beach chair like all the "other mothers" and smiled as I watched all my kids enjoying the beach. Unlike those "other mothers" though, I recognized the rareness of the moment and although we captured it with digital media, those moments are forever ingrained in my heart. Moments that were definitely worth the wait. 

Turns out, I wasn't the only mom harvesting oysters on this particular beach trip. Right down the beach was a group of mothers, who, chances are, at one time or another, hated all those happy smiling "other mothers" with their beach loving neurotypical kids like I did.  It just so happened that the same week we were at the beach, so was Surfers Healing http://www.surfershealing.org/, an organization that provides surfing opportunities for kids and adults living with autism. 

I watched as these kids who fight so hard to keep anything from seeping in between the cracks of their shell, open up just enough to experience something AWEsome. Many kids went into the waves closed up tightly and protecting themselves because they were afraid and unsure, but, they all came out shining beautifully to the applause and cheers of an entire beach. Yes, that day, I watched the shoreline shimmer with beautiful pearls who found pride and joy in the ocean waves while standing up on a surf board. While their parents looked on at the precious and rare gem that outshone any other.

Ryan may never love the beach like his mother, which will probably decrease the signs of aging and his risk for skin cancer, but, for this beach girl, there was just something different about this beach trip. There was a peacefulness about what is and not so much concern for what could be. Maybe when I finally stopped worrying so much about my little boy's protective shell, I could finally see the pearl that had been forming and growing inside all those years. I just had to sit back and wait. 

And just like a string of cultured pearls that takes a single grain of sand an entire decade to form, only time enables the exquisiteness of such beauty to shine forth and be appreciated in the precise color, shape and size it was destined to be.

Ahhhh....the end of July, that glorious time of year when the kids are constantly bickering and ready to rip each other's hair out and you have finally perfected the summer time skill of blocking out the madness with the beautiful image of that big, yellow school bus driving down your street. It's that point in summer where yes, technically there is still a month of summer left, but, yet, you feel the tide turn. Something definitely changes.

As you sit in the backyard gathered around the fire pit, the kids are no longer bugging for smores, in fact, chances are, they are all inside watching television, the novelty of warm summer nights gathered around the fire has faded with the embers of the June flames. The iridescent glow in the backyard that in early June was filled with fireflies, becomes dimmer and dimmer. The nights, although a subtle change at first, are becoming shorter and cooler and every retail establishment has long since abandoned the racks of shorts, bikinis, and tank tops and replaced them with jeans, sweaters and jackets. 

With all these signals of summer slowly coming to an end, nothing is more telling in our house than an empty swimming pool. For some reason, when the calendar is flipped from July to August, the long, lazy days of lounging by the pool do not flip with it. 

The first summer after the pull went in, I thought for certain Dan was going to buy a time clock and hand each one of us a time card, forcing us to clock in and clock out each and every time we entered through the pool gate. All that money that literally gets dumped in your backyard, better be money well spent, so, by all means, the kids must swim all day, every day. The only allowable exception to swimming that first summer was if a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance, and as long as that distance appeared to be ten miles away or less.

One of the main reasons this worrying, whacko mother agreed to have a large body of water placed in the backyard was because Ryan, the most sedentary child on the planet, loved to swim. In fact, I wrote a blog last summer, http://www.awenestyofautism.com/blog/my-fish-out-of-water about my little fish out of water and his love of the quiet peacefulness he discovered in a muted, calming world 8 feet under water. Swimming, was hands down, the best, and quite AWEnestly, the only, form of exercise my boy got, so a big, deep hole was dug in my backyard and filled with money....I mean, water. And for the past three summers, Ryan enjoyed that pool all summer long, until the calendar flipped from July to August of course.

So, you can imagine my surprise and my heartache that on this last day of July, my little fish has not so much as stuck his big toe, or should I say big fin, in that pool. The closest Ryan came to "getting wet" was filling a water gun up to squirt the dog. This boy, who once upon a time would have willingly traded his lungs for gills in order to spend half his summer underwater, has now opted for dry land and as of the writing of this blog, he has no intention of "getting in" anytime soon. I am dumbfounded.

