You say tomato, I say tomahto, basically means, that not matter how you say the word tomato, it is still a tomato, but, what I want to know is, who actually ever says "tomahto"? I recognize that I certainly am not the most cultured or well traveled woman in the world, but, I have several friends who grew up in various countries, speaking various languages with various accents and I have never, ever heard any of them, or anyone at all for that matter, call a tomato a tomahto. I get the meaning, boy do I get the meaning, because most days as I'm getting Ryan out the door for school I think, "his routine, my routine", tomato, tomahto...no matter how you say it, it has the exact same meaning which basically translates to, never stray from the routine unless you want a rotten tomato, tomahto thrown at your head.

"His routine, my routine" is a little like Bill Murray's routine in the movie Groundhog Day. Bill Murray stars as Phil Connors, an arrogant, big wig meteorologist who is sent to check out good old Punxsutawney Phil for Groundhog Day, an assignment Phil believes is soooo... beneath him. In a weird twist of fate, or perhaps karma, Phil wakes up every single day at the exact time and repeats the same day....Groundhog Day, over and over and over again. This repetitive monotony for Phil Connors seems to be a sort of punishment, or purgatory if you will, for belittling the importance of the Groundhog Day routine as well as his dismissive attitude towards the repetitious, humdrum, doesn't quite get them, folks of Punxsutawney, PA.

Every morning, Phil wakes up at the exact same time, takes the exact same freezing cold shower, is greeted by the exact same woman, has the exact same cup of coffee and heads out the door to the exact same place, Gobbler's Knob, to give the exact same weather report over and over and over again. AWEnestly, Bill Murray's got nothing over on me....except maybe some hazy, drug induced memories of the 1970's. For a mom loving my AWEsome son, who craves routine like Punxsutawney Phil craves the privacy and media free seclusion of his groundhog hole and an additional six weeks of winter so he can go back to sleep, Ryan's routines and rituals have become my routines and rituals. Tomato, tomahto.

My alarm goes off at 6:15 every morning, I hit the snooze (much to my light sleeper husband's dismay), then finally roll out of bed with the second alarm squeals and here is how Ryan's routine, my routine goes:

6:20-I wake Ryan up to groans of "I'm still tired."
6:28-In a hushed, but, yelling voice, I tell/yell for Ryan to hurry up or he will miss the bus (missing the bus is a fear much scarier than a groundhog's shadow).
6:30-Feed Ryan a sugar filled breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Welch's Grape Juice (only the kind with high fructose corn syrup...I tried the others, he noticed, I got reprimanded) in the same glass and the same bowl, every single morning.
6:32-Pack Ryan's lunch...cheese sandwich (two pieces of Land O' Lakes Cheese, no substitutes acceptable, a light spread of Hellman's Mayonnaise, again, no substitutes allowed) cut into triangles (never, ever, ever rectangles), grapes (not too many, not too few...it's a gamble), Pringles (I have figured out how many by the feel of them in my fingers), Jello Vanilla Pudding (another food where a brand substitute would not be acceptable), a plastic spoon, and a juice bag, one of three choices are acceptable.
6:43-I'm called to "catch" his clothes which he tosses over the two story foyer railing for me to "heat up" in the dryer on high heat, not medium, not low for 3 minutes, not 4, not 5, and especially not 2 (trust me he can tell).
6:46-Deliver warmed up clothes to Ryan which I tuck inside my shirt to retain the heat so as to avoid another 30 second warm up if the clothes are deemed "freezing".
6:48-Untie Ryan's shoes (which are easily a size too small, but, he refuses to wear a new pair), set them at the bottom of the step with lunch bag and gym bag.
6:50-Ryan comes downstairs, backpack in hand, sits on the bottom step, not the second, not the third, puts his lunch box in his backpack, puts his left shoe on (never, ever the right one first, "it doesn't feel right"), I help him tie his shoes even though he can now finally do it himself, but, they just "stay better" when I do it.
6:51-Ryan puts his coat on (the exact same coat all year long regardless of season), if it's too warm, he still gets the coat, covers up with it, while I wrap a towel around his neck and use a wet brush (never, ever a dry brush, even though ironically, once upon a time it could never, ever be a wet brush), and brush his hear.
6:52-Depart for the bus stop, by jumping in the van to drive one block (bugs and inclement weather makes that one block feel like one mile).
6:53-Bus arrives, I am kissed and hugged twice, unless he is mad at me for not fully heating his clothes properly or running out of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and off he goes.

His routine, my routine. Tomato, tomahto.

When Ryan was little, his need for routine and sameness AWEnestly freaked me out. Back then, Denial was whispering in my ear, "It's not a strict adherence to rituals and routines like the DSM-IV described as a risk factor for "The A Word", Ryan is just stubborn and likes things HIS way." Clueless and Denial would then bully me and say, "Wrestle that new coat on Ryan and MAKE him wear it, you paid all that money for it, so he HAS to wear it." Of course I listened to my so called, "friends" and the end result would be both Ryan and I in tears while Denial and Clueless just "tsk, tsk, tsk'ed" me from across the room and the coat remained crumpled on the floor as useless and discarded as I felt. Denial and Clueless also use to grocery shop with us and one day, Denial said, "Just skip aisle 5 and go right from aisle 4 to aisle 6 because you don't need anything in aisle 5 and Ryan has to get over it." Listening to my not so well intended friends, I skipped aisle 5, much to the dismay of every shopper in aisles 3 through 7 who became officially hearing impaired by the time I returned to aisle 5. His routine, my routine. Tomato, tomahto.

Ryan's need for routine, his desire for Groundhog Day, helps him predict a very unpredictable world. When Ryan doesn't know what vague, unpredictable, fictional assignment he will receive in English class, knowing that right after English, he will find a cheese sandwich cut in triangles with just the right amount of grapes and Pringles in his lunch box, helps balance out Ryan's world. Walking out the door into a world that is confusing and filled with bees, thunderstorms and bullies, wearing one of five soft, cotton tshirts, and the same broken in too small shoes, makes taking on that scary world a little less frightening. 

We all have our routines and rituals. We all have our Groundhog Day days, yet, sometimes, even the most tedious of routines provides us with a sense of comfort. You could probably make it through your day without that must have morning cup of Joe, but, you might be an intolerable bear to all your co-workers who immediately start a central line of coffee for you desk side. For Ryan and kids and adults living with an ASD, that cup of Joe is a necessity to survive Groundhog Day, no matter how tedious and inconsequential it may seem to an outsider looking in.

The term "Groundhog Day" has become known as a sort of negative connotation. The mundane, boring, predictable tasks of life. In fact, "Groundhog Day" has become military lingo for soldiers who have had multiple tours of duty in the same country, fighting the same war. Ryan may not be traveling roads decimated by years of war, with the threat of an aggressive attack around every corner, but, in Ryan's mind, putting his left shoe on first, eating the same lunch every single day, and wearing the same five shirts day in and day out, is as essential for his survival as a flak jacket in the middle of an unpredictable, unstable, war torn country.

In the movie, Groundhog Day, Phil Connors had to relive Groundhog Day over and over again because he didn't "get it". To Phil, the meaningless routines and rituals of Groundhog Day were ludicrous and a complete waste of his precious, valuable time, so Phil's form of purgatory was to relive Groundhog Day over and over again until he did "get it". Until Phil recognized the importance of this day, of these rituals and routines to the folks of Punxsutawney PA, he would never be fully vested in his assignment. Once Phil got it, once he understood, he was able to see the significance, the joy, and the pride of Groundhog Day for people he once did not understand.

Denial and Clueless kept me from seeing the importance of routine for Ryan. His routine, my routine, tomato, tomahto, once felt like Groundhog Day to me. There are still moments where I think, "Can you please just eat/wear/do something different?", but, once I see the fear and anxiety cross his beautiful, trusting eyes, I realize that I'm no better than Phil Connors. This is my assignment, one that I have been fortunate enough to cover and report on. Now that I "get it", I do respect Ryan's need for routine, but, if I'm AWEnest, I still try to occasionally switch things up a bit, because sadly, there are a lot of Phil Connors in the world who will not get the importance of a cheese sandwich cut into triangles, so it's just as important that Ryan "gets" that too. 

So, no matter how you say it, his routine, my routine, I'm just so grateful that I'm the lucky one who gets to make the cheese sandwich, with two slices of Land O' Lakes White (never, ever orange) American Cheese, a thin layer of Hellman's Mayonnaise (never, ever the light mayo), cut into perfectly symmetrical triangles (never, ever a rectangle, a square, or some weird sandwich cutter shape) and always without fail, no matter what....always, always hold the tomato, tomahto.

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.

I am a self-admitted, self-diagnosed, hypochondriac. In fact, if there were a club for hypochondriacs, I feel certain I would be unanimously voted president, as long as I wasn't out sick or at a doctor's appointment the day of the nominations. If it's a scab on my arm that's been there for three days, it's most certainly skin cancer. A week filled with achy joints is not my "Welcome to the Mid-40's Party", chances are good, I have Lyme Disease. A tight feeling in my chest is not a result from skipping the gym for three weeks then hitting the weights as if I hadn't missed a day. Oh nooo, that tight feeling most assuredly is not muscle strain, it must be angina, therefore, a stress test is right around the corner. A cold and cough that sticks around as long as the pollen sticks to my porch furniture, is not something as simple as seasonal allergies, but, chances are very high that I have contracted a rare form of Avian Influenza, aka, Bird Flu. Yes, if I have read about it, chances are, I have it, or I will get it...soon. A doctor once told me that I "look for the unicorn instead of the horse" which is a much nicer way of saying, "Lady, you are bat sh** crazy".

