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?!".

Thanksgiving is hours away which means turkeys everywhere are running and hiding hoping that they have survived one more year not resting alongside your sweet potatoes. Some turkeys may seek shelter with deer, unaware that the poor deer's time, come Monday, may also be limited. If these turkeys had any sense at all, they would run or fly (how well do turkeys really fly?) and take up residence on the White House Lawn, hoping that they too will receive a Presidential Turkey Pardon.

Each and every Thanksgiving, the White House turkey is pardoned and rather than lopping off it's head, the President opts to use his free Giant Turkey coupon after scoring so many Giant Bonus Points and allows this turkey designee to spend it's Golden Years roaming the turkey pen at Mt. Vernon.

There is some debate over who the first President was to pardon our Thanksgiving Day main dish. Some say Lincoln unofficially pardoned the bird when his son Tad had become so attached to the family turkey that he couldn't bear to eat him. Still others believe President Kennedy was the first to pardon a turkey when he returned the White House turkey after he said, "We'll let this one grow" and sent the grateful turkey back. Rumor has it, that it was George H. W. Bush who actually used the term "pardon" when he excused the White House turkey from the Holiday "festivities". A pardon, really George? So, I guess I am to assume that if President Bush pardoned this turkey, the turkey must surely have gobbled, "I'm sorry" right before he said, "yeee-haw"!

A pardon is forgiving someone for an "error" or "offense". And don't you think that most people before pardoning someone, wait to hear the words, "I'm sorry" or "forgive me" or at the very least, "wow, what I did sucked" from the wrongdoer? Does the White House turkey show remorse or apologize for being who he is? He can't help it he was born a turkey. He shouldn't have to apologize for tasting so good next to your stuffing and mashed potatoes, but, if this turkey is being pardoned then surely he must have done something wrong, right? 

I can't help but wonder if this lucky bird has to apologize in order to, literally, save his head or is it just assumed he is seeking forgiveness since, after all, he lives in Washington and so many folks living there feel remorseful for their wrongdoings without every uttering an, "I'm sorry" (Bill Clinton aside)? What about all the other turkeys? The turkeys in Idaho and Maine? The middle class turkeys who are equally as guilty of being exactly who they are meant to be, who can't utter an "I'm sorry" and whose address alone will not get them a pardon?

One of the many things I am thankful for this Thanksgiving Eve is that Ryan is NOT a turkey. First, we don't live on Pennsylvania Avenue and second, Ryan has almost as much trouble uttering the words, "I'm sorry" in order to seek a pardon, as your average middle class turkey. Relax autism advocates, I am not comparing my beautiful son to a turkey, well, in a way I am, but, please wait for my point before taking to the internet and flogging me.

My point is, when Ryan commits an "offense", an "error" or some type of "wrongdoing", getting him to apologize in order to receive a pardon is like getting a turkey to talk. There is some part of autism that grabs hold of Ryan's mouth and clamps it closed and will NOT allow the words, "I'm sorry" to come out. I wholeheartedly believe Ryan feels remorse when he hurts someone....sometimes, but, saying he's sorry is extremely difficult. I don't know if admitting wrongdoing is hard because understanding the social implications of his offense or error is difficult to grasp and he believes what he did was "right", or if somehow in Ryan's mind, uttering the words, "I'm sorry", is relinquishing one of the few forms of control he has in an otherwise chaotic world. The control of being "right".

It could be something as minor as ramming my heels with the grocery cart. After I stop cursing, Ryan may mumble, "You were in the way." or "I didn't do that on purpose.", but, he will not say, "I'm sorry.". Is that enough remorse for a pardon? Then there are bigger errors, like when Ryan slapped his sister's four leaf clover right out of her hand when she was just happily and proudly sharing her good fortune with him because he doesn't "believe in clover bringing good luck". When such an offense caused his sister's heart to fill with sadness and her eyes to fill with tears and he refused to apologize regardless of our "intervention", ok, fine our threats of removing all electronic devices, yet, still no apology, should Ryan be pardoned?