As I have done so many times over the course of Ryan's lifetime, I quickly pointed the finger at autism for this drastic change in my boy's behavior. I first assumed that it was a sensory thing, so, I told Ryan if he didn't want to swim because he hated the feel of the icky, sticky sunscreen, he could swim in the evening when sunscreen wasn't necessary. Ryan assured me that he did not hang up his gills due to sunscreen.

I then wondered if there had been one too many bee sightings, even though we purposely did not plant flowering bushes around the pool. Autism tends to make Ryan's anxieties, bugs being at the top of the list, somewhat consuming, so it stood to reason, autism and "killer bees" were to blame. Yet, Ryan, who once needed me to walk past the azalea bush to cross the porch, no longer needs my hand as he bravely, albeit rarely, enters outside. This threw the bee theory out the window.

It also crossed my mind that perhaps with puberty in full bloom, maybe Ryan felt awkward about his changing body. When I carefully inquired about this new line of thinking I was told, "I'm perfectly fine with my body.". Scratch that theory too.

I told Dan, Kyle and anyone who would listen, "Ryan has something stuck in his head about swimming, some new fear, phobia or idea he is perseverating and obsessing about. Curse that autism." I just felt certain it was autism that was keeping my boy from jumping off the diving board and I was determined to push him back in that pool one way or another.

Ironically, my knee jerk reaction (perseveration) to immediately point the finger at autism regarding Ryan's new found avoidance of the pool, made Ryan move even farther inland. You know the saying, "When you point your finger at someone, there are three fingers pointing back at you"? Yeah, that.

My constant nagging and non-stop barrage of questions in an attempt to decipher why Ryan wouldn't get in the pool, as well as treat bribes, and the occasional threat of diminished screen time, in order to get his butt in the pool, only backfired. My desire to find out "why" only caused Ryan more stress about swimming which has made him dig his heels even deeper into dry land. Pointing the finger at autism, really did point all the other fingers right back at me.

Refusing to look at those other three fingers pointing at me for making a situation much worse, Denial and I told Ryan we were going to take back his new swim trunks, which all still have the tags on them, as a last ditch, "that oughta show him" resort, to which Ryan very calmly responded, "Yeah, go ahead, they were a waste of money." WTH?!!

I just didn't understand it. Why would autism take swimming away? Friends, yeah, I get it. Parties, yep, totally understand that too, but swimming? I just couldn't wrap my head around it. Why take something away that Ryan loved so much? Then after asking Ryan for the 150th time, why he didn't want to swim anymore, he finally looked at me and said, "I'm over swimming, it just got boring." I finally put my aging, non-manicured, pointy finger down. If autism could smile, and say, "na nee na nee poo poo", it totally would have. Ryan should have done it for autism instead.

It seems that if I choose to point the finger at someone, if there has to be someone to blame, I needed to stop pointing the finger at autism and start pointing it at Father Time. Was Ryan's lack of swimming as simple as something he outgrew? Sure, many kids still like to swim as teenagers and even adults, but, Ryan has always been his own guy, not worrying what others do, or what others expect. 

When Ryan stopped playing with his Thomas the Tank Engine trains, I didn't point the finger at autism, I just chalked it up to growing up and losing interest. When Ryan gave up Blues Clues for Spongebob, I didn't point the finger at autism, I just accepted that Steve was no longer as funny as Patrick. So, I guess when it comes to swimming, maybe Ryan has decided that there is more exciting things to do on dry land than there is in an 8 feet deep swimming pool. As a mother who "goes under" and actually soaks my hair about four times a pool season, and who prefers to float atop a raft with a well designed cocktail holder, one would think I would get it.

I guess old habits die hard. Denial pops in for a brief summer time visit and I am quick to point the finger at autism for anything about Ryan that seems "different". 

It's time I retire that pointer finger (the middle finger will continue to remain active, since as of yet, I have not found anything else more suitable for the a** who cuts me off on the highway) and take a look at the three fingers pointing back at me. I need to accept that Father Time will transform my boy into a teenager in just a few short weeks and along with that change, more changes will be on the way. Changes that I may see coming and changes that may knock me off my raft and get my hair wet. Changes that have little to do with The A Word.