I would love to tell you that my hypochondria is limited to just my own perceived illnesses, but, that wouldn't be AWEnest of me. Every one of my doctors, and sadly, my children's doctors, have a photo of me lassoing a unicorn in their files. I never leave the doctors disappointed as I constantly walk right past the horse, completely ignoring him, so worried about finding that stupid, elusive unicorn. In fact, I think I leave many of the doctors shaking their head in bewilderment and looking forward to their lunch break when they can share my latest disease fearing, unicorn searching frenzy with the other doctors in the lunchroom. Yes, I'm a frantic worrier about my children's health, more so than my own (my primary care physician, my gynecologist, my breast care doctor and even my dentist would all find that VERY hard to believe). So, when Ryan was sick for a week with a fever, cold, and horrific cough (Bird Flu, Swine Flu, West Nile Virus...have the mosquitoes even been born yet?), WebMD was constantly pulled up on my phone and Ryan and I made a trip to the pediatrician's office....twice.

I was convinced Ryan had pneumonia, RSV, strep throat or something that would require some type of medication and a quick fix, but, alas, it was not bacteria born, it was the dreaded V Word...virus, which meant no antibiotic, no quick fix, just plenty of fluids with the oh so wise words, "just let the virus run it's course". Are you sure there isn't a pill, an ointment, an elixir, something to speed up and ease up this so called course? I mean, Ryan had already missed a week of school which meant he was way off schedule and that translates to lots of make up work that will come home upon his return to school, which increases the likelihood of meltdowns, which greatly increases the probability that I may feign a case of Ebola Virus so the CDC can quarantine me until all the make up work is completed. Are you absolutely, positively sure there isn't a pill for this?

Whatever this VIRUS was (I no longer say "bug", read my blog post, Literally Speaking in March, 2013 to understand why), it made the dreaded, media hyped, Swine Flu seem like a walk in the park. Most days, Ryan's fever was in the 103-104 range, you know the kind of fever where they feel so miserable and just want cuddled and you have to put on a spacesuit to protect your skin from the heat. Fortunately, the fever is now gone, but, the cough, which at night echoes off the walls sounding remarkably like we are living in a wing in an old tuberculosis hospital, still lingers on...and on....and on. Poor fella, he's not a fan of being sick, and like any mom, I hate to see my kids sick too, until one day, several years ago, my old friend Denial plopped down on the couch next to me and my fever ridden boy and showed me a research article she had just discovered on Google (of course). 

This was back in the day when my old friend Denial and I were thick as thieves. Denial told me that some parents believed their child's autism symptoms abated when their child was sick with a fever. What? Yep, many parents noticed a reduction in stimming, an increase in language and an overall reduction of autism symptoms when their kids ran a fever. Once the fever went away, the autism symptoms returned. In fact, this was reported by so many parents enough times that a paper published in the journal Pediatrics in 2007 by Drs Dominick Purpura and Mark Mehler of the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, addressed this phenomenon. These two doctors discovered that the correlation between a fever and reduction of autism symptoms had to do with a part of the brain called the locus coeruleus. Yeah, I don't know how to pronounce it and I certainly had no idea that was part of my brain either. AWEnestly, I didn't care about all the scientific stuff that I couldn't even begin to say or understand, I was just astounded that a fever might allow me a chance to connect with my son! Well alrighty then, I decided to sit back and wait for the next virus to hit.

Don't worry, no need to call child services, I didn't go all Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy on Ryan. I didn't intentionally get my kid sick by sneezing on him, running him into the neighbors house where strep throat was running rampant, or hide his Flintstones Vitamins from him, but, I have to be AWEnest, this complete and total hypochondriac was almost as excited for the next cold and flu season to hit as I was when I discovered WebMD. I couldn't help but wonder, if my guy got sick, would I starve his cold and feed his fever, to see if maybe, just maybe those parents were right? For a kid who constantly chews on his fingers, it didn't take long for Ryan to pick up a virus and for this mom to sit back and see if a fever, would in fact, crack his beautiful, impenetrable shell. 

I remember that virus like it was yesterday. I recall checking Ryan's temperature religiously, which of course he hated, but, I kept telling myself, that if these parents were right and his autism symptoms abated with the fever, then eventually when the fever rose, he wouldn't mind me sticking a thermometer in his ear every five minutes. Sure enough, in a matter of hours, Ryan's fever crept up and once it hit 101, I gave him some Motrin (I'm not that twisted that I'd make him suffer), but, I did sit next to him on the couch observing my sweet boy before the Motrin kicked in, waiting to see if his language improved, his connection got stronger, or if his Thomas the Tank Engine scripting subsided. In my heart of hearts, I did believe that Ryan seemed more "checked in". He answered my questions more readily, he responded more appropriately, and he let me snuggle him for hours. Was this a result of the fever taking hold of Ryan's locus coeruleus or was this just a little guy who felt so miserable he answered my questions so I'd leave him the hell alone and he could get back to watching Thomas?

Denial assured me that Ryan's fever made him "better" which of course was an oxymoron for a kid whose eyes were glazed over with fever and who had snot dripping off his chin. Were Ryan's autism symptoms really reduced or was Denial fooling me again? Was my fear of The A Word so visceral that this research study became my placebo? My quick fix, my belief that something "wrong" got "better" with something as simple as a fever, or was it "all in my head"? As a mother who was so frightened by autism due to my lack of understanding, I think I would have believed anything might make Ryan "better". The placebo effect, a belief that some type of treatment will change a particular condition is so strong, that there is a perceived actual improvement in the condition, when in fact, there is none. For a long time, Denial and the placebo effect were hands down, part of my journey into autism acceptance. I kept looking for the "quick fix" whether it was real or all "in my head". I needed something to hold onto, something to give me hope, something to believe in, something that would one day make my son "better". More importantly, I needed something to wean me off of this powerful addiction I had with Denial. Or at the very least, a pill that made me think I had.

Don't we all want a quick fix or a pill to "make it better"? A pill that will heal a broken heart. An amnesiac syrup that will cause us to forget painful mistakes. An ointment that can rub away and clear up hurtful misunderstandings. A shot that may sting for a second, but, can protect us from hurt in the future. A fever that effects the locus coeruleus and makes autism fade away. Just like so many things in life, there are no "quick fixes" to make it all better, nor are there placebos to make you think things are better (unless of course you count wine). A broken heart needs time to heal. Mistakes may be hard to admit, but, sometimes, it's the only way to learn a valuable lesson. Misunderstandings take patience and forgiveness. Suffering through dark, hurtful times, makes us appreciate the light that much more. 

So, whether or not a fever helped Ryan "check in" all those years ago by reducing some of the hold autism had on his locus coeruleus, or whether the study I had read about became a sort of placebo, I will never know. What I do know, is back when Denial was my friend, I was terrified, I felt terribly lost and alone and the quick fix I was looking for wasn't to make Ryan "better" because he was not, and is not, sick, broken or diseased, the quick fix was for me. I was the one with the damage, the boo boo, the hurt. A hypochondriac mother who was so worried about finding that stupid unicorn, that I almost missed the beautiful, magnificent, colt galloping right in front of me. 

As Ryan and I sat in the pediatrician's office (twice) last week, and my boy's temperature registered 103.7, he was the same Ryan he was before the fever. Ryan was brilliant as he assured the doctor that a strep test would not be needed since he felt fairly confident his "lungs had pneumonia" so the stethoscope was the only form of torture necessary. Ryan was anxious as he insisted (in a bossy, not terribly nice voice) on doing the flu swab in his nostril himself for fear the doctor would "poke" his brain then held the "contaminated" swab over his head refusing to give it to the doctor for fear she would "poke" him anyway. Ryan was proud that he survived the doctor's appointment with only a hint of tears and no shot or strep test. And Ryan was clever as he told me his blood sugar was dropping and convinced me that the only way to elevate it was via a Sheetz slushie.  

With or without a fever, Ryan is AWEsome and just like a virus that has to "run it's course", autism will continue to run it's course throughout Ryan's lifetime. Some days, some situations, some moments, autism will be a bigger "symptom" than others. Some of the symptoms may disappear and be replaced with new symptoms, symptoms that may not show up on WebMD, leaving me completely at a loss. As I continue to watch Ryan grow, achieve and succeed, I am amazed at the fear that once held such a life altering grip on me. My fear, my unicorn searching, was all part of my journey that had to "run it's course" because without my mistakes, my worries, my obsessive Google searching, I would not be where I am today, therefore Ryan may not be where he is today either. 

