One side effect of feeding The Chubbs yogurt is that he’s not nearly as hungry as he once was. I am not even being remotely exaggeratory (that’s totally not a word, and if it is, I misspelled it) when I say that up until last week Alex nursed AT LEAST once every hour of the day. No jokes here.

Sunday (or maybe Saturday, it’s been a loooooonnnggg six months), I noticed that I was getting a red raised bumpy thing (yes, I’m technical) on my left breasticle. Figuring that it was absolutely nothing, I just let it be. Then, yesterday I noticed some serous fluid had collected underneath the skin and the realization smacked me in the face! I was probably experiencing a blocked duct, and OH WAIT I was sick too, and if there is one phrase I can remember about mastits, it’s this “if you’re breastfeeding and you feel like you have the flu, you have mastitis” (see Mom, my medical education WAS for something!).

Begrudgingly, I placed a call to my doctor’s office and left a message for the nurse. Now, I have a previous longstanding grudge against the nurses that work in the office, because, well, most of them are complete pinheads. When I was first pregnant with Alex, barfing my brains out, and on a leave of absence from work from aforementioned uncontrollable barfing, I called them at the request of my HR department to see if the MD would sign for a medical leave. The nurse told me that they “didn’t do that sort of thing” and that I should “eat an apple” to help with my nausea.

Riiiiiiiiggggggggghhhhhhhhhtttt. I’ll get right on that apple eatin’, lady.

(as a complete aside, one of the things that I hate to do most is to ask for help, especially from a medical professional. When I do, it’s under total duress and I am all weird and squirmy inside while doing so. So to be told to “eat an apple” was a huge slap in the face to me. Almost as bad as when I had delivered Ben, sustained a 4th degree and was given Tylenol 3 to take home. Obviously, at 3 am, if I am paging the on-call doctor for something to actually take the pain away, “taking a bath” isn’t going to cut it. So fuck you.)

ahem.

I fully expected a return call like,

Me: “I have a problem with my breast.”

RN: “I like potatoes.”

Me: “That’s nice. But I have a problem with my left breast and I am currently breastfeeding.”

RN: “Poooottttaaaatttttoooeeess are good. I love them.”

Me: “Okay, yeah, so about my breast. It might be mastitis, but I guess it could be a pimple.”

RN: “Baked potatoes are good for you.”

Me: “Okay, I gotta go.”

Instead, I got a call back from a competent nurse, who was alarmed by my symptoms, far more so than I was. She insisted that I come in the following morning (today), called in a script for some hardcore antibiotics and put me on an NSAID’s regime.

All to have the PA tell me that I have a spider bite. And a sinus infection.

(holy crap, I just posted actual pictures here. If you knew how long it took me to do this, you’d overlook the fact that these pictures are way too big for the page. I am so not computer savvy and Dave isn’t home to help me, i.e. do this for me. Either way, I am very, very proud of myself.)

I have never pretended to be much of a baby person, but I’ve known a whole ton of people who were. When I rotated through the maternity ward, I spent most of my time wishing that I was in Labor/Delivery where the action was, whereas many of my starry-eyed compatriots expressed how cuuuuutttteeee the babies were and how much they couldn’t waaaaiiiitttt to work with them. Sure, I like babies, I probably think that they’re cute (especially once they’re past the whole garden-gnome stage), and when you have yours, I’ll be there at the hospital to oogle them and tell you how awesome you look, and of COURSE you’ve shed all of that pregnancy weight with delivery. Because I’m your friend.

When Alex was born and the people began to swing by to meet him, I was amazed at how many people said that he was cute. It’s not that I don’t love him to pieces, of course I do, but I thought that he looked rather like Chicken Little. The next words out of their mouths were invariably “Holy crap, he looks JUST like Dave!” because he did.

(as an aside here, I happen to make mention of which parent the child looks like ALL THE TIME when I see new babies. Mainly because most of my friends know that I think babies are pretty strange looking at first, and because when I feel uncomfortable or tell a lie, my mouth opens up and stuff pours out whether I want it to or not. Mentioning that the baby looks like Mom or Dad is a way that I don’t keep going on and on about how cute your baby is (or isn’t) because eventually you won’t believe me.)

At first, this didn’t bother me, as even when he was unceremoniously dumped onto my lap immediately post birth, my inital reaction was something like “If there had been any question of parentage, we now know who is father is.” The resemblance was that uncanny.