Rather than pointing the finger at autism, I am learning to be grateful that Ryan has come so far and is able to make choices, decisions and have thoughts that are in no way influenced by autism. Most days, the choices Ryan makes are made just because he is Ryan, not because he has autism. 

So, as the summer days slowly come to an end, I will need to tear up Ryan's time card for the pool time clock because it appears he has hung up his swim trunks this summer. Just in case he has a change of heart, (very doubtful since it will be August tomorrow) I will keep at least one of the three new swim trunks I purchased this summer. 

If the swim trunks still have the tag on them by winter, I will hold on to them, just like I have held on to all the Thomas engines as well as the VHS Tapes of Ryan's beloved Blues Clues. Some things I must let go of and some things I will always hold on to....things that are bittersweet reminders of days gone by, days that are fading as quickly as the summer sunsets, days that have had nothing at all to do with autism, but, days that have been filled with choices, changes and progress. 

The only finger pointing for such change and progress should be at Ryan. He has made the changes and the choices, not autism. The only finger Ryan should see is his own, shimmering in his reflection of the boring, backyard pool that he refuses to swim in anymore, regardless if there is still nine hours left until we flip that calendar from July to August and the "Pool Closed" sign is hung up for the season.

As I watched the announcements for the 2014 Emmy Award Nominations, I jumped off the couch like Tom Cruise and gave a "woohoo" when I heard Uzo Aduba's name (which I have no idea how to pronounce) as a nominee in the category for Outstanding Guest Actress in a comedy. Uzo Aduba plays Suzanne "Crazy Eyes" Warren in Netflix's Orange is the New Black series and she is crazy....and AWEsome!  

After I calmed down and realized how pathetic I was, I couldn't help, but, daydream just a little....ok, fine, a lot...about perhaps one day, when I'm old and gray...ok, fine, older and grayer...sitting on my couch and woohoo'ing after hearing Ryan's name announced as a potential Emmy Winner. Chances are it would not be in the comedy category, since, although Ryan is freaking hysterical, he rarely tries to be or rarely gets his own humor. Now that I think about it, that might actually make him funnier and more believable, thus more Emmy worthy.

It's not like I think an Emmy is eminent for Ryan because he has extensive acting experience (His only theatrical production was the role of Hippo in a second grade play...he was an outstanding Hippo) or because he has expressed interest in the theater (besides sitting in a movie theater seat watching the latest kid friendly movie with a bucket of popcorn), but, for a boy who can memorize just about anything, who can imitate any sound he hears and who can sing his heart out, a future actor seems like a good fit. Which most assuredly will lead to an Emmy nod.

Like any good actor or actress, Ryan can memorize lines. In fact, he has spent his entire life doing just that...using lines he hears elsewhere to communicate. Very rarely does Ryan use his own words, his own script, or his own lines when communicating. There is very little ad libbing and improvisation going on with this future Emmy Nominee. If it's not in the script, it's not in the show.

Most of Ryan's language is comprised of lines from television shows, movies, video games, or from the lips of yours truly. Even when my boy plays with the dog, it is my lines, my silly voice, my puppy love songs, my facial expressions, and my body language. However, since Ryan is so AWEsome, and because a 45 (what?) year old woman singing to a 90 pound lab looks a little like Crazy Eyes, it sounds and looks so much better when Ryan does it. Even though it may be unintentional, my boy totally upstages me and I am left back stage, alone, during the curtain call.

One of the telltale signs of autism is deficits in verbal and nonverbal communication, so it seems illogical that I would think Ryan has a future on the stage where language, verbal and nonverbal communication are essential. The thing is, an actor or actress is playing a role. They are not chitchatting with friends, trying to understand the social nuances of peers, or figuring out the appropriate response to a vague, hard to understand question, unless of course the role calls for that, and if the role did call for such situations, there would be a script telling the actor what to say and how to say it. Ryan would nail it.

During Ryan's first ever evaluation, I remember telling the folks from Early Intervention that Ryan rarely used his own language, almost everything he said was language he had heard elsewhere. This was the first time I heard the word "scripting". Ryan "scripts" lines, he has heard elsewhere, but, ironically is able to use them in just the right manner in a conversation. 

