Well, after all the shark hype this summer, after contemplating building shark proof cages sized specifically for each one of my children, I'm happy to report that we did not spot one dorsal fin the entire week we were at the beach. That's not to say I wasn't on alert all week, watching and waiting for either a scream of "shark!!" or for the lifeguard to stick one of his colored flags in the sand, warning us that today was not a safe day at the beach and to pack it up and head home.

Those lifeguards have it made...most days. As long as no one is being attacked by a shark or being sucked out to sea by a powerful riptide, they cruise the beach on their four wheelers, flags at the ready, letting beach goers know what lies ahead without ever uttering a word. The flags speak for them.

You see, the lifeguards have a colored flag that gives you a heads up as to what exactly the ocean has in store for you that day, so then, you can decide for yourself if the risk outweighs the gain. Many variables are taken into account when determining the flag color, and the color can change quickly, without any real warning, except maybe a lifeguard whistle heard off in the distance. 

After a rough day last week, I decided there should be a flag system for autism. Various colored flags letting you know what autism has in store for your child that day so then you can decided if the risk outweighs the gain and you can prepare yourself to be ready for whatever lies ahead. These flags could help you see what might be bubbling and brewing right beneath the surface that you wouldn't ordinarily have planned for if the flag hadn't warned you.

Red flags. Serious hazards may pop up today and the currents are "dangerous" and very "unpredictable". You need to be on alert for sensory meltdowns, accidentally picking up the 2% Milk Velveeta Shells and Cheese instead of the Original, and the occasional matchbox car that might get chucked by your head. One red flag means, "look out". Two red flags means pack up, pull the covers over your head, thrown in your child's favorite DVD, open your favorite bottle of wine and call it a day.

Yellow flags. A cautionary alert. High currents that could knock you down, but, not quite a run the other way red flag kind of day. Even though it's not a red flag day, keep your guard up anyway. Yellow can change to red in the blink of an eye. It may be a rough day, so you should still "exercise extreme caution". Keep those matchbox cars hidden under your beach towel and check that Velveeta Shells and Cheese box twice before serving.

Green flags. Autism is always unpredictable, so even on a calm, clear day, hazards still exist. Keep a close eye out and always be ready for the unexpected meltdown, change in routine and the possibility of a green flag day quickly going to a double red flag day in a heartbeat. It happens.

Blue and purple flags. Your kid may be having a stellar day. No screw up with the Velveeta Shells and Cheese, his favorite shirt was clean and no changes in the routine are seen in the forecast and autism seems far off in the distance. However, just like sharks, jellyfish and other dangerous marine life can pop up without warning in the ocean, bullies on the school bus, the playground and in the classroom could be lurking, just waiting to sting. So, even on a green flag day, watch out for unforeseen dangers.

The eye doctor appointment started out as a beautiful, calm, green flag day with no other flag in sight. Ryan spoke for himself, answered all the doctor's questions in the occasional YouTuber scripted voice and was social and pleasant. I sat mezmerized as this green flag moment brought joy and pride to my heart. Then the skies darkened and the waters got rough when the eye drops surfaced from deep within the ophthamologist's drawer. The green flag was quickly removed and replaced with a yellow one. 

Warning signs were everywhere that the yellow flag may soon be upgraded to red. Ryan's breathing increased, his hands and body became "twitchy" and both the "lifeguard" and I went on alert. There was shaking, yelling and cries of "do not". However, after a great deal of convincing, cajoling and bribing, Ryan allowed the most patient lifeguard (ophthamologist) I have ever met, to put the eyedrops in and that's when the red flag went up. There were tears, cries for help, head squeezing and vivid descriptions of how the eye drops were attacking his body. At one point, he became so still, so "checked out" that I was a little concerned that maybe Ryan had gone too far under the water this time and I wouldn't be able to save him. 

Ryan eventually surfaced. He had just raised the red flag and closed the beach for the day. He was done. It was too much for his body to handle, so, Ryan closed the beach and went somewhere in his mind where he was safe from unforeseen hazards like burning eye drops and shut us all out. It took my big squeezes, my deep pressure hugs and my assurance that he was ok for Ryan to finally open his eyes and tell me, "don't stop squeezing, it's releasing some of the pressure that is boiling up inside my body". So, I kept squeezing, and cared little that a 125 pound, 13 year old boy climbed on my lap to help him regulate. 