Alex:

Ben:

Me Without The Daver (who I couldn’t find a proper picture of):

The Only Picture I Have Of Dave on My Computer Currently (but you cannot see the resemblance there):

Eventually, though, I started to get tired of people commenting on this fact. It was bad enough to have to hear it from our family and friends, but then strangers would comment on it, too. What made me more upset about this than anything else is that Ben would be right there while people would go on and on about the baby, and you know what? At five (and six) he not only understands what you are saying, but he can respond to you in full coherant sentences as well.

I suppose the silver lining in this is that once the stranger realizes that Ben is responding to him (Ben looks about three, the ickle peanut), if they are not a complete jerk, they will eventually comment on how much Ben looks like me. He doesn’t, not really, I mean, we share coloring with the dark hair and darker skin, but honestly, he looks like his father. If, however, you do not happen to see him next to his father, you just see Dave and I together, you would absolutely think that Ben takes after me.

(Dave + Alex = pasty newsprint complexion. Turns beet red if in sunlight for >2.4 seconds.

Becky + Ben = dark and mysterious skin color. Possibly even sexxy.)

The other day during dinner, Ben spent a good deal of time searching Dave’s face to see where his resemblence to him was, after I had made mention earlier in the day that Ben, Alex and I shared eyes (which is a VERYGOODTHING, not so much for now, but for a later date, when Ben might care). He eventually decided on, I believe, ears being the same.

I just didn’t have the heart to explain to Ben, who adores and idolizes Dave more than he ever will his father, about biology and genetics. So ears, Ben and Dave share ears.

(now if I have another one, is it too much to ask that he or she look at least a little bit like me?)

Because I’m feeling spunky, here’s a picture of my wedding cake, the coolest part of my wedding:

Hooray!

It’s October now, and we’re coming up on my favorite part of the year: autumn. Summer has so few holidays that I adore, with the possible exception of my birthday, which I’m still petitioning for national holiday status. Not too sure why the holiday makers are ignoring me so thoroughly, but anyway.

Now, on the not too distant horizon all of my favorite holidays are looming. We’re going to an actual pick-your-own-pumpkin patch this weekend which is about a million times better than the overcrowded, carnival-like one that we used to go to. Like anything else in the world, our old pumpkin patch was super-awesome until the rest of the world discovered it, and then the owners brought in a petting zoo, rides, a clown, a circus, a corn maze, a donkey show, llamas, an apple orchard and rocket rides. I’m only exaggerating slightly.

Afterward, if we’re all still alive, we’re going to carve pumpkins and decorate cupcakes. I’m completely excited by this because not only does this mean I might get to eat a cupcake, which, after weeks on a diet sounds totally delicious, but also, seeing the holidays through the eyes of your children is half of the reason for HAVING kids in the first place. Right?

(the other half is, of course, tax deductions. OBVIOUSLY)

In a orange and black induced haze, I had forgotten what ELSE October brings to our house: fundraiser time. We live in a kid-infested neighborhood, the kind that you literally cannot walk through without tripping over someone’s bike, or someone’s toddler which is great. Mostly I like kids, especially if I don’t have to watch them and they’re not destroying my stuff.

I was a Brownie for a year until I dropped out when I realized what a waste of time and energy it was. Time I could have better spent sitting on my ass and watching grass grow. I dutifully sold cookies door to door as mandated by sadistic leaders everywhere and possibly one of the most traumatic experiences of my eight year old life.

I had doors slammed in my face. People scream at me. I got stiffed and ripped off. I got blisters and ruined a perfectly good pair of Keds. And for all of my trouble? I got some stupid sad-eyed puppy charm for the zipper on my hoodie.

I didn’t even sell enough to get a stupid patch.

In a month or two I will be literally be swimming in the very same stuff that I cannot eat (hel-lo diet!) my personal tithing to the Fundraising Gods. I am entirely sympathetic to these poor little tykes coming around, so much so that I try to buy something from the younger ones. PLUS, I am also trying to work up our Fundraising Karma for our children, so that by the time that I have to take them (shudder, shudder) door-to-door, mayhap people will not spit at them.

Every time the doorbell rings, I grab my check book and say a silent prayer of thanks that my own door-to-door days are now over, and later as I’m swimming in a sea of butt-ugly wrapping paper or popcorn, I’ll try and remember that maybe, just maybe, I was the house that got that kid the patch that I never got.

Or maybe I just have SUCKER written on my forehead.