You see, as Ryan's mother, I am his placebo. I cannot make autism go away with a pill, a shot or an untreated fever (I swear I always give him Motrin), but, I can be the voice when Ryan can't find his words, I can be the advocate when Ryan is too scared or too confused to fight, I can find the support he needs to be successful and I can be the arms that squeeze him to let him know he is loved. I will always be Ryan's placebo, because on the days when life is hard, the days when his differences stand out, the days when his "symptoms" are more severe, as Ryan's mother, I will always be what makes him "feel better" and no, "feeling better" is not "all in his head", that my friends, is "all in his heart".

One of my BFF's is Indian. She is gorgeous, fun, YOUNG and has more energy than anyone I have ever known. Come to think of it, why am I friends with her anyway? She grew up a military brat, but, spent most of her childhood in India speaking both Hindi and English...English with a British flair (Great Britain ruled India for decades, a little fact this dumb American never knew until she became besties with someone who actually lived outside of PA). Then my girlfriend met this AWEsome Indian doctor and found herself in the middle of Garrison, North Dakota for a few years only then to later wind up in South Central PA. It didn't take poor, lost "Dorothy" to realize she wasn't "in Delhi anymore". 

The trade off for following a handsome, loving doctor to the middle of nowhere, left my poor Dorothy friend shoe shopping online, learning a new culture and learning all the weirdness that comes with adapting to the English language. The English language that was not taught in a classroom, or in her native India with a great deal of British influence, but, in the good old USA. Sure my girlfriend spoke English, she understood English and she could read English, but, until you are thrown into the English language with no rule books on the metaphors, idioms, inconsistent phonetics, and the slang haphazardly tossed about, my bestie "Dorothy" probably wanted to click her ruby slippers and bust out of Oz (most certainly out of cold, snowy North Dakota winters) and head back to Delhi, taking her fabulous husband in her basket with her.

For someone like me, who grew up speaking English and only English, I take for granted the ease of the English language, but, for some people, English isn't that easy. A study was conducted by a language processing company called Idibon to try and determine not which languages are "hard" to learn (Arabic is in the top five), but, which languages are "weird". The Idibon study looked into which languages used the greatest number of unusual features that are not used in many other languages. I am proud (?) to report that English ranked number 33 out of 239 languages in the "weirdness index". I can't decide if that is a good number or bad? I guess the fact that our language made the "weirdness list" should ease the minds of the non-native speakers. Now when they make grammatical, phonetical and pronunciation faux pas, they can acknowledge that they are not in fact weird, but, it is the English language who is to blame.

I've often wondered if Ryan's struggle with pragmatic speech (language used to communicate and socialize) makes him feel like he has entered a foreign country, where he is familiar with the language....he speaks it, reads it, interprets it, and for the most part, understands it, until the English language 'weirdness factor" comes into play. My boy, and many kids with an ASD, are so literal that figurative language, metaphors, slang, cliches, etc., get lost on them, which ironically makes them feel weird, even though we now have legitimate proof that it is the English language that is weird. And as far as Ryan is concerned, there is nothing weirder about our language than the use of idioms. So, if you ask Ryan a question and he doesn't respond right away, do not ask him, "if the cat's got his tongue" because I assure you, not only will he think you are "as dumb as a rock", but, you will most certainly be shown his tongue in an attempt to prove to you that the cat in fact did not take his tongue. You will then be told, in a voice full of shock and disdain that you could AWEnestly be so stupid, that since a cat has no hands, taking a human's tongue is next to impossible

The English language can be very difficult, "weird" and illogical not only for those who did not grow up speaking the language, but, for many kids with an Autism Spectrum Disorder who interpret all the words they hear in a very literal, very concrete, way. It's funny, because more often than not, I believe that the way Ryan sees and hears the world makes much more sense than the way I do. For instance, on what planet does it make sense that a heavy downpour should be equated to "raining cats and dogs"? Why not horses and cows? After all, if you are trying to talk about the large amount of WATER falling from the sky, aren't horses and cows bigger? Wouldn't that have a more dramatic effect and isn't that what we are trying to do? It makes perfect, logical sense to say, "it's raining heavily today" or "there is a lot of water coming from the clouds today" or more precisely, "I guess the water droplets in the clouds grew too heavy today and gravity forced raindrops to fall from the sky" since that is EXACTLY what is happening. Thank goodness there are no dogs and cats or horses and cows falling from the sky, what in the world would an umbrella cost in order to protect oneself from falling felines or bovines?

Just like my bestie from India, has slowly learned the various cliches, idioms, metaphors and slang abundant in our weird English language, she still sometimes gets confused and AWEnestly, it is so funny to hear her strong Indian accent saying something so weirdly English (Come on, she's gorgeous, fun, and young, she has to have something I can abuse her about). Just like a non-native English speaker, Ryan can learn and memorize idioms, metaphors and slang, but, having such "weirdness" become part of his English repertoire probably will not happen. Memorizing such English "weirdness" and sort of understanding idioms and metaphors, doesn't necessarily mean they make logical sense to Ryan, and my boy is all about being logical. Being logical, being literal, helps Ryan makes sense of a confusing world. As his mother, who knows him better than anyone, you would think by now I would understand this, but, sometimes I take for granted that some of my weird English phrases make absolutely no sense to him.
 
A perfect example happened on one of the 72 snow days we had this winter (it sure felt like 72 snow days). It was one of those days where it was icy and the roads were hazardous just in time for the morning commute and the weather men predicted a worse scenario than what actually occurred. By noon, the snow and ice had melted and the sun was shining. As Ryan and I headed out to the grocery store he said, "I can't believe we didn't have school today." "Tell me about it.", I replied. Without missing a beat Ryan said, "I just did tell you about it. Didn't you hear me? Maybe you are going deaf." Yes, literally, Ryan did just "tell me about it", but, figuratively, he wasn't going to "tell me about it" again. I smiled the entire way to the grocery store, but, still wondered how much weird English language Ryan misses in social conversations. It makes perfect sense that Ryan chooses to stay quiet, to avoid social settings when the words he is trying to understand are so freaking weird.

Ryan and his speech therapist worked on idioms once upon a time and during that time, I bought Ryan this Dictionary of Idioms book thinking Ryan could memorize them and not feel weird about our weird language. Thinking that if Ryan just read the book, memorized some of the more common idioms, he might not feel like his peers are speaking a foreign language. Ryan never cracked the cover because AWEnestly, he could care less about idioms. Idioms don't make sense, to a literal thinker. Idioms are illogical and so why would Ryan waste "a penny for his thoughts" on something so ridiculous. Ryan has learned to recognize some idioms, but, chances are, no matter how much I am rushing him in the morning, screaming for him to put his shoes on and brush his teeth, Ryan will never tell me to "hold my horses" because clearly I don't have any horses and even if I did, a horse would be much too big for me to "hold".

As Ryan's mom, I try to speak in a way Ryan understands, but, since idioms, metaphors, and slang have been a part of my repertoire for so long, it's "hard to teach an old dog new tricks". So on particularly tough days, days when autism has a stronger hold on my boy's brain and days when my 40 something hormones have a stronger hold on my brain, and I'm trying to get through to Ryan by telling him he's "making a mountain out of a mole hill" and that by yelling at me is only "adding fuel to the fire" and that if he keeps "getting under my skin", I'm going to "hit the roof" and he most assuredly is going to "be in the doghouse", would do nothing to resolve the situation. In fact, Ryan would look at me like I was speaking Hindi or some other language he does not understand. My dear old friend, Clueless would be sitting on the side of Ryan's bed "in stitches" at my stupidity. 

If Ryan cared enough to interpret my idiotic idioms, he would assure me that he cannot make a mountain out of a molehill because he does not have heavy equipment machines at his disposal and even if he did, he is not allowed to operate them. Ryan would also point out to me that the gas cans are in the garage and that on the side of the gas cans it reads, "Danger Extremely flammable" so even if there were a fire in his bedroom, Ryan would never add fuel to the fire, instead he would flee the house and dial 911 as he has been instructed to do. Ryan would logically point out that he is entirely too big to "get under my skin" and that getting under anyone's skin would require cutting their skin and making them bleed and since Ryan is not a fan of blood, he would choose to stay outside of my skin rather than under it. After discussing the dangers of climbing on top of the roof in order to "hit the roof" Ryan would then remind me that dog houses are for dogs, not people, and that our dog doesn't even have a doghouse so obviously there is no way Ryan could be "in the doghouse". See, now who makes more sense, Ryan or me? 

Concrete, literal thinkers have no time or room in their black and white brain for idioms and AWEnestly, who can blame them? When you stop and think about them literally, they make no more sense than someone speaking a foreign language you have never heard before. Clearly, the guy at Game Stop will not take my arm and my leg instead of cold hard cash for the latest Mario game even though I have assured Ryan, that the game "costs an arm and a leg". And although you may have reached your limit with all the crap that happened in one day, and you can't take one more bad thing happening, a piece of straw will not break a camel's back. Camel's are very strong animals, as are their backs, which is evidenced by people riding on camel's backs across the Sahara Desert. And even though you spend hundreds of dollars on your new dress, shoes, and accessories in order to look hawt at your upcoming class reunion for that old flame of yours, no matter how much your shoes cost or how many lines that Botox erased, that old boyfriend will not "eat his heart out", unless of course your high school boyfriend's name was Hannibal Lecter.