It was hard to watch. I have seen many meltdowns while swimming through these waters, but, I thought at almost 14 years of age, maybe, just maybe, Ryan's strokes had become stronger, his endurance greater, but, some things, even the strongest swimmer can't see coming.

I wanted to raise the red flag too. To call it quits. I too, was done and felt the waters were just too dangerous, the currents pulling us both under, but, I didn't, I couldn't, I won't. You see, I have something the lifeguards don't carry on the back of their, "let's predict your beach day four wheeler", but, it is something Ryan needs me to carry at all times, the white flag. Ryan counts on me to stick the white flag in the sand. To help him surrender to whatever onslaught of emotions or sensory overload his body succumbs to that day. As I sat holding him, giving him big, squeezy tights, I realized that I am Ryan's white flag. I warn people when he has had too much, when he needs to retreat, when he's done fighting, because in those moments when Ryan's body doesn't respond in the way he wants it to, when he can't reach the white flag, I stand up and grab it for him. 

So, even on the days I want to put up two red flags, close the beaches and climb back under my covers and watch Netflix, I don't. While the two of us sat squished in that ophthamologist chair, I recognized that even in the roughest seas, I can't take the easy way out and raise the red flag of autism and close the beach for the day. No, my job is to carry the white flag for Ryan, always having it at the ready, until one day, he can raise the white flag on his own. 


Just like the unpredictability of the ocean's currents, autism is an unpredictable force of nature too. There is no flag system in place to alert my son and me to the force of autism each day, so no matter what danger enters our waters and no matter how rough the waters get, we will battle together until the green flag flies once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The beginning of August may mean school is just around the corner for some while others are still waiting for the last summer trip to the beach to bask in the sun, relax with friends and family and jump the ocean waves. And now, thanks to 26 seasons of Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, we know precisely what is lurking under those waves. Which leads me to wonder why, oh why, does the Discovery Channel air Shark Week in early August at the height of beach season for so many folks? Why not in December when many of us are bundled up in coats and scarves sipping hot cocoa and dreaming of a white Christmas? Nope, those programming guys air hours of shark attacks, sea lion lunches and miles of surf and sand scaring viewers with what might lie right beneath your boogie board during the still hot summer weeks of summer. Of course the bigger question is why do I, a certifiable nut bag who is constantly borrowing the lifeguard's binoculars to determine if that dorsal fin belongs to a big, scary shark, or a kind, happy dolphin while my kids splash in the surf, sit up until 2 AM watching such a terrifying week of blood and horror at the height of summer? Well, it's simple...we aren't going to the beach this summer. With no beach trip I can safely sit on my couch watching Shark Week knowing full well, that even though we have a salt water pool, sharks can't get in there. Can they?

No beach trip this summer has certainly alleviated my shark attack fear (oh, and my riptide fear as well), but the downside has been the constant complaining from my children of "everyone else went to the beach this summer". Between our fellow beach vacationers having alternative plans this summer and the addition of a new puppy (who, by the way, has teeth almost as sharp as a Great White), no sandy beaches or ocean breezes for us this year. Yes, it's disappointing, yes it sucks when friends post their happy families having the time of their life at the beach on FB, Instagram and Twitter and yes, no beach sunsets and shark patrol binoculars has left a gaping hole in our hearts, but we will survive. The irony is, the one person who has grumbled the loudest is the one who hates the scratchy sand, the bright sun, the annoying wind and the sticky sunscreen that goes along with every beach vacation. Complaints, moans and groans from the kid who lasts about 20 minutes before he starts begging to go back to the beach house where he can sit inside the air conditioned bedroom and play video games. Regardless of the sensory overload the beach inflicts on Ryan's overly sensitive system, beach vacations have become part of our family's summer time routine, even though for years I was advised to try a trip to the mountains instead.