I have a strange feeling that menstruation is returning to my life after being notably absent since last July (somewhere Kotex is rejoycing), which is making me feel quite hormonal. I’m terribly crabby and feeling extremely put upon, so in that vein I will make a list of my current pet peeves, which is of course due to my now extremely hormonal state, ever changing.

*People who when faced with a long line to check out, get all up in my personal space as though the space in I occupy is somehow holding up the whole line. I admitidly have a fairly wide personal space bubble and not prone to want to snuggle up to complete strangers, but come on. The two feet that I occupy is not what is holding up the line. Just relax and try to enjoy the time that you actually able to zone out. I do.

*Getting my ickle Alexander vaccinated just plain sucks. There is something so hard about inflicting (albeit necessary) pain on someone so small and innocent, especially since you cannot assuage your guilt by promising an ice cream or a trip to McDonalds afterwards. Plus, the day afterwards is ruined by an incredibly bad mood (on his part, I just feel drained).

*I have been so, so tired all last week, so much so that I have not gotten much done around the house at all. Since my own sense of personal satisfaction is strongly linked to the amount of things I can accomplish, this makes me feel worse. I have been so tired that I actually took a pregnancy test, which for some reason I totally hate to do. But it served to remind me that I need to take one at least once a month while I am amennorheic to ensure that I am not actually pregnant. Because, God forbid, I have a miscarriage that I mistake for a period, I run a high risk of developing Hydrops fetalis with subsequent pregnancies.

*I flipping hate Dustin Diamond. Sure, I watched Saved By The Bell back in the day and I thought that he was a bit of an idiot back then in an annoying little brother sort of way but now I find him completely repulsive. And no, I have NOT seen the porno that he was in because I absolutely know that I would never, ever be able to have sexual intercourse again. If he were to fall off the planet, I would be totally happy. Ew.

Can you tell I’m feeling hormonal today? Help me out here, what is pissing YOU off today?

Because I am a certified Bad Mother (nifty framed certificate and all!), I started my Alexander on solids as soon as I possibly could in desperate hope that this would resolve the My Child NEVER Sleeps Problem. It didn’t actually do the slightest bit of good in the Sleeping Department, but at least it gave my poor nipples a rest for a time or two.

To say that he has taken to solids well would be a drastic understatement, he LOVES his solids, which thrills me in ways I’d never imagined.

Let me back up for a moment, so I can let you in on where this comes from: Ben, my darling Ben is not what we in this family call An Eater (but he is, however A Sleeper). Sure, now he’ll wolf down McDonalds like it’s going out of style, but what you never saw is the coaxing, pleading, begging and threatening we did in order to even get him to TRY THAT in first place. WHY would I make him eat this horrible, overprocessed, fatty gross food, might you ask? I was sick and tired of him only eating Saltines and Oatmeal three times per day and I assumed that this would be some sort of safer segueway into eating Real Food That Doesn’t Taste Like Cardboard. It worked. Eventually.

But not before some nearly irreparable damage was done to my ego. You see, when your kid does ANYTHING outside the norm, and as I can see, FoodStuff appear to garner a special place here, people are so very interested in discussing this with you. Discussing is totally the wrong word. More like judging you loudly about it.

Before we knew about the Spectrum Stuff, I was given SO MUCH FLACK about what my child ate that I eventually developed a hugemongous complex about my parenting in general. It wasn’t so much that I hadn’t TRIED to get my son to eat food, it’s just that he flipped the hell out every time I did so, and I wasn’t about to engage in a battle of the wills with a toddler. Period. Why give the poor kid a complex at such a young age? (BTW: we used the same method to potty train him and it worked beautifully).

So, chip on my shoulder large and intact, I used to laugh bitterly every time that I would head down the baby aisle, where the diapers are so convienently located across from the large display of prepackaged baby foods, because as far as I was concerned, it was all a sham: no one’s kids ate that crap (to be fair, if you saw “Turkey Dinner” all pureed in a jar, the color of vomit AND UNREFRIDGERATED you’d call it crap, too). I picked up some fruits and veggies in July, just to have on hand in the unlikely event that my child would ever allow such stuff to grace his ickle palate. Wouldn’t you know it, my supply of this mushed up food is now nearly depleated.

This has redeemed me in ways that I had never thought possible, because maybe, just maybe the problems with Ben had nothing to do with me in the first place. That might sound like a “Well, duh, Becky” statement, but it isn’t, not really. Parents, especially with their first child, are likely to blame themselves as well have to fend off blame from other people for whatever abnormalities (or as I prefer: personallity) that their children may have.