For Ryan, "I'm sorry" is like talking turkey, if he doesn't believe he has committed an offense why should he say something he doesn't mean? We have all been there, the one to "give in", the one to "say it first", but, even if it's like swallowing a turkey bone, we can say the words, "I'm sorry" when we believe it and even when we don't because we know it is either the right thing to do, or the thing that brings peace back into the house.

I believe that 90% of the time Ryan does understand his offense and I believe he is "sorry", but, just like so many other emotions when it comes to autism, how Ryan shows this remorse, looks "different, not less". As Ryan gets older, he is getting wiser. He understands that sometime he has to do and say things that may not feel comfortable for him, but, in order to move on, he may need to feel a little uncomfortable. 

Just because Ryan struggles to utter the words, "I'm sorry" doesn't mean he should be pardoned for his errors or offenses without first trying to understand the implications of his offense. Yes, autism may make understanding how Ryan's actions impact others more difficult, but, autism is not a free pass to a free pardon. Ryan's lack of belief in a lucky four leaf clover, did not excuse the heartache he caused his sister. It took days to get Ryan to understand how he hurt his sister, and I do believe he "got it", but she never heard the words, "I'm sorry". What she did hear, was his voice being a little kinder than usual the next day.

Just like the turkey can't help who he is and where his place is in the world, or on your dinner table, people with autism can no more help who they are either. Not showing remorse does not mean they don't feel it. The words "I'm sorry" may not come out of their mouth, but, the White House turkey doesn't say them either and they still get a break. Just like the Presidents of the past and the Presidents for years to come will continue to show compassion to a turkey and pardon said turkey for being who they are, we too must show compassion for people living with autism. We must try to understand and pardon them when they may not be able to find the words I'm sorry when they ram us with a shopping cart, but, can find the exact words to let us know how hideous we look with our latest hair style.

Unlike the Thanksgiving Day turkey, Ryan is remorseful when he has done something wrong and he can sometimes quietly, in a barely audible voice, and typically in a scripted language, say the words, "I'm sorry" even if it feels like someone is pulling his wing off. 

So, on this Thanksgiving Day, I'm not trying to make you feel guilty when you eat your unpardoned turkey, but, I'm asking you to take just a moment to remember that the turkey can't help who he is and he may not have been able to apologize in order to get his pardon, but, that doesn't mean the turkey isn't sorry that today, of all days, he couldn't find the words, "I'm sorry". If I have instilled a little turkey guilt, you might just want to stick with the sweet potatoes, I hear they show no remorse....ever.

Twice the harmless gym bag has gone missing and now this week, thanks to a hole in the bottom of the 100% nylon (Hollister cotton would have held up so much better) bag, the combination lock has gone missing (insert moaning, groaning and anxiety here). When I went to put the clean clothes in the gym bag, I did not hear the clunk of the lock or feel the pain shoot through my toe as I accidentally dumped the lock onto my, inevitably shoe-less foot. I thought to myself, "Crap. Here we go again...another trip to the dreaded Lost and Found Box. When I mentioned this, Ryan quickly and shakily assured me, "Don't worry about that lock, I don't need a lock. I'm perfectly fine without one.". I think trying to find the lost in a menagerie of junk is more stressful to Ryan than swift and quick punishment by his gym teacher.

Every school has one, and depending on how forgetful the student body is, the Lost and Found could be a box, a bin, or a closet. Regardless of size and location, the Lost and Found is typically filled with a disorganized, random collection of books, hats, action figures, water bottles, a leftover winter mitten, and quite regularly, a gym bag. These items sit in the box sometimes for hours, days and months, waiting among the mess of other sad and discarded belongings for their owner to come and retrieve them. Trying to find something that is lost in such a disorganized mess is difficult, and sometimes, it's just not worth the search, so the owner claims it a "loss" and moves on. Eventually, the Lost and Not Found items make their way to the local landfill, never to be heard from again.

For years, just like sorting through the mishmash of items in his school's Lost and Found bin for the missing gym bag, Ryan has had to sort through a jumble of verbs, nouns, and pronouns to find the word he is looking for, the word that in the moment, seems "lost". Even today, there are times when Ryan still struggles to get his words out, but, I AWEnestly believe that the words are not, nor have ever been "lost", they have just been hidden under a mess of other words, words he is not looking for, words that in the moment, he does not need, words that may be too hard to pull out of the "box".