My bestie from India has been in this country for 12 years, ironically, Ryan has been in this world and this country (only) for 12 years too. My girlfriend and Ryan couldn't be more different socially. Her social circle and friends on Facebook are in the hundreds, Ryan's circle is in the single digits with no Facebook account, however, when it comes to understanding and interpreting the weirdness of the English language, they have both had their misunderstandings, confusions and funny moments. The English language may not be hard to learn, but, it can be weird in it's interpretations with all it's metaphors, slang, and idioms. Misunderstandings, misinterpretations and getting the wrong idea happens frequently which we now understand doesn't make the speaker "weird", just the language.

Just like Ryan may look at you creepily if you tell him your going to "lose your shirt" at the casino, you may look at my Indian British influenced girlfriend creepily if after a day of shopping with her, she asks you to pop your "dickie". Regardless of how much money you may lose at the casino, you will not walk out of the casino shirtless and my friend who wants you to pop your "dickie" (which may sound horribly forward, after only one shopping date), does not want you to pull your pants down, all she wants you to do is open the "trunk" of your car where her shopping treasures are located. The weirdness of language can lead to weird, but, funny moments, that leave you feeling like "a fish out of water" or make you want to "bite your tongue".

When I hear my friend speaking Hindi, which is "all Greek to me", I recognize that getting Ryan to speak in idioms or metaphors is like asking him to speak a foreign language and that I'm "barking up the wrong tree", so I have stopped "beating a dead horse" and put the Dictionary of Idioms away. Ryan may not memorize idioms, metaphors and slang, in order to enhance his pragmatic speech, but, as with so many things in the world of autism, I have learned, that there is "more than one way to skin a cat" so, even though Ryan may be a "tough nut to crack", I keep in mind that "Rome was not built in a day" and when it comes to helping my son succeed, I will never, ever "throw in the towel". 

Milestone birthdays. Some we can't wait for, counting down the days on a calendar until the big day finally arrives, and some we hide from, lie about, and completely ignore. Remember in college, hating all your friends who had fall birthdays and went right from their Poly Sci class to happy hour while you went back to your apartment and watched Seinfeld instead? Wondering why your parents clearly preferred "alone time" in August than in January. And to add just a little salt from your under age drinking tequila shot to your, "I wish I would have born in October" wound, turning 21 in May, a week after summer breaks starts, is one of the greatest injustices of the college world. I specifically remember the May that I turned 21. After I gave my parents a stern lecture on giving birth to, not one, but, three girls in the month of May and how their insensitivity gravely impacted their daughters' 21st birthday celebrations, I recall wondering, what was left? I mean, isn't 21 the pinnacle of milestone birthdays?

Those happily celebrated milestone birthdays belong to someone else now, since I have decided not to have any more birthdays (I will still accept a cake or Zappos gift card on May 19th, but, just because you love me, nothing else). A very, very, very long time ago, I couldn't wait to turn 13 and officially become a teenager. Then at 16 I could finally drive a car, no more mom taxi needed. At, 18, "woohoo I'm finally an adult" and I can vote (AWEnestly, voting wasn't nearly as exciting as getting into R rated movies). Then the pinnacle of all milestone birthdays...21, I'm officially legal. Not that I would have ever dreamed of driving a car, sneaking into an R rated movie, or drinking a beer before those milestone birthdays allowed me to do so....ohhhh noooo, not me. All those milestones, all those celebrations, all those moments to look forward to, then 21 hit, and I went, "ok, now what?".

Whether it was 13, 16, 18, or 21, once you got "bigger" you realized in many ways, being "little" wasn't so bad after all. Getting bigger means being more responsible and hearing your parents nag you about, "Well, now that you are bigger, we expect you to act your age, be responsible, hold yourself accountable, blah, blah, blah." Ultimately, the bigger your get, the more that is expected from you. What a drag. If you only knew how good you had it when your were little. 

For example, turning 16, and being able to drive gives a teenager a sense of freedom they never had before, but, the downside to that freedom comes the lectures and the nagging from good ole' mom and dad. Seat belt safety, drinking and driving (even though of course at 16 they would never touch a drop of alcohol), texting while driving (not a problem in my day) lectures occur daily and each lecture is followed with the grave warning that failing to heed any of these naggings could catastrophically end your life or someone else's life. Jeez, 15 sure was a lot less lecturery (new word for teenagers only) and a lot less "I could die at any moment behind the wheel" scary. Then there is the magical milestone of turning 18 which makes you "bigger", and an official adult, but, with adulthood comes the realization that one major screw up means goodbye "juvy", hello Big House. And although turning 21 brings a whole new meaning to the word bigger...bigger parties, bigger clubs, bigger dating pool, 21 also means that the fun and partying college days are quickly coming to a close and the "real world" is slowly looming over the horizon. Mom and dad might still lecture and nag, but, now you own the laundry, the bills and the cooking. Big ain't all it's cracked up to be.

I don't know when the change comes, when we realize life was easier when we weren't so big. Was it after our first hideous hangover from one too many tequila shots? Was it our first real job when it finally dawned on us that there were no more summer's "off"? Was it after life's first big disappointment...a job that didn't happen....a relationship that didn't happen....a dream that didn't happen? Regardless of when or why, at some point in time, we have all thought, "Wow, if I could just go back in time so I could slap my younger self, and realize how good I had it...before I got big." Although I wouldn't want to go back permanently, (especially not to middle school), I would love a quick trip every now and then, to be able to fully appreciate the comfort, the security and the ease of being little. I mean, if Tom Hanks got to do it, why shouldn't I? 

The movie that turned Tom Hanks into an official movie star, also turned him from a child to a man in the movie Big. Just like the real world (dripping sarcasm), when being big got too hard, conveniently, Hanks, got to be little again. In the movie Big, Hanks played Josh Baskin, a boy who becomes fed up with the injustices of childhood and longs to become big. Josh finds a magic Zoltar fortune telling machine and with the pull of a lever, wishes to be big, and overnight, Zoltar grants Josh his wish. The next morning, Josh was big...on the outside. He was over 6 feet tall, he had facial hair, and his voice was deeper, but, on the inside, Josh was still 13 trying to navigate a very grown up world, a world he didn't understand. Josh couldn't tell his parents what happened, so, he was on his own in the big world, just like he wanted...or so he thought. It didn't take Josh long to realize that being big, isn't all it's cracked up to be, so he desperately tries to find the magic Zoltar machine in order to become little again. Oh, if it were that easy Zoltar. 

Here is a scene from the movie Big, where it is very apparent, that Josh is not so big on the inside...

I swear, some days I think Ryan must have pulled the lever on the Zoltar machine, because in the blink of an eye, he too has become big. As I listen to Ryan, scripting in his bedroom with his best British accent, his voice deepening each and every day, I sometimes freak out, ready to dial 911 and report that some British man has broken into my house and is playing Minecraft in my son's bedroom. As I approach Ryan's bedroom, baseball bat in hand ready to take on this would be British intruder, I don't find a stranger, I only find my little boy who has gotten big with just a pull of the Zoltar lever. How did he grow up so fast? Where did my little boy go? What will his future hold?

Being big, certainly has it's advantages. The horrors of potty training are long behind us (thank you God), as are the battles over haircuts and sandals, but, new struggles, new quirks, have taken their place. Some are bigger, some are not, but, just because Ryan is bigger, and in many ways "better" does not mean that autism was left behind in the toddler years. As we are still navigating the waters of adolescents and quickly approaching the waves of teens, I worry about the tsunami of adulthood. Getting big is hard. Getting big on the outside, yet staying little, naive, and confused on the inside, is even harder. Just ask Josh Baskin. In Big he recognized that his wish to be big, was nothing but, a big mistake. Still a child inside, Josh didn't understand this new world filled with grown ups and grown up problems. Although the troubles that plagued Josh when he was little went away, Josh discovered that being big, had troubles of it's own.

Similarly, a child with an ASD may have different struggles when they become an adult, but, getting bigger doesn't mean autism magically disappears. Some difficulties get littler, some difficulties get bigger, and some remain the same. With new expectations, new adult rules, and new adult consequences, it's easy to see why some of these adults would like to go back to being little. Unlike the movies though, children living with an ASD are not able to search out a Zoltar machine, pull a lever and wish to be little again. Once big, always big, yet, we hear so little about what happens when children with an ASD become big. 

The faces of Autism Awareness belong to those who are little. During the month of April, when Autism Awareness is celebrated, most of the faces you will see belong to young children and the occasional teenagers. Rarely, will you see a photo of a grown man or woman living with autism. A picture of a grown man is not as appealing to the hearts of strangers as a photo of little boy with big blue eyes. When you see the little boy and his beautiful, innocent blue eyes, you want to "help" him, you want to "save" him, you want to "accept' him, you want people to be "aware" of him, but, the grown man, you quickly "disregard" him, even though he once was the boy with the big, blue eyes.  After all, this adult, is big, he is a grown up. He should be able to have a handle on his autism by now with all the years of therapy and support he had as a child, right? Wrong. Autism does not magically go away at the age of 18 or 21. The problems, the struggles may become different, but, for some, getting big is the most difficult challenge of all. 