But since seeing Alexander literally wriggle his ickle body with joy when confronted with yogurt (so much so that I actually checked to ensure that he was not having a seizure. Yes, I’m serious.), I’ve decided that maybe, baby, it had nothing to do with me.

So thank you, Alexander, and thank you Gerber baby foods (which I still contend look awful) for redeeming me in ways I’d never imagined.

Man, oh man am I feeling full of The Laziness today, but as I have committed (at least in my head) to trying to post something every day on this here blog, I have decided that the only way to accomplish this somewhat lofty goal is to do a post in bullet form.

*Alex has decided that rice cereal is as nasty as it looks. So nasty, in fact, that he no longer wants to take part in having it grace his now discriminatory palate. Luckily, he thinks Pear/Pineapple and Carrots are akin to heaven, so he has been eating them with gusto. He has also taken a liking to my nonfat/gross/foul yogurt, which is taking me out of my lazy slump to head out to get him his own kind. Because the kid doesn’t need Splenda quite yet. At least not until he’s 12.

*Today, I gave him a graham cracker (don’t worry, not the honey kind, I checked) which he summarily destroyed all over his bouncy seat leaving the dog in new heights of ecstacy, unparelled by only the mere mention of broccoli. Yes, my dog adores broccoli and carrots. He’s strange and sausage shaped and kind of stupid, but we love him. Well, except for when he fights with skunks. Then we call him variations of dumbass for the next couple of weeks.

*I recently started using some self-tanning lotion, which frightens me, as I have visions of myself looking like a slightly chubby, streaky carrot. I have this old friend you see (well, she’s not old per se, but I’ve known her since pretty much forever) who comes into town bringing me a bag full of cast offs from the lotion store that she works at. She’s brought me a bunch of self tanners before, but I was pregnant, and the smell bothered my sensitive nose, so I gave it all away. Now that I’m not pregnant, I’ve realized that it wasn’t actually pregnancy nose that prevented me from using it before. No, it just completely smells horrific. Either way, my previously pasty baby is emitting a nice sun kissed glow (I kid, I kid).

*Week 2 of The Diet is going swimmingly. I’ve lost another 2 pounds, which of course makes me extremely happy, although I have to admit, I wish those numbers were going down FASTER. I can so see why the no/low carb diets are popular, and sometimes I wish that I could do them without, of course, the anal leakage. Other than that, it’s a good diet, it makes sense and best of all NO BOXED MEALS (shudders dramatically).

*I am a touch anal (how many times can I mention the word butt, ass, or anal in a post? Many, many times.) and a little OCD, so when I got a note from Ben’s school in red ink demanding that a book that we read last week be returned to them I got a little panicky. I distinctly remember sending the book back to school, I signed for it certifying (which is a total hoot. *Me*, signing stuff like *that.* Man, I really am a mother, aren’t I?) that we’d indeed read it and now it’s gone. My gut tells me that the book has been lost at school, and I’d bet $150 that I’d sent it back, but all the same, it’s making me unnaturally upset that it’s gone BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO ABOUT IT. I’m not going to argue with it, and since I come across as well, different, in writing I need to make sure that they have checked thoroughly at school prior to sending them a check for the stupid book.

Dear Daver,

Remember that old Chinese curse, “May You Live In Interesting Times?” Well, darling, I think that applies quite nicely for the year. Can you believe we’ve been married a whole two years now? I remember last year, how nicely I’d put up a post on our actual anniversary and I mentioned what a hard year it had been. Little did I know what Year Two held in store for us.

I was already pregnant with Alexander, who was just a blob at that point, but he was MY blob and I was fiercely protective of him, so when I started to spot I was completely devestated and paranoid about losing him. Then hyperemesis began, and I kind of lost my will to live (remember when I couldn’t take showers because the sensation made me vomit, and the drain was clogged, so when I did vomit, I had to manually scoop the vomitus out of the drain myself? God that was fun!), which actually survived the duration of the pregnancy. I was like a pregnant, flatulent, chubby, and miserable bag of wind who sat on the couch and cried. And then demanded creme brulee. And then cried some more. Then I would throw up the creme brulee I had just eaten while crying.

Life was good (hey, at least the toliets were ALWAYS cleaned to sparkling perfection, because the old pee and pubes made me gag even more). It’s no wonder that we both burst into gales of hysterical laughter when we talk about having more kids.