"Find your words" I use to say to the screaming, crying, melting down toddler. "Find your words" I use to say to the frustrated, bright, overstimulated preschooler. Little did I know, those behaviors, those screams, those cries were Ryan's "words", he was indeed communicating with me, but, I just wasn't listening. His frustration, his anger, his fear, were mixed among the words, jumbled in the Lost and Found, in plain sight, but, he was unable to retrieve them. I can only imagine his frustration.

Telling Ryan to "find his words" were poorly chosen words on my part. For Ryan, his words were not lost, he knew where they were, he just couldn't reach the bottom of the box. I don't know that Ryan's words have ever been lost. I think his words have always been "there", but, just like the messy, disorganized Lost and Found box, sometimes, rooting around and digging for what he is missing, is just too difficult, and it's not worth sorting through all the other words scattered about to find that one word that Ryan just can't reach. If the search for the word becomes too difficult, if there is just too much in the box to sort through, then Ryan discontinues the search, gives up and walks away. Frustrated, but, not the least bit concerned if that word ends up with the elusive mitten in a landfill. 

Telling Ryan to "find his words" probably made him want to dump me head first into the Lost and Found box with the smelly missing gym sock and dirty water bottles. Ryan's words weren't "lost", he just had trouble retrieving them and expressing them. Many kids with an ASD struggle with expressive language, and Ryan is no different. Neither is Naoki Higashida who struggled to "find his words", yet, became a published author at the tender age of 13.

When Ryan and I were discussing different methods for building the dodecagon, I suggested that maybe I could buy Ryan some rubber gloves to help desensitize his fingers to the paper. Ryan immediately assured me rubber gloves would not work. When I asked him why, Ryan had no trouble finding or expressing his words. "The rubber gloves will still make me feel the paper in my central nervous system. There are some feelings and some sounds that I feel directly in my central nervous system and paper is one of them." I stood there with my mouth hanging open.

Ryan had no trouble finding his words, because I don't believe those words, or any others, were ever lost. In fact, all those years ago, during haircuts, and doctor's appointments and trying on new jeans, and wearing shirts with tags, Ryan's cries were telling me the same exact thing. These sensory sensations were being felt in his central nervous system and making him utterly miserable.

All those years of me telling Ryan, "find your words", he probably wanted to tell me, "find your ears". Ryan's words were not lost, they were just hidden amidst a bunch of other words and it was difficult for him to retrieve the right word with all his nerve endings poking through his central nervous system distracting him. 

Stephen R. Covey said, "Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.". I wanted Ryan to find his words, so I could reply. It was hard to reply to groans, moans, scripts, and meltdowns, it was Ryan's words that I wanted to hear even though I understood him loud and clear.

Whether it's a lost gym bag or a "lost" word, sometimes, it's easier for Ryan to "not worry about it" and move on. Digging through the jumbled words in his brain some days feels as pointless as digging through that heap of lost belongings in the Lost and Found. Ryan knows there are other ways to get his meaning out. Whether it's a script from Austin Powers, a paper shoved at me with his foot, or a moan when I grab the wrong glass for his grape juice, Ryan's words were never "lost", in fact, he has been using his "words" for years, I just wasn't listening.

Well, it's been one week. Have you rushed out to get the iPhone 6? Were you standing in line so you could, as my husband likes to put it, be the first to "stick your head in the oven because everyone else does"? I was not standing in line, even though I wanted to be....even though my contract was up over 8 months ago....even though I am more than ready for an upgrade, but, with a husband like that, I couldn't be the first to put my head in the oven, because I hate to prove my husband right. In fact, AWEnestly, I love to prove him wrong. 

So, here I sit, blogging on my iPhone 4s dinosaur, trying to act like it's no biggie that it takes 90 seconds for Facebook to open up, or that my battery lasts approximately 45 minutes before I have to run to an outlet somewhere, trying to act like I don't care what "everyone else is doing". Just an FYI, I'm secretly dying to be like all the other people out there baking their head, impatiently waiting to stick my head right alongside their head in the iPhone 6 oven, assuming the oven is big enough and the temperature is set to low. And I don't even care if the new, problematic iOS8 keeps me from making a call on my "phone" or if I keep my new iPhone 6 in my pocket too long and it bends like a pretzel, it's still an iPhone, right?