Whether it's Jim Carrey as The Grinch or Mike Myers as Fat Bastard (Ryan calls him "Fat B" because he isn't allowed to swear until he is 16...I swear I have no idea where that rule came from), Ryan has comedic impersonations down to a science, yet, over the years as Denial and Clueless sat next to me in the "audience" listening to Ryan's scripting, I was not laughing, applauding or enjoying the show, instead, I was wringing my hands and worrying. 

I would say things like, "Fat B" is freaking hysterical, but, I think Ryan is even funnier. Can I hear Ryan talk now?". To which "Fat B" would respond, in a near perfect impersonation, "Maybe. It did sound a little wet there at the end." Did I mention Fat B loves potty talk? Too bad Ryan is not a Ryan Gosling fan, he'd have all the girls at school swooning. 

At Ryan's most recent evaluation, his "scripting" and language deficits were at the top of my concerns and it turns out, I was right (sometimes I hate being right...not very often, but, sometimes). Ryan greeted the doctor and her staff in the most amazing British accent which had them all smiling, After the evaluation, the lovely doctor, in a very nice, professional manner basically told me that with as many kids as she sees, Ryan's language is poorer than most kids who walk through her door. Ryan's scripting, his verbal and non-verbal communication might just have peaked at the age of 12 and chances are, it's a good as it's gonna get. I felt like I was going to throw up. 

I believe this wonderful psychologist was typecast perfectly for her role. To deliver such powerful lines, in a very kind and compassionate way to this worried freaked out mom, could have easily won her an Emmy. This kind doc was doing her job and she had memorized her lines and played her role beautifully, but, Denial and I still wanted to exit stage right and silently hope the curtain fell on her head.

The doc had her lines down, but, sadly, I did not. There was no script for this worried mom. Being told that my beautiful leading man will always struggle with communication, as his critically acclaimed (let me have my moment please) supporting actress, I didn't know what to say or how to act. In that moment, all of the lines I had memorized over the years vanished, and I sat in that office with a serious case of stage fright.  

Even though I have spent hours trying to understand autism, and even though, I have always been told that autism is a "life long disability", with Denial wiping my tears and repairing my makeup, I recognized that this supporting actress, this director, this stage mom had always hoped that the antagonist, Autism would exit stage left and never, ever be cast in a performance of Ryan's again. 

I smiled through my tears and thanked the lovely doctor. I knew this kind psychologist was not the antagonist in this scene, nope, that role belonged to autism, and it always had. Talk about being typecast. And even though I felt like I had read and heard this script before, with a different cast, in a different scene, it still felt raw, new, and horribly painful.

I came home and cried and sulked just like poor Susan Lucci, who needed 19 Emmy nominations before finally winning the coveted award. In my heart, I believed that Ryan could still make progress, that he could find different scripts, different directors, different supporting cast and different settings that will enable him to do a lot more ad libbing and improvising. Just like directors have the ability to bring out performances in their actors and actresses that lead to Emmy Awards, with proper direction, Ryan may outperform any actor who has stood on the stage before him. 

Ryan is the protagonist of his production, as well as the executive producer and although he may steal lines from other cast mates, as well as upstage them with his charming AWEsomeness, I believe Ryan will never let the antagonist, Autism, steal the show. Ryan will continue to act out his scenes, and I will do my best to direct him to a happy ending. There will be production problems, creative differences, long intermissions and quite possibly the occasional strike, but, no one, not even Autism, can predict Ryan's upcoming scenes. No one can say how Ryan's story will unfold or how it will end, but, between the two of us, we can make a beautiful production that we will continue to share with others so they can see, that the protagonist can overcome whatever obstacles the antagonist puts in their way and that good guys do not always finish last.

This is not a dress rehearsal, this is the real, sold out show. I refuse to let anyone predict the script...not doctors, not therapists, not experts, not even Autism. Whether Ryan's performance is held before a live audience or in the comfort of friends and family, I promise you, that during the last scene, when the final lines of the script are spoken, and the audience demands a curtain call, I will quietly exit stage right, and watch my star receive his much deserved standing ovation. And quite possibly that Emmy.