This year, you have watched uncomfortably as countless people examined my hoo-haa, and not even in an orgy setting. Remember when I thought that my water had broken, but really I had simply peed my pants? And then it happened again in March. Wow, those were fun times.

Then The Sweet Baby (a.k.a Your Clone) was born, and around three months of age, he pulled himself off the boob and took a breath. No matter how sleepless the nights were, it was far better than being pregnant, and now, every time that you walk into the room, both of the children light up and run to you, well, Ben runs and Alex’s body just shakes and writhes with sheer joy. It’s moments like these that I know that no matter what it took to get us here, it was worth every second of agony and pain that we underwent to get here.

I know that this letter is late in coming, but we were fighting on our anniversary and I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable that day, well, until you gave me my anniversary present. You sure know how to soothe the savage beast within me: jewelry, fatty jewelry (and just so you know, this didn’t make up for the bathroom. You’re NEVER going to hear the end of that. Unless you muzzle me).

We made it, baby, we made it. Maybe not with our sanity fully intact, but hey, kids make you a little crazy, don’t they? Now, I know better than to ask for a more sedate year, but can this one be a LITTLE bit less insane, PLEASE?

Love always,
Becky

P.S. Do you think the neighbors would notice if I stole their Halloween decorations and put them up in our yard? Hypothetically, I mean, because, err, I would never, ever do that for reals. (Um, mostly)

I’m having a hard day today, and the worst part of it is that I have no idea why. Having an overly emotional mother has left me with a pretty amazing ability to take each emotion that comes through my mind, turn it around, and examine why I feel a certain way and if it is an appropriate feeling to be having. After all feelings are not facts, which is something many people struggle with.

Part of the problem is that I’m a bit used up after this weekend, because in my role in our house, I am the go-to person. Having a bad day? Tell Becky why and she’ll try to make it better. Need a problem solved, go-to Becky/Mom. NEED TO EAT RIGHT NOW, OHMYGOD I NEED TO EAT MOOOOOOOOOOMMM, Mom will make it and feed you. Most of the time, I can handle this and take it all in stride. I’m awesome at multi-tasking, if I do say so myself (and I always do, don’t I?), but sometimes, just sometimes, I need someone else to take the ship and steer it without my help. Last week, because when it rains, it pours, it just wasn’t possible to fix it all and leave anything left of my sanity. There was at no point, during any of my days last week that SOMEONE didn’t need me for SOMETHING RIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRIGHTNOW, and I’m just shot.

I knew I was in for it last night when I realized that I haven’t been able to eat all of my Weight Watchers POINTS this week, as I am an emotional non-eater. I actually stood at the cabinet last night trying to find something worth approximately 16 POINTS (which is a lot, if you don’t know anything about the diet). I decided on a Colorado Bulldog (a strong drinky-drink), which is like the worst thing for you ever, because I just couldn’t handle the thought of putting real food into my mouth.

The only healthy solution that I have ever been able to use to quell the upsetedness (I loves me my confabulation) is to do hard manual work. As such, my house is now reaping the benefits of having me in a stew–it’s glistening and shining and smells awesome. It worked for awhile, but now that raw feeling is creeping back in, so I’m comforting myself that tomorrow will be a new day and I’ll start to feel more human again.

Sometimes, I just wonder what it’s gonna take.

(this is a reprint of a post I wrote in May, but I wanted to say it all again after reading my new issue of People. It is, probably, my favorite post that I have ever written, and is for sure the most honest.)

No parent ever wants to hear that something is wrong with their child; that their offspring is not completely perfect.

Realizing the magnitude of being entrusted to care for, nurture, raise and eventually let go of a new life is both mindboggling and awe-inspiring as well as terrifying. Before my first was born, I could barely be considered responsible to care for an aquarium, and rightly so: I was just 20.

Having had no experience with babies, I had no idea that mine was abnormal. He hated human touch, he preferred to watch his mobile spin around to looking at faces. His first word was not ‘œMama’ or ‘œDada’ or even ‘œBaba:’ it was ‘œtock-tock.’ His phrase for ‘œtick-tock’ referring to the grandfather clock in the hallway which he adored. I’d be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t devestated by his total lack of interest in me and his distain for my touch, but I assumed that this was just the way he was. Different strokes for different folks and all that happy horseshit.