If I'm AWEnest, part of my love affair with Steve Jobs and all things Apple is indeed, because "everyone's doing it", but, I truly do love and bow to all things "i" because for someone who is as technologically savvy as the Anti-Steve Jobs, "i" devices are simple and easy. I love my iPhone, iPad and I just recently started a romance with my MacBook Air. So as much as I have a love-hate relationship with my antiquated iPhone 4s, I still love it when my old dinosaur outsmarts Dan's Samsung. "Oh yes, it's quite easy for me to upload this video of our dog chasing his tail to Vine. Your Samsung can't do that?", I ask innocently while gloating inside.

Like any good mother, I want my kids to put their heads in the oven with me so they can be on my side, not Dad's side. (The oven would be on very, very low and everyone would have their heads wrapped in oven mitts). This is why Kyle has an iPhone, Emma has an iPad Mini, Ryan has an iPod Touch and just last month, when Ryan turned 13, he became an official put your head in the oven, iPhone user. Well, maybe "user" isn't the correct word, more like an iPhone "owner", or iPhone "shelf decorator" (that's two words), since Ryan's iPhone has seen little to no use, besides that first day when I forced his head into the oven with mine.

As parents, it is our job to lead our children safely into the age of technology, making them choose the technological path that is right for them without trying to sway them too much to "our side". This is true for most things in the parenting department. Whether it's smart phones, religion, college selection or dating prospects, we parents are suppose to guide, not choose. For example, the main character in the book, "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret." , Margaret is trying to figure out which religion she belongs to since her mother's family is Christian and her father's family is Jewish. With both families trying to convince Margaret where she belongs, trying to pull her to their "side", Margaret turns to God while trying to figure out her own choices and not letting family influence her. 

Clearly, Dan believes I am trying to force Ryan into believing in the Apple Gods which is why it made perfect sense that I would jump on the iPhone 5c as the ideal 13th birthday gift for Ryan. However, if I'm being AWEnest, it wasn't so much my belief in Steve Jobs that caused me to push Ryan's head in the oven with mine as much as it was my desire to have Ryan "be like everyone else'. It seems that just when I think I have removed Denial from my Favorites on my iPhone, I find myself calling her again and again, "Are you there Denial? It's me, Kate."

Unfortunately, no matter how many iPhone upgrades I get, how many iOS operating systems I download, or how many factory resets I do, Denial always remain somewhere in the vastness of the iCloud, always at my disposal, waiting for my call. Regardless of how far down on my Favorites Denial goes, no matter how many times I have deleted her contact information, thanks to the Cloud, Denial is always there, ready to answer my call when I get caught up in the "everyone is doing it" mindset that so often does not apply to my son.

Denial assured me that with this new iPhone, Ryan would become more social. After all, it's easier to socialize via texts, tweets, and posts. Yet Ryan's iPhone has remained on his dresser for most of a month, with Siri begging for something to do. The iPod Touch, is still Ryan's go to, the iPhone, which "every kid" would love to have, sits on his dresser collecting dust. It didn't help that the original iPhone 5c we bought Ryan had a glitch and it deleted all of Ryan's overpriced data in 48 hours and put the fear of God and Verizon Overage Charges in my boy's psyche, but, mostly, I believe the reason Ryan's iPhone has become a dust collector is because Ryan is more like his dad, not quite ready to stick his head in the oven just because everyone else is doing it, or because good old mom had Siri ring up Denial for me....again.

Needless to say, when you aren't sure how the oven works, or how other people hanging out in the oven with you may respond to your new found place in the oven, it's easy to understand the fear of being burnt. Taking social risks for Ryan, whether it's in the school lunchroom or via a text in the privacy and safety of his bedroom, is scary. Ryan wants his response to be cool, to be "right", to be perfect. Rather than risk getting burnt, much to my dismay, Ryan has decided to keep the oven off and now it's Dan's turn to gloat.