I try to be a "cool" mom, you know, a loving mom who does just the right amount of nagging that makes you a responsible parent, but, not over the top nagging that makes your kids think you are lame. I try to be the kind of mom that makes our house the hang out for all my kids' friends because, "Kyle's mom is so chill" (and because I have a sweet tooth like a child and my pantry is living proof of this fact). The kind of mom that my mom was when I was growing up (and of course still is today), with the added bonus of trying to be cool on social media. I am told by my teenage son that in the world of social media where I have mistakenly and humiliatingly crossed into his web universe, that I fail miserably in the Cool Mom Department. And if there is anyone who is going to tweet that you are without a doubt the most embarrassing mother in the world of social media, it's going to be your 16 year old, know it all, teenage son. #epicfail

I have been told, by my horribly embarrassed teenage son, that we "old heads" have ruined Facebook for the youngins (no one who is anyone over the age of 14 has an "active" Facebook account) and now, even worse, we over the hill, inept, social media blunderers are hashtagging on Facebook. #OMG 

For those who may be even lamer than me, a hashtag (#) originally began on Twitter then went to Instagram and it is a way to sort or categorize your tweets and pics so that other people who search under that hashtag can find similar tweets, pics and comments. For example, #embarassingmoms could be a hashtag on my son's Twitter account that would follow a comment something like this, "Mom's #'ing on FB again WTH?" and then his followers may share a similar horrific mother story with the same #embarassingmoms. 

Until recently, us old heads using a hashtag on Facebook was just for fun (or embarrassment) because there was no direct link from one hashtag to the next. Facebook changed that, but, according to teenagers, it's still not an acceptable hashtag outlet. In fact, when you put "hashtagging on Facebook" in your search engine, the second search title that comes up is "hashtagging on Facebook is stupid", which I'm sure was written by a horribly mortified teenager. #ohwell

According to my social media extraordinaire son, one of the biggest hashtag Facebook blunders, is #TBT. For you lame-o's, #TBT stands for Throwback Thursday, a day when people post pics of days gone by on Instagram not on Facebook, yet, every Thursday morning, I wake up to my Friends on Facebook sporting big puffy sleeves and even bigger puffier hair. Most of these photos are pictures with large groups of friends from the high school or college era. I AWEnestly love seeing these photos because they do indeed throw me back to a different time, a time when I was young, carefree, responsibility free and worry free (with the exception of my obsessive fretting over Aqua Net Super Strong Hold Hair Spray's ability to keep my hair puffy until 2AM). Ahhh....yes, the good old days. There are, however, some friends and some times, you don't want to throw back to, no matter how good the photo may look and how many Likes, Comments or Retweets you get.

Ironically, it was last Thursday, that I had a #TBT moment, and it wasn't pretty. I agreed to help out with Ryan's end of the year Honors Party in Middle School. Yeah, I know, the fact that my son made the honor roll for the first three marking periods and was not only invited to attend, but, WANTED to attend, should have made it a phenomenal Thursday, throwback or not, but, old #TBT habits die hard. If someone would have snapped a photo of me last Thursday, waiting for the kids to be dismissed to the party, they would have seen the same woman (albeit a bit older) as the woman in this photo, smiling, happy, on the outside, but, a worried, hot mess on the inside. Yes, last Thursday, as I waited to collect the Honors Party Invitations for the invited attendees, I was thrown back with my old friends Denial and Clueless flanked on either side of me, but, my newer, much more fun to be around friend, Hope, was giving them both a nonchalant elbow shot as I waited and watched for Ryan to appear.