It didn't take long to discover that the beach may not have been the best vacation venue for Ryan. On his first trip to the beach, when he was about two, we were THAT family. The family that inevitably parks their numerous umbrellas, inflatable kiddie pool, cooler, enough toys to entertain the entire beach, and over-sized beach towels covered with sand routinely shaken in your direction, right next to YOU. The obnoxious family that has a crying, whiny child that the stupid, selfish parents refuse to take back to the beach house regardless of the impact it is having on your day. And to add insult to injury, throw in a CD player that played Thomas the Tank Engine (loudly) over and over and over again. Yep, we are, okay, we were, THAT family for many years. It's a miracle that the other beach goers didn't throw Dan and I into the ocean with a bucket of chum attached to our beach chairs.

Ryan hated the sun, but he also hated the feel of sun hats and sunglasses which would have alleviated some of the torture. Ryan hated the sand, but failed to recognize that rolling off the towel and into the sand would bring more sand and more wailing. Ryan hated sunscreen, but was too young to understand that crying and rubbing his eyes would only cause the sunscreen to burn his corneas which inevitably lead to more tears, more shrieks, more sand stuck to his face and more beach goers searching for chum. The only thing that soothed Ryan (to the detriment of anyone who had ears) was the Thomas the Tank Engine songs. I promise you, between Ryan screaming, my shouting and the Thomas music, it was the safest, shark free summer in OBX history. Even the sharks didn't want any part of this beach action.

As I sat in the sand with Ryan's giant head digging into my chest trying to block out everything beach, Denial sat there soaking up the sun, singing along with Ryan and assuring me that all kids act like this at the beach and I had nothing to worry about. As the sand slowly worked it's way into my "boom box", suffocating the cheery British chaps singing about happy Thomas trains, doubt was slowly working it's way into my heart. I knew this kind of protesting about what most kids love, had to be extreme and not "normal", but I took Denial's advice and hit repeat (again and again) on the slowly dying boom box while everyone else around us moved farther and farther away.

Although the sun, the sand, and the sunscreen were not Ryan's friends, the ocean....oh, the ocean....most certainly was. The pull and hug of the ocean tides was the relief my poor, over-stressed boy needed to regulate his taxed out sensory system. As much as Ryan loved the feel of the ocean on his legs, his belly, his chest, there was a down side to that deep pressure, salt water hug. The inevitable rash that comes from the sand, the saltwater and long, loose fitting swim trunks. This burning, itchy rash would typically start on day two of vacation (yep, that's still five more days to go) and of course it took one gentle, salt filled wave to lap up against Ryan's irritated skin for the howling to begin. No matter how soothing the tides may have felt to my sweet fella, it was just not worth the fire burning on the back of his legs. Goodbye ocean....see you next year.

Every year, while planning for our annual pilgrimage to the seaside, I would ask Ryan's pediatrician what I could do to prevent the rash from appearing in the first place. He would suggest antihistamines, various creams and lotions and inevitably a different vacation venue like the mountains, the city or perhaps a day trip to the zoo. That's when Denial would stick her fingers in my ears and I would walk out of the pediatrician's office mentally making my list of beach trip items, including the latest lotion that would inevitably prove futile.

Yes, I ignored the doctor, yes I ignored my conscience and yes, I pretended each year wasn't as bad as I thought and we would pack up our umbrellas, our cooler, our beach towels, our sand toys and our Velveeta Shells and Cheese and head back to the beach year after year. On one particular beautiful sunny beach day when Ryan was about 8 years old, it took him all of thirty minutes to announce, "I'm done. Let's go back to the beach house." Are you freaking kidding me? It took twice the amount of time to apply sunscreen on moving targets, pack lunches, fill the cooler and drag the beach chairs, towels, boogie boards and sand toys to the desired, coveted perfect beach spot. So when Ryan announced he'd had enough after I finally plopped my exhausted butt in my beach chair I said, "tough luck kid" and ignored his complaints.
 
Needless to say, I couldn't ignore Ryan for long once I sensed the other beach goers hatred filled, chum searching gaze. I tried distracting Ryan with sand toys, snacks, beverages and paddle ball. My tactics worked for about fifteen minutes. The whining persisted, the complaining got louder and my nerves got more and more frazzled. So once Ryan hit melt-down mode, out of complete and utter frustration, he kicked sand at me. Big. Giant. Mistake. Just like a Great White Shark, I saw red and went into a frenzy. I snatched Ryan up, plopped him on his beach chair and screamed, "You just bought yourself an extra hour!". Yep, I decided to punish my child for kicking sand in my face by making him stay at the beach longer...the horror! Most kids would have laughed at such a "punishment", being forced to play in the surf, build sand castles and eat junky snacks as a form of punishment, but Ryan wasn't most kids. To Ryan, that extra hour was punishment as it was for all our friends who were with us.