I know it makes perfect sense that I want Ryan to text, tweet, post, and snap like all the other kids his age. And even when Ryan's words, "you know I'm not a real social guy" rang in my head at the Verizon store, I believed in my heart, that the magic of Apple would change all of that, or at the very least, I believed being social on social media, might come more easily for Ryan than being social face to face. Denial tweeted that she believed it too, #letsgetsocial, so of course I proudly retweeted it, right from Ryan's new, white iPhone 5c (that is costing us $50 a month to collect dust).

When I either intentionally call or butt dial Denial, Denial usually steers me in the wrong direction, because Denial tends to see the world more through my eyes rather than through Ryan's eyes. This time though, I believe that the joy Ryan felt when he opened his new iPhone is truly how he feels in his heart and on his birthday, in that moment, there was no denying Ryan's joy when he opened that iPhone. Denial may have caused me to turn the oven on a little too soon, but, I think in time, Ryan may actually love the oven (sorry Dad) and in time he may just retweet Denial's #letsgetsocial. Just like so many developmental milestones with Ryan, all things eventually come to him, it just takes a little longer for him to catch on to the notion that "everyone is doing it" whether that's walking, talking, texting or tweeting. 

Will Ryan become a social media extraordinaire or the next YouTube sensation? Will Ryan's iPhoto be as filled with selfies and photos of friends as his big brother Kyle or his aging, still trying to be cool, mother? I doubt it, but, I do believe in time, Ryan will feel comfortable texting and posting his latest Minecraft zombie kill on Instagram. Ryan once told me being social is difficult because "it's hard to think fast", and the magic of Apple, Samsung, and Droid is that no matter which oven you decide to stick your head into, you can ignore, delete, silence or have Siri respond for you, after you have had time to "think" and formulate a response. Maybe it's still Denial talking, but, I believe socializing on social media will open, or at the very least crack, the oven door a little wider in all things social for Ryan, regardless of which oven he chooses.

Just like Margaret had to figure out who she was on her own regardless of the influences of family, peers, and the pressure of growing up, Ryan will find his place regardless of the influence of his dad, his mom, or his mom's BFF, Denial. Whether it's smart phones, religion, school socials, proms, or career choices, Ryan will need our guidance, but, ultimately Ryan will choose. Perhaps Ryan will stick his head in the "everybody's doing it" oven with me, the non-conformist oven with his father, or his very own, yet to be determined, oven. 

Regardless of which oven Ryan chooses, he will figure it out his way, in his own time. I just hope that whatever path Ryan embarks upon, he will take loads of photos that he can share with me in iPhoto, send me tons of iMessages to fill me in on what he's up to, and FaceTime me regularly to let me know where he is heading next, so that I can proudly tweet, text, and post from my latest, greatest iPhone, assuming, that I can get my head out of the oven in order to do so.

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.

Once upon a time, a very, very, very long time ago in what feels like a kingdom far, far, far away, a young 20 something year old princess lived in a castle, I mean, a single bedroom apartment, on her own. One night after returning home from a night of revelry, with other princesses, the princess approached her castle door to turn in for the night. Little did the princess know, that on that evening, her very own Prince Charming opted to replace his prince hat with a court jester hat. In Prince Charming's attempt to bring joy and laughter to the princess, he decided to hide in the bushes right at the doorway to the castle, I mean apartment, and scare his future queen.

Prince Charming jumped out of the bushes and nearly scared the princess to death. The princess found very little humor in such entertainment and she quickly went all ogre on his a**. The princess, who at the time was performing her less than royal duty as a juvenile probation officer, fortunately was not packing heat that evening, for if she had been, Prince Charming may have laid alongside Snow White in a glass bed deep in the forest.

Sorry, we've been watching a lot of Shrek this summer and AWEnestly, Ryan makes a much better Donkey than Eddie Murphy himself.

Yes, one summer a long, long time ago, Dan thought it would be funny to hide in the bushes, jump out at me and make my heart stop beating for a millisecond. Needless to say, this princess almost soiled her pants, which would have been very undignified behavior for a princess. As I approached my apartment, I certainly was not expected someone to be hiding in the bushes, no matter how many horror movies had prepared me for that exact scenario over the years. So, when the unexpected happened, I was not the least bit prepared for it and my bodily functions reacted as poorly as my future husband's role as court jester.