My throwback was more of a scary, "must have done some brain damage from spraying all the Aqua Net, oh please don't make me relive it again", flashback. As I waited for my 95 pound, almost teenage son to appear, in my throwback mind, I kept seeing an angry, scared, overwhelmed, lost 4 year old boy camouflaged among the wood chips, playing alone under the sliding board at daycare. My palms became sweaty, I felt my heart rate pulsating to the sound of Pharrell Williams annoying Happy song being played by the DJ and all I could think was, if Pharell Williams entered this room right now, I would stuff an Honors Invitation in his big hat then shove it down his Happy throat. I was anything, but, Happy, I was more like Neurotically Nauseous (maybe I should write a song). I quickly forgot about my new friend Hope and was immediately back in my old inner circle with Denial and Clueless, praying, bartering, and willing my son, not to walk into that commons area alone. All the years I spent accepting that Ryan is happy being just who he is, disappeared as quickly as a trending hashtag. #oldnews

As I continued to watch and wait, unaware of the fact that I was literally holding my breath, I found myself whispering to Hope, "Maybe Ryan will round the corner and come through the doors with a friend", while acknowledging to both Denial and Clueless, "Ryan will not only probably be alone, he will probably be the last one to show up". As I stood there transfixed between the present and #TBT, I watched the non-stop streams of kids flowing through the hallways like salmon fighting to get upstream, literally pushing and plowing their way through the masses. I watched as the cool kids in their high black socks and trendy clothes moved together in packs like a group of hungry wolves, just waiting to take a bite out of the vulnerable kids who walked alone wearing high white socks and the same five shirts all school year long. I watched, I trembled, and I waited. "He will be last and he will be alone and that's ok" was ongoing, repetitive, mumbling mantra.

Then just when my new friend Hope was ready to go hang out with some of the more optimistic, cool moms, my boy rounded the corner, in the middle of the pack, with no bite marks, wearing his high white socks, smiling, laughing and walking with, dare I say it....a friend. Ryan and his friend approached me with their Honors Party Invitation, and I got that very happy, yet trying not to smile grin from my boy and a nice, "Hello Ryan's mom!" from Ryan's friend. Ryan wasn't 4 years old anymore. He wasn't angry, he wasn't scared, he wasn't overwhelmed, he wasn't lost, and just like that annoyingly joyful Pharrell Williams predicted, Ryan was Happy and therefore, so was I. Would I have been less happy if Ryan rounded that corner alone, but, still smiling and happy while Hope quickly left my side for some other cooler mom, AWEnestly, yes, I would have, because no matter how hard I try not to project my version of happy onto Ryan, sometimes, I still do. #pharrellandme

Any of my #TBT photos that I would post onto Facebook, horrifying my social media savvy son, would show me surrounded by a group of friends, no matter how far back I would throw the photo. I always found myself in a group, mostly because I loved hanging out with my friends, but, also because being part of a group was how I identified myself. I was a salmon. Being in the middle of gang of friends for me, was, and sometimes still is, easier than being alone. Ryan is quietly confident in who he is and yes, autism makes having friends difficult, so sometimes being alone is preferred, because for Ryan, being alone beats swimming up stream with a bunch of pushy, obnoxious, teenage salmon. For Ryan, traveling his journey in a pack of wolves or a school of fish is not his thing, for Ryan, sometimes, having just one friend to happily script away with, is all he needs. #1isallyouneed

As hard as I try to be a "cool mom", I'm pretty sure Ryan's poor friend probably did not think there was anything cool about me as I followed them around smiling like some weirdo, taking photos, but, not posting them (well, not all of them) on Instagram with a cool hashtag like #bitemeautism or #dumpeddenial or #justbeyou. As I stalked, I mean, watched, Ryan and his friend walk around, scripting the latest Gumball episode together, I stood alone with no friends....not Hope...not Denial....and not Clueless, yet, I did not, for one second, feel the least bit lonely. Students, teachers and parents milled around me, but, I didn't try to hide my falling tears. I embraced my joy as my heart filled with pride while I watched in AWE the #TBT moment transport Ryan and me to the present. 