It took years of patience, years of tears and years of me ignoring the pediatrician's advice for a change of venue, but last year between Ryan growing up and accepting that his horribly selfish parents were going on a freaking, happy, smiling beach vacation come hell or high water, last year it all worked out because good old mom finally found the secret to beach peace. Swim jammers. I'm sorry if you were expecting some light shining down from Heaven kind of moment where I buried Denial in the sand and took a leisurely sand free vacation to the mountains. I'm way too selfish for that moment. Nope, the secret to Ryan's beach happiness (and for all who vacation with him) came in the form of swim trunks that fit like skin and don't rub, chafe or cause swimmer's rash. My boy could enjoy the squeezy tight hug of the ocean which made the sun, the sand, the sunscreen and his mother yelling, "Please don't go out so far!", while holding the lifeguard's shark binoculars, much easier to bear. In fact, he really, really loved it. Ahhhhh...finally.

Our family, with the exception of one, loves the beach, so no, we have yet to change our vacation venue and the mountains still await us (of course there are snakes in the mountains which one other family member, who happens to be the one in charge of planning vacations) hates. This family wanted to be like all the other fish, heading in the same direction as the rest of the fish in their school. We didn't want to be like the Great White Shark traveling alone being forced to vacation in sensory safe locations. Selfish? Yes. AWEnest? Most certainly. But, until you have lived with the isolated feeling of being that big fish swimming alone while all the other fish swim together putting on their sunscreen without screams of torture, taking the perfect, no family member is scowling because of the wind and sand, beach photo in white shirts and blue jeans (that is so predictable, please, please wear something different) and going about their vacation with the other fish in school not concerning themselves with the fish whose family's needs are so different from theirs, then you can't and you must not judge. 

It took time, but Ryan has truly learned to love the beach. He wears sunglasses, sunscreen and form fitting swim jammers. And although he may still be the first one ready to head back to the beach house, he lasts much longer than thirty minutes these days. We may have tortured Ryan over the years by subjecting him to environments less than pleasing and this most certainly was in part because we wanted to swim in the same school of fish with all our friends, swimming in a group and heading to the same vacation spot. However, Ryan's torture from sand, sun and saltwater also occurred  because the world will always be sticky, scratchy and bright, and trying to adapt to that world while mom is on shark and snack patrol and dad is on riptide watch, is the safest place for my beautiful son to adapt. Being thrown to the sharks alone with only a bucket of chum to cling to and my boy would never survive. Unlike his family, Ryan may never want to be part of a school and he may always prefer to be traveling the waters alone, but my son will never, ever be completely alone....we will always be swimming a few feet behind him.

Yes, Shark Week scares the crap out of me which of course is part of the lure. However, I also think the Discovery Channel programmers, marine biologists, and all those who love and fight for the understanding and survival of sharks, want those of us who are uneducated and whose only conception of sharks was created by Steven Spielberg and a mechanical shark in 1975 to realize, that even though sharks may not prefer to go along with all the rest of the fish, sharks have their place in the ocean. Without sharks, the ocean would be filled with fish who all want to be the same, going in the same direction and who fear swimming outside the group. If we can put our prejudices and our misunderstandings aside, we may understand what amazing, strong and beautiful creatures they are regardless if they forego the traditional school of fish and prefer to swim alone. 

Coming from a fish who has always preferred to swim in a school surrounded by others pushing me and guiding me to go the same way as them, I am at times saddened, yet inspired by my big fish who cares little of what direction others are heading. He has his own path in mind. Ryan may be traveling in waters often designed for those swimming in a school, which at times makes survival difficult, but he and kids like him have proven to us group folks that being alone very rarely means being lonely and that being who you are, regardless of your differences, takes more courage, more strength, and more survival skills than all the Great Whites freaking us out on Shark Week.