Whether it's your creepy fiance (I did not kill him and yes he still enjoys scaring me) hiding in the bushes, or your boss showing up at your office door to tell you that the deadline for that report you have been stalling on has been moved from next week until tomorrow, being ill-prepared for the unexpected can make you feel, well...ill. 

Your pulse may quicken. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest...in your ears...and in your brain. Your mouth immediately goes dry and you feel like you may hurl your breakfast all over your new shoes. Then suddenly, your brain no longer works. You are momentarily frozen and at a total loss for words. Then finally, your fight or flight goes into overdrive and you either wind up running or swinging. When your body is so incredibly freaked out, it makes preparing for the unexpected very difficult.

Yes, the unexpected, can do a number on a person. Whether the unexpected is something wonderful or something dreadful, your body may still react the exact same way. An unexpected surprise birthday party, an unexpected marriage proposal, or an unexpected fortune bequeathed by a long, lost relative (does that really ever happen?) are all wonderful events, but, your brain just may not see it that way initially. If your brain didn't see it coming, your body reacts accordingly to such an unexpected event.

For Ryan, and many kids with an ASD, the unexpected, be it good (a surprise visit from the Ice Cream Man) or bad (a thunderstorm knocks out the cable five minutes before the new Gumball episode is about to begin) is not expected, so their reaction may not be what you or the family sitting next to you at the restaurant where they just removed grilled cheese sandwiches from the menu, expected either.

This week, Ryan is attending a Vocal Camp at a local music center. I did a poor job preparing him for the unexpected. I showed Ryan the website online, but, we did not do a drive by for him to get a visual of the music center. Ryan has been looking forward to this camp all summer as he loves his new found "instrument", his voice, so, he eagerly got up early, got himself ready and out the door we went. Ryan happily scripted Shrek and Donkey on the way to camp and all seemed right with the world, until the unexpected happened.

As I parked on the street outside the music center, the scripting stopped and the worrying began. Ryan quickly surveyed the music center and in a not so happy, more ogre, less donkey like voice, he grumbled, "This can't be it. This is not what I expected." Turns out, in Ryan's mind, a music center for a vocal camp should be held in a school or a church, not in a turn of the century house...where there is an unexpected dog and an unexpected window air conditioning unit that blows his hair and freezes him to death.

You could physically see Ryan's body react. His latest sniffing tick became more rapid. His eyes darted around inspecting this unexpected location for perceived danger. I swear if that boy had his driver's license, we would have been back home where it was safe...where everything is as he expected. It took some persuading to get Ryan to accept the unexpected, but, he did and he is LOVING vocal camp....in a house, not in a church or a school with a dog who just lays around and does not jump on him unexpectedly.

Some days, when Ryan is not expecting the unexpected, opportunities are missed. One day last week, Ryan's friend called and invited Ryan over to his house to play video games. I wasn't sure what to expect, at this unexpected invitation, but, I had a pretty good idea. "Hey Ryan, your friend wants you to go hang out at his house." "Great, when?", Ryan asked. "He wants you to go over now." In an utterly dumbfounded and amazed voice Ryan bellowed, "What?! Right now? Oh no, no, no, no, I can't go now, I wasn't expecting that. I will go tomorrow, when I am expecting it." Unfortunately, Ryan's friend wasn't expecting a play date for the next day, and already had plans, so, the play date didn't happen. A missed social opportunity because Ryan wasn't expecting the unexpected.

The unexpected is difficult for Ryan because processing too many things at once is hard for him. When he knows what to expect, he is better able to prepare his body for the sensory overload, he is better able to anticipate social interactions, and he is better able to develop a script in his mind about forthcoming conversations. Ryan's brain just needs a little more time to process the unexpected. A little more time, helps Ryan better prepare for the change coming at him, a change that may seem ever so subtle to you and me, but, to Ryan feels like an unexpected person hiding in the bushes that immediately transforms him from a sensitive, kind, little boy into a grumpy, "get out of my swamp" kind of ogre. 

Just like all of us, the unexpected can be quite an assault on our system, so, don't we all function better when we are prepared? When the system is taxed even harder by autism, it makes perfect sense that Ryan would rather avoid that assault altogether by playing it safe, regardless of missed opportunities.