Some days I'm cool, some days, I'm not, but, one thing we lame "old heads" have over these youngins is the wisdom that comes with age. We recognize that there are moments that don't need a #, a tweet, a post, or a comment.  Such wisdom may not make us cool, hip, trendy or keep us from humiliating our children, but, our old head knowledge enables us to see that there are some moments that really are better experienced alone, because no one who "follows" you, "friends" you, or "tweets" you, can fully comprehend the significance of a moment, of that moment, except, YOU. #mymoment

In less than a week, I will be...brace yourselves....45. Yeah, I know how can that even be possible? I swear I look into my mirror, which must obviously be some type of trick mirror since I seem to look so much better in that mirror than I do in any photos (unless the photo is a distant shot, the lighting is poor and airbrushing was used) and I wonder, who is that tired looking stranger in my bathroom? Before I dial 911 to report an intruder wearing a robe exactly like mine, I rub my almost 45 year old eyes and think, "Sh*t. That's me." Some days, I think I would prefer a weird stranger in my bathroom than the depressing, realization that the old, tired reflection in the mirror is the same girl you see on this 1970's metal "swingset". It seems like just yesterday, I was 10, playing outside with friends, getting the star boy kickball player "out" by miraculously catching the ball that knocked me on my ass and watching non-stop episodes of my favorite television show, The Brady Bunch.

My gosh I loved that Brady family. I mean who didn't want that AWEsome 1970's house with Alice the housekeeper, six kids to play with, a dog named Tiger, and parents who were so dumb they wouldn't let their kids play ball in the house, but, allowed the same kids to naively wear a native taboo Hawiian idol around their neck which almost lead to a deadly tarantula bite. Last week, as I sat anxiously waiting for Ryan's chorus concert, it wasn't "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia" or annoying, put upon middle sister Jan I was thinking about, no, it was the one Brady who rarely stole the show, who sort of blended in to the background, it was Peter and his voice changing hormonal self.

Remember the episode when the Brady kids got an opportunity to sing on live television (of course they did) in hopes of becoming the next Jackson 5, I mean 6 ? All the Brady kids sang like beautiful song birds (each one secretly hoping they would be like Michael and leave the rest of the siblings in the dust), except Poor Peter. No way Peter was going to be the next Michael Jackson, because in that moment when it was Peter's time to shine, his pubescent voice picked that moment as a "Time to Change". Here is a little reminder. I'm sorry (not really).

Now that Ryan has reached the Peter Brady age, I will occasionally hear a Peter Brady "sha na na na na", come out of his beautiful, soulful voice and I wonder how this voice changing thing will effect Ryan's singing. As with all things Ryan, I then begin to worry. What if he can no longer sing? What if he no longer has perfect pitch? What if this God given talent was only doled out temporarily for childhood and with the onset of puberty, this gift will be snatched away as quickly as Cindy Brady's Kitty Carryall Doll? OMG, what if Ryan started sounding like, or even worse yet, started dressing like (gulp) Peter Brady?

When I asked Ryan about his voice changing he assured me that he can hear the difference in his voice, so he "adjusts it". I don't even know what that means, but, Ryan sounded quite confident and as he took the stage, and the first notes poured out of that beautiful face, I didn't need to understand it, because I could see it and I could hear it. If Peter Brady was on that stage, there were enough other kids on stage with him to drown him out, so that not a single voice cracking "sha na na na na" could be heard. Ryan sang his beautifully, gifted heart out. There were a number of songs Ryan sang that night, but, it was evident that one song in particular he loved best. The one that Ryan felt so deeply, sang so beautifully was the one song that reduced this worrying Carol Brady into a big, heaping puddle of tears.

Ryan's select chorus group sang Bridge Over Troubled Water and yes Ryan sang it, but mostly Ryan felt it. His facial expression, his confidence, his heart, his soul were all on full display, there was no awkward autismy smile trying to hide his feelings, he was fully exposed and he was beautiful. As I sat with tears streaming down my face I couldn't help but picture the depths of troubled water we have crossed together. The worry, the fear, the anxiety we both have had about how to cross that water without falling in and being swept away. I wondered to myself, did Ryan love this song for it's musical score, the notes, the melody, or the lyrics? I don't know why this song stirred Ryan, but, as I felt the melody wrap around me and draw me in, I wondered if Ryan knew, if he had always known, that "I would lay me down" to get him wherever he needed to go, regardless of the water's depth, turbulence and undertow.