The most recent study conducted by the Centers for Disease Control, lists that 1 in 68 children or 1 in 42 boys and 1 in 189 girls now have an Autism Spectrum Disorder. These children, these boys, these girls, will get big and when they do, there is very little support for them. According to a study completed by the Pennsylvania Autism Services Bureau, "If your child is 3 now, we estimate that there will be 54,486 adults with autism in PA by the time he is 21" and "As the person gets older, the availability of services decreases". There are so few services available for adults with an ASD. The waiting lists for adult services may run hundreds of people deep and many years of waiting. Once that magical milestone age of 21 hits, the only support many of these "children" have, are from their parents and when these parents are helping their big kid make it in the big world, many spend a great deal of time worrying about what will happen to their big kid once they are gone. There is no magic Zoltar machine to change these adults from big to little, when supports may not have been in abundance, but, at least support in the educational system was available. 

Our state and federal government has to be the Zoltar for these kids who are now big. Pulling a lever and making a wish isn't going to cut it. Programs, services and funding needs to begin now. If waiting lists for adult services are in the hundreds when the rates of an ASD diagnosis for these adults was 1 in 330, then how long will the wait be in twenty years? If getting services for adults living with an ASD were as easy as pulling a lever on a Zoltar machine on a Jersey shore boardwalk, there would be a line across the entire state of New Jersey waiting to pull that lever. It's not that easy folks. 

For most of us, when we turned 21, our biggest concern was which bar had the cheapest pitchers of beer and no cover charge. Sure, maybe at 21, we had no idea what we wanted to be when we grew up, but, regardless of our path, we knew, that like it or not, one day we would be out on our own. Some of us, to the dismay of our parents (love you Mom and Dad) took a little longer than others. For parents loving a grown child with an ASD, it's not always that simple. Some big kids with an ASD are able to go to college, find a job and live on their own with little support, but, many, are not and that is why it is so important to change our perspective, change our view, and change what and who we see, when we hear the word autism.

Just keep in mind every gorgeous little boy you see promoting autism awareness this month will one day have facial hair, a deep voice, and possibly tower over you. Do your part in raising autism awareness this month and every month, by remembering that when you see a face like this...

....that one day that face will look more like this....

These faces, big or little, need your awareness, your advocacy, your understanding, but, mostly your acceptance. We have come a long way in advocating for children with an ASD, but, we must not forget the faces that we don't see. For every parent loving a child, big or little, with an ASD, our hope is that one day there will not be a need for a magic Zoltar machine to grant wishes, because with the right support, the right services, these little kids, who will one day become big, will be able to make their own wishes come true. 

These big kids with an ASD may not worry about which bar to hit at exactly 12:00AM on their 21st birthday the way you did, but, it is still a day that each child and their family should be able to celebrate and not worry, "Now what?". Chances are, the day after their 21st birthday, these big kids...these adults living with an ASD...who are smarter than most of us neurotypicals, won't wake up wondering what crawled in their mouth and died, who the he** put a vice on their head while they were sleeping and where they can find the closest Zoltar machine to make them 6 years old again. For most of us, bigger doesn't mean smarter.

When I was a kid, I used to occasionally put aside the Lucky Charms and opt for a bowl of Wheaties because just like I believed Lucky Charms were "magically delicious", I also believed that Wheaties was "The Breakfast of Champions". Who doesn't want to trade in some marshmallows and a leprechaun in order to be a champion? Back in my younger days, Misty May-Treanor was not on the front of the Wheaties Box because quite frankly, Misty wasn't even born yet (ouch). No, back in the old days, Bruce Jenner held the coveted Wheaties Box Champion Title.  Oh Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, times they have a-changed. The 1976 decathlon Gold Medalist Bruce Jenner, was most certainly a champion and worthy of a Wheaties box cover, but, the Bruce Jenner of today, well, suffice it to say, Wheaties may want their box back. Poor Bruce, he got so caught up with those Kardashians and all that plastic surgery....bad plastic surgery, that I wonder if General Mills has bought all the Bruce Jenner Wheaties off of eBay to cover their champion idolizing tracks.

For some reason, when I hear the word "champion", I almost automatically think champion (noun), and picture an athlete (not Bruce Jenner...sorry Bruce) on a podium being given a trophy or medal. According to Webster, the definition of THAT champion is "someone or something that has won a contest or competition especially in sports." Obviously, in 1976, Bruce deserved to be on The Breakfast of Champions box, after all, he was an Olympic Gold Medalist. The definition of the verb champion, is never on the front of the box, heck this type of champion isn't even on the side or the back of the box, which incidentally is where champion's photos were placed prior to 1958 (A little Wheaties trivia that could one day make you a champion (noun) on Jeopardy. You're welcome). Champion (verb)  is "a person who fights or argues for a cause on behalf of someone else". This type of champion (verb) may be outspoken, may fight, argue and advocate for someone they believe in, but, these champions never make it on the front of the Wheaties box, preferring to allow the champion (noun) they are championing, to remain front and center.

In honor of Autism Awareness Month, today's blog is for all the champions who don't make it to the front of the Wheaties box, but, who are no less a champion than an Olympic Gold Medalist. These champions of children and adults living with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, teachers, and therapists. They educate, advocate, and support the belief of "different, not less". Because of their love, because of their commitment, because of their desire to see their child, sibling, grandchild, or student "win", these champions (verb)  have helped create champions (noun). Just like an Olympic Gold Medalist, these champions work tirelessly in order to make sure their son or daughter stands on that podium. They "fight or argue on behalf" of their champion who may one day be on the front of the Wheaties box. They are the champion (verb)...the fighter...the coach...and the voice...that helps create a champion (noun).

It would be delightful if someday Wheaties would have an autism champion (verb) on the front of their box, but, chances are, that won't happen. So, in order to make up for General Mills' lapse in judgement, I want to make sure the champions championing autism awareness are visible today. These fighters, these tigers, are not roaring because they want to be difficult, these champions (verb) are roaring because they need to be heard since they are "fighting on behalf of someone else"...their child. If they don't roar, then who will? 

Until I began championing my champion, I was scared, beaten down by The A Word and my cohorts, Denial and Clueless, and I had no idea what I was doing. I worried more about other people's impressions than what was right for my son. Now I will fight, champion, advocate and roar when I need to, because in order for my son to become a champion (noun), he needs a champion (verb). Most days I don't have to tie on my boxing gloves. Most days people are aware that what every person, with or without an ASD, wants is ACCEPTANCE. The month of April is about Autism Awareness and Autism Acceptance. So, today I am championing for all the champions (verb) loving a child with an ASD. Here are a few examples of moments that are front of the Wheaties box worthy:

For those folks in the mall who may be out looking for spring sandals for your child, we want you to know that the meltdown in the shoe store is not meant to disrupt your shopping experience or make you feel uncomfortable, but, the lights, the noise and the smell of the shoe store for our child is too much. Our kids also wear shoes and we champions have to shop for shoes and put them on our kids feet.

For the school administrators who are tired of words like FAPE (Free Appropriate Public Education), IDEA (Individuals with Disabilities Education Act), and IEP (Individualized Education Plan),  and who often believe that autism is "the flavor of the month", we are not trying to make your job harder. Our kids need an education. We champions make sure they get it.

To the insurance companies (whom AWEnestly, I have NO sympathy for), who don't understand that a trip to the dentist is like a trip to Hades for our kids, we are not trying to harass you with our repeated phone calls or get your fired when we ask to speak to your supervisor. We need the right code for the right surgical center so our child can get a cavity filled without fire and brimstone raining down on them in the dental chair. Our kids need good dental hygiene, and we champions will walk through fire to ensure you pay for some of it (then curse all insurance companies to Hades when you fail to pay a cent).

We are the voice, the fighter, the educator, and the tiger. We champion for our kids whose communication struggles makes it easier for them to remain silent. We champion for our kids who hate the feel of leather boxing gloves. We champion for our kids who cringe at the sound of a deafening roar. We will continue to argue, to fight, to walk through fire in order to champion our champions, and even though you may never see our face on the front of the Wheaties box, I promise you will always hear us ROAR.

I looooove Saturday mornings...sleeping in, no early morning kid activities, and long leisurely breakfasts in my jammies with my hot off the presses, just delivered on Friday, People Magazine. My little piece of heaven. So, when I have to get up early on a Saturday, I am not only tired from celebrating the arrival of the weekend by watching three back to back episodes of Breaking Bad until the wee hours of the morning, I'm grumpy too. "The early bird gets the worm", so goes the old proverb, but, this past Saturday, Ryan and I weren't going for worms (I could just hear his annoyance at such a stupid saying), we were embarking on a 45 minute road trip with a quick stop at Dunkin Donuts. Here's the thing, Dunkin Donuts makes donuts ALL DAY LONG. Oh sure, they want you to believe that their donut baker lumbers out of bed with the early bird while moaning, "Time to make the donuts" so you feel rushed to be the FIRST ones in line for the freshest, choice donut, but, it's all a scam. You can be the late bird and still score a tasty, trans fat and cream filled donut. 