Ryan continues to work so hard to expect the unexpected in order to keep the ogre at bay, but, in his world that is filled with so many things hiding in the bushes, it is hard for him to throw down his pitchfork and let his guard down. As Ryan gets older and develops more scripts, more scenarios and more "what if's" in his constantly building repertoire, the unexpected will become expected and although the ogre may always hide deep in the recesses of his brain, Ryan will have the skills that will make him more "prince" and less "ogre".

I may not know how Ryan's fairy tale will end, but, one thing I can promise you is, that if a fair maiden ever catches Ryan's eye, chances are high that my little prince will never lie waiting in the bushes to scare the daylights out of her because Ryan will never see the humor in such unexpected entertainment. No, this unknown, 20 years in the future, fair maiden will never have to worry about expecting the unexpected with my little prince. Chances are, she will always know what is lying right around the bend and what, or who, will not be hiding in the bushes by the front door. 

Now, as for what this fair maiden can expect from her future mother and father-in-law, well, that's an entirely different, completely unexpected, yet relatively entertaining fairy tale. I just hope she doesn't pack heat.

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 my husband and I watched Gravity this past weekend, I wondered why I was subjected myself to the terrors of space a second time, since after watching George Clooney, who can even make a space suit look sexy, float off into space nearly killed me the first time I watched it, why in the world was I watching such a horror happen again? I mean, losing George briefly to former pro-wrestler Stacy Keibler was hard enough to take, watching him drift off into space alone...without me....twice, well, that's more than any woman should have to bear.

Besides losing George to the infinite vastness of space, Gravity was tough for me to watch. I have issues with the whole running out of oxygen, freezing to death, and possibly burning up while entering the atmosphere, type conditions. I know there are brave astronauts and scientists who risk the dangers of space due in part for the betterment of mankind, and due in part because it really makes them look good on match.com, and I say, kudos to them. Lord knows we sure are doing a number on this world so someone, yes, even if it means sacrificing George, better find us a new world fast.

Along with these super smart rocket scientists, there are even some dumb, adventure seeking civilians ready to board the Virgin Galactic Space Shuttle for a mere $200,000 in order to experience the rush of leaving the Earth's atmosphere for a round trip ticket to space (and hopefully a better outcome than poor George). AWEnestly, for me, the only thing scarier than blasting off from this world in search of a new world in the oxygen-less, freezing cold, meteor ridden, vastness of space, would be blasting off this world with The Biebs in a drooping butt spacesuit strapped into the seat next to me.

Call me a scaredy cat, a cissy, a wus or boring, but, there is no way I'd want to leave the world that I have become so accustomed to, a world with plenty of oxygen, AC, heat, and Oreos that don't float away when you try to dip them in milk that also floats away, for a world that is confusing, different, scary and hard to navigate. Especially, if I had Bieber leading the way. 

Even if I didn't burn up, freeze to death or run out of air, but, landed safely in a new world, what if upon my arrival, no one understood me? What if no one tried to understand the world I came from in order to make me feel safe, happy and at home? What if no one cared enough to learn about my world and all they wanted was for me to assimilate to their world, so I wouldn't look or act so different from the local natives? Sometimes, it just feels safer and easier to stay in my own world, and I would bet a $200,000 First Class ticket to space, that Ryan feels exactly the same way.

I have to be AWEnest folks, there are days, ok, fine, weeks, where I feel like it's safer, easier and better to stay in my world, so I constantly suit Ryan up and do my best to shuttle him into my world, while often forgetting to put on my spacesuit and enter his. Ryan often fights this ride, because to him, his world is far superior and much easier to navigate than mine.

This summer, more so than any other time, it has felt like Ryan and I have been living in two different worlds. So, in order to close the space between our two worlds, I have been busting my butt to strap Ryan into a space shuttle and rocket him into my world, with very little regard to what he is leaving behind in his world.

I rationalize these space shuttling decisions by reminding myself that my neurotypical world is where most people live and where most people are comfortable. After all, isn't my world the acceptable ideal? A world where people socialize, communicate and interact with one another to make a happier, productive world. Not a solitary world, where video games, television shows, silence and the oh, so great Steve from Minecraft, is preferred over all other lifeforms?