I have been the bridge for my boy. Some days I have been like the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, strong and sturdy, towering high above the water, with not so much as a drop of water splashing my son, and some days I have been a slippery log that has conveniently fallen in just the right place, barely able to hold Ryan up as he slips and slides, to his destination, finally making it across the water to dry land. Although, I may not have always been the sturdiest bridge, in fact more times than not, my bridge should have been closed due to "instability", rated as "structurally deficient" and at high risk of "failure", but, somehow, regardless of the degree of deterioration, I managed to get Ryan across the troubled water. Regardless of how many storms this old rickety bridge has weathered or how many times this shaky bridge was stepped on, trod across, or flooded, I never once let my boy plunge head first into the water. Sure, like most of us, he has gotten wet from time to time, but, I have always been there to get him safely to the other side where he could dry off, change course, if necessary, and move on.

Like most of my fellow mama bridges, there were many days when the structural integrity of my bridge was compromised due to wear and tear, cracks in my towers, and years of being barraged by turbulent waters, and AWEnestly, my boy got wet. Unlike most bridges, we mama bridges do not have a built in accelerometer to alert us to deficiencies and deterioration. There was no way to determine if too much stress and fatigue was being placed on the bridge, increasing the chance that my occupant might fall into the cold, unforgiving water. However, as I watched my son sing, as I watched him achieve, as I watched the confidence soar from his heart as easily as the notes flew from his soul, I recognized that some of the falling, some of the getting wet, and yes, even some of this bridge's "structural deficiency" enabled Ryan to appreciate this moment. All the bridges Ryan had to navigate to cross that troubled water lead him to this moment, where he is today and without having to occasionally struggle to get across that water, he would not fully recognize the beauty of what it is to make it to the other side.

On the days when the water looked calm and serene to me, without warning, Ryan would see a tsunami coming. Regardless if I saw the wave coming or not, this bridge had to be open, this bridge had to be structurally sound ready to bear the weight in order to get Ryan safely across the water. Other days, when to me the water seemed choppy, and everywhere I turned there were whitecaps stirring in the water, I would do a quick safety check, ensuring that my towers were sturdy and my cables were strong because come hell or high water, I had to get my boy across that water, and just like that, Ryan would calmly walk across the bridge without even a backward glance at what I perceived as troubled water.

To all my fellow bridges out there, who safely get their child from point A to point B across that real or perceived troubled water, no matter how deficient and deteriorated you may feel, you always have to be structurally sound, because for a child with an ASD, even the calmest water can look like a deadly whirlpool. There is no time to determine if you are "structurally deficient" or "functionally obsolete", your passenger is counting on this bridge and whether or not your passenger decides he needs to cross this bridge today to get him across that water, or if he decides to take another route altogether, what matters most is that your amazingly AWEsome passenger knows, that for him, you will always "lay me down".

On the days where you feel like a fallen over, moss covered log that got lucky and just happened to land across the water, and on the days where you are as structurally sound, and as meticulously constructed as the Golden Gate Bridge, you still get your passenger across that water. We bridges, no matter our rating, get our passengers where they need to be, and we will always get them where they need to go. So, here's to you all my bridges.

As the last notes of Bridge Over Troubled Water echoed off the school auditorium walls and off my ready to burst with pride heart, I was in AWE of my AWEsome boy. In that moment, I felt certain that Carol Brady and her perfectly coiffed hair, never felt the pride I felt for my Peter Brady (as an aside, unlike Carol Brady, I would never allow Ryan to wear a taboo Hawaiian idol on his neck or that hideous shirt as seen on Peter in the above video). A "Time to Change" may be on the horizon, but, this bridge, regardless of my instability, my deterioration, and my current safety rating, will be there to hold my boy up as he crosses whatever troubled water lies ahead. 

Ironically, in 2013 the average age of bridges in the US was 42 years of age and the bridge safety rating was a C+. On some days, when I am "structurally sound, but functionally obsolete", that age and rating sounds and feels about right, for this tired, old, weary bridge. However, on most days when this bridge feels new, sturdy, and strong, I guarantee, that regardless of my age, regardless of what I see in that damn, lying, bathroom mirror, and regardless of what grade the Federal Highway Administration feels I deserve, I know one passenger who on most days, would give me an A+...ok, fine, maybe just an A...as long as I get him over the water and he doesn't get too wet.