Ryan was about as thrilled as I was with the early morning Saturday change in routine, so instead of telling him the "early bird gets the worm" (eyes roll), I told Ryan the early bird gets the choice donut. Yeah, I'm as big of a phony as the "time to make the donuts" guy. Ryan whined, complained and stumbled out of bed and refused to brush his teeth because it would "ruin" the taste of the coveted donuts (he popped in a piece of gum after the donuts which I know a dentist would not approve of as a toothbrush substitute). Before we headed out the door, I was ordered to fill Ryan's Thermos with Welch's Grape Juice because my boy's elephant memory, recalled that Dunkin Donuts does not have Welch's Grape Juice and that their orange juice has pulp in it (the horror). We early birds, were so early, Ryan and I even had time to go inside Dunkin Donuts and peruse the plethora of choices rather than risk a donut catastrophe at the drive thru. Once we recovered from the near meltdown that took place when my early bird spied the strawberry iced donuts being placed on the shelf after our order was placed, bagged and paid for (clearly when it was "time to make the donuts" the strawberry iced ones weren't at the top of the old, tired baker's list), we were on our way, to our real destination.

Ryan loves a road trip, and I love having him in the passenger seat next to me (even though I stress a little because I know he is safer in the back, but, now that he is 12 and the law says he can ride up front, there is no going back...figuratively and literally). Quality time, just the two of us, enhanced with a little donut sugar high. I tried for a while to chit chat, but, after being grunted at numerous times, I gave up and was equally happy listening to my boy singing, scripting and laughing at whatever show he was watching inside his head. In that moment, I sort of related to that early bird and his successful worm hunt, although I was tired and longed for my leisurely breakfast while happily admiring Matthew McConaughey in a black tuxedo (sorry Matthew, the white was a little too Saturday Night Fever for me) in People, maybe getting up early, really did enable me to score the coveted worm.

Although I was enjoying the morning, I didn't get out of bed early and leave the Oscar predictions in my latest People Magazine sitting on the kitchen table for Dunkin Donuts. Nope, our destination was a Music Festival at a local college for piano students. This was Ryan's first time attending so I had no idea what to expect and for a boy who likes a plan and struggles with "new", he didn't know what to expect either. Ryan's fabulous piano teacher had written out a schedule for him instructing him when to be where. First up on the list, was a workshop on the Progression of Left Hand Accompaniment Patterns. What? I made Ryan LOL, even though he shushed me with embarrassment, when I did my best Charlie Brown's teacher impersonation. I am completely illiterate when it comes to anything music, so this professor's "wah, wah, wah, wah, wah", was like a foreign language to me. I tried to pay attention, but, after Ryan moved two rows in front of me, not because I was such an embarrassment to him, but, because the professor told him to (although, I'm sure he was relieved to put some distance between himself and his musically inept mother), I found my mind start to wander. 

As I sat waiting for the workshop to end, I began to worry about Ryan's "adjudication" on his piano skills which would be next. Ryan would be judged on various piano playing skills while in a room...alone...without me. As my anxiety began to escalate, awaiting this so called, "adjudication", I couldn't help but recall a different type of adjudication that I regularly attended as a juvenile probation officer. Waiting for a judge to make a different kind of adjudication for a different kind of kid. As a juvenile probation officer, it was my job to provide testimony to the court about the juvenile who stood next to me. I couldn't help but compare my role as a mother whose job it was to protect, advocate and fight for my child being that much different, yet, I struggled with whether or not Ryan would object to my testimony or if the judge would find my testimony relevant. 

I wondered, if at this adjudication for my child, do I present the facts...all the facts, or do I let Ryan take the stand on his own without my testimony? Will Ryan incriminate himself when he doesn't make eye contact with the judge? Will the judge think Ryan is rude if he forgets to say, "thank you" or ignores a question the judge asks that has nothing to do with the piano? What if Ryan drops his paper and refuses to pick it up because he hates the feel of paper? Will the judge think Ryan is not taking his adjudication seriously? Will Ryan's flat out refusal to put on a name tag because stickers have caused him anxiety since he was two, make him appear defiant? If Ryan refuses to take his coat off because the hot air blowing from the vents makes his skin feel dry and scratchy, will the judge think Ryan has no respect for the Music Festival, the adjudication and the piano itself? There was a whole lot going on in my scary head for a 45 minute piano workshop. 

This battle going in my psyche came to a standstill when I watched Ryan practice in a sound room minutes before his adjudication. It was then that I decided not to hang my kid out to dry (he would have assured me he was not wet). I decided that if I don't want a label to define Ryan, even when his quirks and social struggles make him stand out, then I can't define him with that label at every turn either. There are times when The A Word, has to be mentioned...at a 504 Plan Meeting with school officials, at the dentist office when they realize total sedation will be necessary to fill a cavity (or three), at the pediatrician's office when a strep test is necessary, or at the hair salon when it's a new stylist, but, not at a piano adjudication. This was not because I didn't want Ryan to do well. It was not because my lack of interest in music minimized the importance of music to my son. The reason I let Ryan take the stand on his own was because unlike those courtroom adjudications when my words were needed to describe the juvenile standing before me, my words were not needed before a judge in a sound room. Sharing words....sharing The A Word, was unnecessary because this was music and music is one place where Ryan's quirks and differences disappear into the ivory of the keys.

I wished Ryan luck, although I knew it was not necessary, and Ryan walked past me, piano books in hand, a smile on his face and no name tag whatsoever. As I heard the judge greet Ryan, Ryan mumbled a monotonic, "hello", then he quietly closed the door and left me to wait on the other side. This was new for me, being on the other side of the door, not being Ryan's voice. Although I trembled with nervous energy, I had never been more proud of my son. As I listened through the door, frustrated that I didn't bring a cup to hold against the door to enhance the sound (AWEnestly people, I can't cut the cord completely), I did not hear Ryan speak in his British accent scripting Stampylonghead in a diatribe about Minecraft, I did not hear Ryan stumble over his words with his sometimes "cluttered" speech and I did not hear Ryan complain about the heat blowing out of the vents. All this spying, worried mom heard, was the beautiful sound of Ryan's fingers finding the right chords, timing his intervals and "expanding the use of the keyboard" as Ryan's label, his quirks, his differences, dissipated with each beautifully played note.

I all but fell into the room once Ryan finished and opened the door, and I quickly and discreetly wiped away my tears so Ryan wouldn't reprimand me for being "too proud". Ryan bounced out of the room and said, "That judge guy was AWEsome and he said I did great!". In fact, "that judge guy" gave Ryan the highest marks, "superior", in every category with the exception of one "excellent". Clearly, Ryan did not need my testimony, the facts of who he is and what he is capable of, were evident without any input from me. I did not need to share The A Word with the judge who adjudicated my son because he did not need words or a label to see Ryan's ability. There will always be times when Ryan's quirks will make me want to quickly defend him by throwing that A Word under the bus, but, more and more, Ryan doesn't need excuses, labels, or me defining him. Ryan is finding his own place in the world, and as he has told me time and time again, "I don't feel different, I just feel like me."

This is one early bird, who is so glad that my love of sleep, a late breakfast and a date with People Magazine did not cause me to miss the worm. Not because I wanted the fattest worm or the choice donut, but, because I got to spend a day with someone who constantly puts the AWE in AWEsome. Someone who will never let a label, a judge or even his mother, define him. Some days it takes me longer to wake up than others. This past Saturday, even with my donut sugar high, it took me all day to wake up, but, when I finally did, I realized that even a full page spread of Matthew McConaughey playing strategically placed bongos in People Magazine, takes a back seat to the wonderfully gifted piano player sitting in the front seat next to me. 

This is a quick shout out to all the strong, loving, AWEsome moms I met yesterday at the 2014 Day of Pampering at the First United Methodist Church of Mechanicsburg. So many women shared their heartache, their struggles, but, mostly, their joy with me. To quote the beloved Dr. Seuss, my "heart grew three sizes that day". I promised these AWE inspiring moms that I would post the video I shared yesterday since there was a bit of a technical glitch with the audio. I also promised that I would invite everyone in attendance to my house for a glitch free showing along with wine, but, due to my public speaking anxiety, I failed to give the audience my address. I swear, it had nothing to do with my fear of the bill for the wine I would have needed to purchase for these amazing ladies.

I was AWEstruck by your compassion, strength and determination to make sure your intricate, one of a kind snowflake remains visible and that their uniqueness is never lost in the blanket of snow. Remember, even on the days when your snowflake seems invisible to everyone, YOU will always make sure he or she can be seen. "Stand up Mother!" because you are not invisible either. Your child sees you and so does every mother loving their unique snowflake with a "different" ability!

Here is the clip from the Emmys when Temple asked her mother, who believed, "different, not less" to "Stand up mother". Makes me cry EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Minecraft. If you haven't heard of it, then you obviously do not have school aged kids, you do not ever enter into retail establishments and you quite obviously have not fallen prey to social media. In other words, you must be living under a virtual pile of Legos. I admit, I'm no Minecraft expert, but, since Minecraft in the ONLY thing that comes out of Emma and Ryan's mouths these days, I have been dragged into the Minecraft world, with no sword or pick axe to gauge my ears out, so I've picked up on the basics.