Shortly after his first birthday, he was introduced to the planets through a Baby Einstein video. Before he could recognize emotions, he knew 4 of the moons of Jupiter and could identify them from different angles. *I* couldn’t even do that. Rather than wanting to read Goodnight Moon, I took him to Borders and he picked out an encyclopedia of the solar system intended for adults, which he memorized cover to cover. He could spend hours at the Planetarium but screamed bloody murder at the zoo. I’d come home from class to several different ‘œsolar systems’ he’d created out of balls, each true to form. His depth of knowledge was amazing and freakish and I have no real way to illustrate that to you here.

This was all before his second birthday.

I had realized, of course, that he wasn’t speaking as much as What To Expect During The First Year said that he should, but considering the authors militant stand about their stupid pregnancy diet in their stupid pregnancy book, I wasn’t too worried. I just assumed that he was developing at a different rate than others his age. I mean, what 17 month old can tell you what Pluto’s moon is? (mine could). I had also figured that no one had really encouraged his speaking abilities, being the only child/grandchild, we all spoke for him.

At his 2 year check-up, his regular ped was out and his partner told me in no uncertain terms that not only could he not understand him, but that he would be writing a referral out for an evaluation from Early Interventions. I left that appointment not only upset with the manner in which the doctor had spoken to me (‘How dare he talk to me like that?’) but by the fact that I hadn’t even thought anything was wrong.

Several times, different evaluators came out to our house to observe him and speak with me about his behaviors. Many of the questions provoked lightbulbs in my head, a ‘œso THAT’S why he does _____! (only eats 3 things, becomes so overwhelmed by touch that he screams inconsolably, lines up his toys by color on the stairs, has an insane facination with spinning things, knows WAAAAAYYY too much about the solar system, flaps his arms whenever he’s excited)’ which really only made me feel worse about the things I had never noticed, or had noticed but considered quirks.

I drew the line at recieving a formal medical diagnosis however, because as a nurse and the daughter of a mentally ill mother, I am completely aware how these things follow you for the rest of your life until you can only define yourself by them. Does that make sense to you? Let me give you an example: I (myself here) am dyslexic, have Crohn’s disease, and have a latex/iodine/shellfish allergy. But does that make me who I am? Not one bit, but not only do I catch myself excusing away things based on this, it has become a teeny tiny but integral part of my self image. And I do not have any behavioral problems to excuse away (i.e. ‘œI’ll never be able to sit still because I have ADD, therfore I won’t even try.’)

Without a totally formal diagnosis, he was explained to be on the autistic spectrum and speech and occupational therapies began immediately. For almost two years, he recieved both therapies and began to make strides toward more normal behavior. He began to speak more frequently and clearly in addition to being able to deal with more and more textures, consistencies, and tastes. His more interesting quirks remain to this day, thankfully, as they are part of what makes him who he is.

My soon to be husband and I enrolled him into private school when he turned three to enrich his social skills, as he had no children his own age to play with at home. I’m not sure that these social skills will ever be what is considered totally normal, but they have improved by leaps and bounds, possibly to the point that an innocent bystander would not realize how much he had once struggled to do something as simple as recognize basic emotions.

I have still struggled through numerous thoughtless comments from both parents and non-parents alike (‘why won’t he eat anything but junk food?’) who have somehow gotten it in their head that his problems are little more than an issue of bad parenting. I have suffered through years of guilt and regret (had *I* done something to cause this?) I have spent cold meal after cold meal coaxing him to eat something that looks different or *is* different. I continue to worry about what his life will be like as he grows older and begins to interact more with the general population: will they be gentle and understanding of his uniqueness or will they tease and mock him mercilessly? Have we done enough to prepare him for the world? I have spent hours upon hours reassuring him that completing a ritual out of order was just fine, and comforting him from afar while wanting nothing more than to sweep him in my arms and kiss his tears away.

I have had to accept that my child is not perfect.

Is this the worst thing that could happen to a mother? Certainly not; he’s happy, he’s healthy, and above all else he is loved unconditionally. Having seen babies born without brains and hearing them cry (possibly the worst sound in the world. It’s loud and atonal), I am aware that I got off pretty easy here. But competing in the Pain Olympics isn’t why I wrote this post.

As you all know, I am not one to use this blog as a politcal forum, nor am I likely to spend time talking about my feelings here, or elsewhere. But I came across this website where you can help kids with autism. Is it real? I think so. If not, well, the song is kind of cute anyway. Either way, this band has supposedly pledged to donate $0.49 for every time this video is watched. It can’t hurt, it can only help.

We all have hopes for our children. As for me, I just hope that he knows how much I have loved him.