I have spent so much time and energy telling Ryan to "check back in", "turn off the game", "go outside and play", "come to the store with me", and yes, even, "Earth to Ryan", yet, I have spent very little time or energy visiting his world and finding out what is so life sustaining for him there. After nearly burning Ryan up, time and time again, while trying to pull him into my orbit, I decided it was time for this scaredy cat girl to break out of the comforts of my world and join Ryan in his. Turns out, Ryan's world wasn't so different from mine, and the bonus was, I didn't even need a spacesuit.

Ryan was in his world, in his bedroom to be more specific, playing Minecraft on the laptop with his iPod Touch right next to it playing some type of music. And for a change, I did not try and force Ryan into leaving his world and coming to visit me in mine, instead, I sat down next to him and asked Ryan what made his world so special. This opened a portal into his world he very rarely shares with me, or with anyone, because most people, including his guilt ridden mother, are too busy trying to close that portal in order for him to join a world where it is often cold and the air feels so thin that it makes it hard for my beautiful boy to breath.

After propping Ryan's portal open, and spending time in his world, it turns out, that Ryan's world is not so different from mine. He was listening to Minecraft parody songs on his Ipod Touch while snuffing out creepers on Minecraft. Not so different than me listening to my latest playlist while snuffing out dust bunnies with the vacuum cleaner. These songs he was listening to, which are so unfamiliar in my world, are all parodies of chart topping songs that are very familiar in my world thanks to Pandora, Sirius, and iTunes Radio. I suggested that we play Ryan's music on the bluetooth speaker in my room so we could really jam to it. Ryan beamed at the idea.

As the first chords of Moves Like Creeper (sorry Maroon 5 it may top Moves Like Jagger) blared out of the speaker, I swear, the sun illuminated my boy and his world in a way I had not witnessed all summer long. Ryan's smile, his joy was palpable as I finally landed on his soil. 

Ryan sang the lyrics to Moves Like Creeper  while I belted out, "I got the mooo-oooo-oooo-oooo-ooo-oves like Jagger". Ryan was so happy while we both sang and danced on my bed that he didn't even criticize my "terrible voice" until at least 15 minutes into our sing off/dance off had begun. As we were singing, dancing, laughing and living together in that moment, I realized that finally both of our worlds had collided, and it was not a cataclysmic event, in fact, it was perfectly AWEsome. This collision has hands down, been the best night of my summer and I am so glad that I finally took the time to see the stars that make his world so bright.

As often as the gravitational pull of my world tries to suck Ryan in, I recognize that I need to occasionally shut down my gravitational field and shoot on over and join Ryan in his world. While there, I must look for ways that both of our worlds can collide with minimal damage to the lifeforms that inhabit our unique, but, strikingly similar worlds. I so frequently ask Ryan to risk his air supply to come to my world, yet, I get so caught up in breathing my own air, sometimes I forget to breath his.

I understand that the world of autism in many ways is very different than the neurotypical world many of us live on. I also understand that it is important for Ryan to assimilate to my world since that is the standard most inhabitants of this world expect, but, I think it is equally important that those of us who are aliens to the autism world, are respectful and kind, and that we do our best to understand what is so important in a world that differs from our own. We must respect those differences and allows those differences to remain when those living with autism visit our neurotypical world.

If the price of space travel is greatly reduced over the next few decades and I get a little braver, perhaps I will venture out into "the great unknown". If I do, I promise I will not sit next to Bieber, no matter how many trips he has taken before me or if he finally decides to pulls his pants up. 

There is no doubt that it is Ryan I will want beside me since he has become so successful at living in and navigating an unfamiliar world. Ryan has proven that no matter how difficult the terrain may be, how unforgiving the natives are, or how unfamiliar a new world may be, Ryan can adapt, and in the process, he has shown how important it is for others to adapt too. And if there is room on our shuttle, I will save a seat for Tom Hanks, since he survived a deserted island with only a ball named Wilson, and he landed Apollo 13 safely in the South Pacific. Sorry George, you will need to take another shuttle, I just can't trust you to commit. 

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