From what I have been able to grasp, right before my eyes glaze over from the obsessive Minecraft chatter, you are alone in a virtual world that sort of resembles an island. With little to survive than your bare hands and the various minerals and materials you can find in said world to build shelter, tools, and whatever else you need to protect yourself from the things that go bump in the night. Think Tom Hanks in Castaway, sans Wilson, and throw in a zombie or creeper...or two. There is a creative mode with lots of creative building options to enhance your anything goes virtual world and a survival mode where you also get to build, in order to protect yourself from the zombies, creepers and spiders who are just waiting to take you out. Tom Hanks had no idea how good he had it with only madness barking at his makeshift cave door. And unlike Tom Hanks, in your Minecraft virtual world, you can continue to be alone in your deserted island like world, or you can invite friends to join you.

In addition to the Minecraft game itself, there are also YouTube Videos where people narrate and record their actions in their Minecraft virtual world. The most famous of these is Stampylonghead, with over 1.6 million followers and over 818 videos. This dude, with his horribly overexaggerated and highly excitable British accent, has a lot of time on his hands. I swear, I hear Stampylonghead while awake and in my sleep. This is because Ryan can mimick Stampy's voice to a tee and does so most of the day and in his dreams at night. I swear, Ryan's British accent is so good, he could easily land a role on Downton Abbey. I understand why parents like this Minecraft game. There is a lot of creativity, imagination and wholesome, mostly non-violent fun that draws kids in like bees to honey. As cool as the game is though, I'm ready for a bug zapper.

I had been telling Ryan for months that I thought he should try Minecraft since I read that tons of kids, including kids with an ASD, love the game, but Ryan kept saying it was stupid, because Ryan has a teenage brother who told him it was stupid. Needless to say, this teenage brother, who shoots Nazis in Call of Duty and runs from the police in his Lamborghini while playing GTA (Grand Theft Auto for all you newbs) feels that a virtual Lego type world, of old style graphics, is lame and since Ryan has worshipped Kyle from the moment Ryan was born, Ryan believed Minecraft was stupid too. Until Ryan's little sister built her first shelter and killed her first Creeper. Emma didn't reach "worship" status, but, she did impress her brother Ryan, which is more difficult than taking out a zombie with a diamond sword (we sound like a terribly violent family, don't we?).

Ryan's worship like nature of his big brother Kyle is twofold. One, Kyle has an extremely big heart and he "gets" Ryan, and two, quite simply, is birth order. Kyle was here first, so, Ryan doesn't know a life without Kyle, but, you can bet all your Minecraft diamonds that Ryan remembers life before his little sister arrived on the scene. Suffice it to say, Ryan would never string the words "worship" and "Emma" together in the same sentence.

Prior to Emma's arrival, Ryan had Mommy's attention most of the time. After all, Kyle was older and let's be AWEnest, Kyle was easier. Ryan struggled with sensory overload which lead to meltdowns. Ryan had a hard time communicating, which lead to frustration and subsequently, more meltdowns. In those early years, with all those meltdowns (Ryan and mine), we were more like a run for your life Chernobyl Disaster than a happy go lucky family. So, for a kid who craved routine, who survived on same, and who counted on Mommy to get him safely through his day, a new baby was a swell idea! Poor guy. Ryan had no idea what he was in for, and quite frankly, neither did I.

When Ryan came to visit Emma and I in the hospital after Emma was born, he literally threw a stuffed animal on her head and he did not acknowledge her presence. He was more interested in the buttons that raised and lowered the bed, the nurse call button (we almost got thrown out) and the cookie I had on my tray from lunch. This "pretend she doesn't exist" routine lasted a few weeks, until one day Ryan decided enough was enough and he locked his traitorous mother and screaming, smelly baby sister outside twice in one day.
 
It was a sticky, humid, beautiful summer day. The kind of day you appreciate in mid-August because you know all too soon, the heat and warmth of summer will soon be replaced with the crisp, cool days of fall. As I sat on the porch swing, sniffing my new baby's head, taking in the fading days of summer, I smiled happily thinking all was right with the world. My smile was quickly replaced with a puzzled expression at the slight "click" I heard at the back door. I saw a flash of red run past the window and I knew in an instant, that "click" was not the sound of summer wishing me well and locking me out, it was my darling son locking me and his baby sister out of the house...with not another soul inside the house.

I slowly got off the porch, trying not to jostle my sleeping princess and went and knocked on the door. "Hey baby, will you unlock the door and let sissy and I back in?", I said sweetly while peering through the window. There Ryan sat on the couch blatantly ignoring me while he happily played on his Leapster. "Ryan let Mommy in", a little more sternly. Ryan got off the couch and I immediately felt relief since I assumed he was coming to open the door. Nope. Ryan climbed on the back of the love seat, looked me in the eye (no trouble making eye contact in this situation) and shook his head no. Well, suffice it to say, that the postpartum hormones kicked in at that point, "Open the #*%$*%# door right #*%$%# now", as veins bulged out of my neck. Still, Ryan sat on the couch, shaking his head back and forth. No way, was his evil mother, who ruined his world, and that no good, smelly, loud, baby getting back in the house. Not until I called Dan, who had to come and let us in, not once, but twice (hormones, remember?). Yeah, it's pretty safe to say that Ryan did not "worship" his sister Emma the way he did big brother Kyle. She was a disruption...a change...a deal breaker. 

Over the years, Emma has felt this preferential treatment for Kyle over her when it comes to Ryan's love and affection. Most days she accepts it, and other days, it breaks her sweet, sensitive heart. I once found a birthday card Emma had made for Ryan crumpled up and stuffed under her bed. Drawn on computer paper and carefully folded in half, was a 4 year old's exact replica of our backyard with a stick figure of a Emma and Ryan happily swinging together, which at the time, rarely ever happened. The crayon strokes spoke volumes of this little sister's true desire, to have her brother interact with her, to have her brother play with her, to have her brother look at her, the way he looked at Kyle.  When I asked Emma why she didn't give it to Ryan, her dejected little shoulders shrugged and she said, "Because he will think it's stupid.". I told Emma to give it to Ryan anyway. Ryan looked at the card, tossed it on his dresser and said, "It's not my birthday anymore" and went back to his game. As much as I wanted to smack Ryan on the head with the card, I tried to explain how much love and time Emma had put into making his card and that his actions hurt Emma's feelings. This past Valentine's Day when Emma made a card for everyone in our family, except Ryan, I didn't need to ask why and I didn't insist on her running up to her room and making him one. Ryan would have thought the card was stupid (again), unless of course Emma had taped candy to the card. Ryan loves his sister, he just doesn't communicate that love in a way that Emma understands...yet.

Although I have explained autism to Emma and I have read books about autism specifically written for siblings of an autistic child, it's hard for a 7 year old's head and heart to grasp. AWEnestly, some days it's hard for a 44 year old mother to grasp. It's difficult for Emma to understand why Ryan doesn't hug and kiss her like Kyle does. It's hard to understand why cards and pictures made with love are rejected or ignored by him. It's hard to understand why she can connect with with every person she meets, but, not the one person she really wants to...her brother. Then along comes a guy named Steve with his blocks made of cobblestone, dirt, and clay as well as a pick axe and sword to keep the creepers and zombies out of their carefully constructed, mutually adored, virtual world and block by block, a connection has been made. 

Who knew the phenomenon called Minecraft could not only build homes in virtual lands, but, Minecraft has helped build a relationship between a brother and sister that once seemed as unlikely as a creeper and zombie sitting down for afternoon tea. A bridge has been built that not only connects their virtual worlds, but, has also connected their hearts. Emma had to go to a deserted world and dig deep to find the proper materials to build a pick axe that was strong enough, and unique enough, to finally break through the wall of autism and find her brother. And Ryan, who for so many years, kept building his house with thicker, stronger bricks, finally let his little sister in and has promised her that he will continue to do so, as long as she doesn't chose a user name that is "stupid and ridiculous". 

Now I'm the creeper standing outside their real world, outside Ryan's bedroom door where they play Minecraft for hours, hoping that neither one of them senses me and comes at me with their diamond sword. As I slowly crack the door while creeping, I see Emma on the top bunk, the glow of the iPad illuminating her smiling, happy face. On the bottom bunk is Ryan, wrapped from head to toe in his Angry Birds blanket, the only sign that someone is under the blanket is the perfect British accent coming from Ryan's mimicking lips. As an unwanted, spawned creeper, I quietly and stealthily push the bedroom door open wider, risking my safety by breaking the darkness with the hallway light in my attempt to get even closer to this somewhat magical moment. As I hold my breath, trying to stay hidden, I finally hear, with no trace of Stampylonghead's British accent, Ryan yell, "Hey Emma, can you come into my world?". As I stifle my tears at the deeper meaning to those long awaited words, I swear Emma feels the dual meaning too. I can almost feel the joy emanating from Emma's heart as she happily yells back, while tap, tap, tapping her iPad, "I'm coming Ryan! I finally found you in your world!".

I recognize that when the Minecraft obsession ends, so may the intensity of the connection, but, for now, Ryan is not locking his little sister out on the back porch...he has finally...finally, let her in. I hope that whatever zombies and creepers lie ahead in the real world, Ryan will tackle them with a diamond sword in one hand, while holding onto his little sister with the other, because alone he can build a shelter, but, together they can build a fortress. A fortress that hopefully, will keep out their mean, old, creeper mother who makes them occasionally leave their virtual world for the real one.

They say that French is the "language of love", due in part to the stereotype of the French as hopeless romantics and in part because people speaking French just sound sexy. If the French are such masters of love, then don't you think it's ironic that it was the French who came up with a game of love that determines if the object of your affection returns your affection based on flower petals and chance? Come on French people, don't you have something a little more romantic or statistically sound than petal plucking? I remember regularly raiding my poor Grandmother's flower beds for daisies as I plucked petal by petal, mumbling "he loves me, he loves me not" while picturing myself as "Jill" and having Shaun Cassidy "walk me home" while singing Da Doo Ron Ron to me. If only love was as easy as plucking daisy petals.

I remember back in my early Google obsessing days, when I would enter "signs of autism" in the search bar ten times a day, I would typically stumble upon phrases such as "fails to show emotion", "does not reciprocate emotion", "egocentrism", and "fails to show empathy". The name autism itself comes from the Greek word "autos" which means self, which just increased my Googling anxiety. My brain would start on it's obsessive train of thought and it was like a full steam ahead locomotive. Is Ryan only aware of himself? Is Ryan unaware of my love for him? Can't Ryan feel how much I love him? Is Ryan unable to feel happy, or sad, or scared? Does this autism thing mean Ryan doesn't, or can't love me? Why I would go back to this agonizing searching ten times a day is beyond me. I guess I hoped to eventually find a website that negated all this "lack of feeling" fear I had. So, I just kept Google searching, looking for the words, "He loves me".  Little did I know, the proof of Ryan's love was in the hand that I held, the brief kisses that I got and the snuggles that he allowed me to give him. My "proof" was standing right in front of me.

One of the biggest misconceptions about people living with autism is that they don't feel or express emotions...an almost robotic type personality. People with ASD feel the same emotions you and I do, they just may express or communicate those emotions differently. That difference doesn't mean people with an ASD feel any less heartache, joy, disappointment and love than any neurotypical person. In fact, I believe Ryan feels more than the average person because he is so extremely sensitive, but, how those feelings, those emotions are expressed may look much different than what someone without an ASD has come to expect. 

Many people with an ASD are also able to understand the emotions of others if those emotions are exhibited in a direct way such as laughter, crying, or yelling. Ryan has a hard time with more subtle emotions that are evidenced through body posture, tone of voice, and facial expressions. Ryan can easily recognize my angry "freaking out" emotion, by my shouty voice, the steam rolling out of my ears, and the spittle flying from my mouth. Ryan also understands that my tears equal sadness which, depending on what my tears are for, may cause him to feel sad too. And sometimes, when I am laughing, Ryan laughs too, then wonders why he is "fake laughing when it feels uncomfortable". Although identifying such extreme emotions comes easily for Ryan, he may not be able to recognize the sarcasm dripping from my voice when he asks for his fourth Oreo and as I once again relent to his poor eating habits respond with, "Why not?". Ryan happily grabs the Oreo and loves me for what he perceives is my lack of concern in him eating yet more trans fat. Ryan also may not recognize if my shoulders slump when I'm feeling dejected by Shaun Cassidy after my petal plucking assured me that Shaun Cassidy, "loves me not". Ryan's struggle with recognizing these emotions is more about a lack of ability than a lack of feeling. 

Ryan's responses to other people's emotions almost has a direct correlation to how connected he is with a person. Ryan certainly understands sadness when he hears a story that is sad, but, if that story doesn't directly effect him, he may not respond in what most of us would believe an "appropriate" way. Perfect example. Last week there was a story that went viral on social media about a father who found out he had terminal cancer. Once this father received his grim diagnosis, he decided to write 856 notes to leave in his young daughter's lunchbox, so she would have a note from him every day until she graduated from high school. As I read the story, I began to cry and was so overcome that I left out a little sob. Ryan immediately came to me, got all up in my face (literally our noses were almost touching) and said, "What's going on here?" obviously concerned that I was upset. I shared the story with Ryan and instead of saying, "Wow, that is sad!" or perhaps getting a little choked up himself, he immediately said, "touching moment, touching moment" in his very best Goldmember voice from Austin Powers. Needless to say my tears were quickly replaced with hysterical laughter. Ryan knew the story was indeed a "touching moment, touching moment", and I'm sure in his mind he thought how sad it would be if his father was sick and dying, but, the story wasn't about Ryan or his dad or anyone that Ryan personally knew, so the story had very little emotional impact on him.

In the book, "Look Me in the Eye" by John Elder Robison, there is a section in the book when Mr. Robison discusses the perceived lack of empathy and emotions of people with an ASD. He tells of a time when he overheard his mother and her friend discussing a child who had recently been struck and killed by a train. Mr. Robison explained that upon hearing this news, he felt relieved that it wasn't him or his brother who had been killed by the train, so, he smiled. Since Mr. Robison was unable to communicate his thoughts and feelings, his mother and her friend just saw him smile and thought he was a psychopath for grinning about a child's accidental death. In his mind, Mr. Robison didn't know this child, so he did not feel terribly sad. Mr. Robison explained that when he was younger, he often felt people who cried about stories that involved strangers, were being fake, because why would you cry about someone you don't know? Just like Ryan's "touching moment", Ryan didn't know this dying man who was writing notes to his little girl, so although Ryan "got it", although Ryan "felt it", how he communicated it was not what most would expect as a typical or "appropriate" response. For Ryan, and many kids like him, it's all about the connection. When we lost a beautiful dear friend of ours, at the incomprehensible, inexplicable age of 8, through his hiccuppy sobs Ryan said, "But, she barely lived". Four powerful words that my boy communicated, that my boy understood, that my boy felt to the deepest part of his soul for people he knew, for people he loved, for people with whom he had a connection.

Yes, Ryan "feels". He feels anger, sadness, betrayal, disappointment, anxiousness, joy, love, and jealousy. Ryan also recognizes these emotions and he cares about those feelings in the people he loves, the people he trusts, and the people who love him. Ryan's feelings are not impaired, diluted, or inappropriate, but, sometimes, how Ryan communicates his feelings do not fit into what most of society believes is "acceptable" or "appropriate". I wonder who ever made up the rules of just how a person is suppose to communicate their feelings...not your feelings, not your grandma's feelings, their own individual, unique feelings. 

It was once suggested to me that perhaps Ryan would do better communicating his feelings to a therapist who specializes in working with kids with an ASD. I'm not saying that it isn't a good idea, for sometime down the road, but, for right now, here is EXACTLY how I'd imagine Ryan doing in a stereotypical therapist setting:

Therapist: "So Ryan, would you like to lay down on the couch and relax while we talk?"
Ryan: (in a disparaging, how could you be so stupid and still be a doctor voice) "Why 
          would I do that? It's 4:00 in the afternoon and I don't lay down until 10:00
          at night in my bed, at my house, with my Angry Birds blanket and my pillow!"
Therapist: "Ok, fine, then why don't you tell me how you feel Ryan?"
Ryan: "Well I feel scratchy from these jeans my mom made me wear today and I feel 
          blind from the sun coming in your window and I feel dry from the heat in this 
          office.
Therapist: "Well, how do you feel on the inside Ryan?"
Ryan: "Well, right now I have a cold so I feel kind of juicy (yes, this is a word for 
           snotty) and my guts feel kind of gassy."

This conversation would be followed by the sound of my money flying out the therapists window. 

Ryan has feelings and he understands feelings, he just sometimes struggles with the language of feelings. I have always been so blessed because Ryan is very affectionate with me...he hugs, he kisses and yes, he tells me "I love you so much Mommy". Some kids with an ASD have a much harder time expressing their feelings and allowing hugs, kisses and cuddles. This does not mean they don't feel love and they don't know love....they just struggle communicating that love in a way a neurotypical person, would prefer, but, for a child with an ASD, the way they love, the way they express emotion, feels perfectly "normal" to them. There are occasions where I am almost knocked to the ground with one of Ryan's hugs and there are times when my arms are quickly brushed away, perhaps at a time when his overloaded system is feeling too juicy, too scratchy or too gassy. For Ryan, some days, "He loves me", some days, "He loves me not" (yesterday when I forgot him at school, it was clearly a "not" day which is another blog post entirely). 

Please don't ever think that people with an ASD don't feel like you do, because they do. They may not say it, they may not show it, but they FEEL it, so don't ever, ever sell them short. John Elder Robison said, "Autism is a COMMUNICATION disorder, not a "lack of feeling" disorder". Ryan's language of love may vary from mine and yours and chances are, he will not be the next French Casanova, but, I promise you, that even Ryan could have told the French that petal plucking is an "utterly ridiculous" way to determine if someone loves you. Although, Ryan could look at a flower and in an instant determine the number of petals and whether I should start with "He loves me" or "He loves me not" to get my desired answer about his love for me, Ryan would probably skip all that nonsense and in his best Austin Powers voice tell me, "Yeah baby". Yep, he loves me.