Don't Feel That Way.

I've spent the better part of the last 42 years wondering if my feelings and experiences are so damned invalid because I'm a woman or because I'm 'crazy'. Is it sexism, ableism or just a fun combination of the two?

If I had a dime for every time someone told me I had 'nothing to be depressed about' or that I should 'just stop worrying' I would be too rich to qualify for disability for my, you know, clinical depression and anxiety. *headdesk*

A friend posted a graphic this morning that was a response for all those who tell the chronically ill 'at least it's not cancer'. No doubt the people who say that are the same people who tell women devastated by miscarriage that 'at least it wasn't a real baby'. According to the graphic, the proper response is to punch the offending person and say,"At least it wasn't a gunshot."

Seriously, though. Why do people feel so compelled to minimize and invalidate the experiences of others? What exactly do they gain from it? Is it simply that they might feel obliged to empathize if they acknowledged that there was a problem so it's easier to pretend the person is just overreacting?

We see it all the time with people's reaction to the poor. That person over there can't afford to feed himself? He must not be working hard enough. That homeless person over there must have done something to deserve where they ended up. My situation is legitimate. That person's isn't. Everything is their own fault and if they'd just decide not to be that way their situation would improve.

I know there really isn't a point to this post. People without empathy will continue to belittle others and their experiences. Writing a blog post about it won't change anything. But, hey! People can choose to be All The Good Things and Never Have Problems Again, they're just clearly not trying hard enough.
Well, except for me. My problems are real.

Verbal or Nonverbal?

When Evie was first diagnosed I thought she must be 'verbal'. I mean, she said words here and there and I was seeing all these parents complaining about how they never heard their child's voice so clearly their children were 'nonverbal'.
'Thank goodness my child can talk', I thought,'She must not be very autistic'.

Go ahead and laugh. It's okay.

She couldn't use words to tell us what she needed but she could sing. She could say things like 'Daddy' and 'yogurt' and 'Elmo'. One day I was curious and asked her speech therapist if Evie would be considered verbal or nonverbal. She looked uncomfortable and changed the subject but it answered my question.

Now it's two years later. She chatters up a storm but still isn't conversational. Mostly it's one or two word requests, scripts of things we've said to her or song lyrics. Today something different happened, though. She was stomping loudly when I asked her,"If you want to stomp, where should you do it? Where should you stomp your sillies out?"
She took a minute to think about it (and, honestly I thought she wasn't paying attention to what I said) and then replied,"A trampoline."

I had told her countless times in the past that she should do her stomping on the trampoline but I was shocked by her response. I believe in presuming competence, which is why I asked the question in the first place, but I was still taken by surprise. Part of me knows she will progress and develop skills as time goes by. She already has so much. It's just so easy to fall into the trap of the day to day stuff and assuming it is where we will always be.

It may seem like a silly thing to get so excited over and it may not happen again for a while but it's a glimmer of things to come. 

Image credit: Brooke Goodwin
Image description: Adorable little girl with short dark blond hair, wearing a Little Mermaid tee shirt. She's trying to smile while winking at the camera.

Dear Kid With the Crappy Mother...

I see you.

I see you being treated like shit and neglected and there's nothing I can do about it but let you know that I see.

Sometimes it feels like she has the whole world fooled, doesn't it? After all, she has all her friends around cheering her on and patting her on the back when she disrespects you right in front of them. The thing is, their opinion doesn't matter. They're all peas in a pod treating their own children the way she treats you. Doesn't mean they're right. It just means that the people, like myself, who are horrified by that behavior are out here where you can't see us.

I remember when I was around twenty I had a woman approach me and tell me how sorry she felt for me when I was little. I thanked her and told her I wished someone had told me that when I was going through it because it might have made life more bearable to know there were people who saw the truth.

I see the truth and I do feel sorry for you. It's not fair to be treated badly by the person who brought you into this world. All children deserve to be loved and nurtured and it sucks that you can't have that but do you want to know a secret?

It will make you a better person. Yes, you could lash out at the world or turn to drugs or gravitate towards those who will treat you as badly as you've grown accustomed to...
Or
Or you can take everything you've experienced and turn it into a template of what not to be, of how not to treat people. It can make you strong and empathetic and kind and if you ever decide to become a parent you can be the mother you always wished you had. 

I see you because I've been you.

Things To Talk About At 3am...

Is anybody awake out there? Bored Mommy is bored.
We're all getting over the flu. Well, except for the teenager. He's magically symptom free. I think I'm going to start calling him Typhoid Mary. Evie is now onto the nasty nighttime cough stage of the flu-game. Yay for no fever or difficulty breathing but it's definitely impacting our ability to sleep. She's down on the floor next to me, dozing on her Sofia the First fold out sofa as I type this.

Excuse me as I go fetch another cup o' joe.

Okay. I'm back.

Did I ever tell you about the time I took my eldest to see Eric Idle perform? She was 13 at the time. I opened the Rutland Herald that morning to discover that he would be performing at the Paramount because, well, Rutland. *snigger*

*Image of Eric Idle taken the night of the show.
*Photo Credit: "Eric Idle" by VTscapes - Tom E. Canavan 

When I asked Charlotte if she wanted to go, our conversation went something like this:
Me: "Do you want to go see Eric Idle in Rutland tonight?!"
Charlotte: "Um...the name sounds familiar...who?"
Me: "Sir Robin?"
Charlotte: "YES!" *SQUEE*
Me: *SQUEE*

And there was much rejoicing.

I don't remember much about the first part of the show beyond feeling great pride that my child, sitting there next to me, could happily and accurately sing along with The Galaxy Song but then it happened.
The barbershop quartet filed out.
A wave of horror washed over me as I shrank down into my seat.
How did I forget that Sit On My Face (And Tell Me That You Love Me) was a thing?!
The audience exploded and sang along so loudly that I hoped the words would be a jumbled blur for my daughter. I couldn't bring myself to so much as glance over at her. I wouldn't be surprised if I held my breath through the entire song.
And then it was over. I peeked over at Charlotte and her expression was impassive. "Could be worse", I thought.
At that moment Mr Idle shouted something about how we could do better and a couple stagehands wheeled out a massive board with painted lyrics.
Fuck.
They did it again. I had resigned myself to missing out on the Mother of the Year award for 2003.
On the long drive home I apologized. I explained that I forgot that song existed and hoped she wasn't too embarrassed. Her response?
"Oh, I've heard it before. It's on your Monty Python CD."





 I think about these things as she will be moving far away very soon. Okay, so by 'far away' I mean 'two hours away' but it might as well be the moon. Evie loves a good, long car ride so that's no deterrent but it's quite tricky to take her into non-Evieproofed space. The last time we went to someone else's house she got the exciting idea to open the large, glass curio cabinet and sit her butt down on a shelf of treasures. *twitch* Somehow nothing got broken so, yes, while I do believe in miracles I don't believe they happen regularly so I keep her butt away from other people's stuff as much as I can. Especially other people's stuff that we can't afford to replace.
So, yeah. One is married and moving away and the next in line has his head off at college already. He's only a Junior but there is the possibility of him going off next year to a special program at the tech college he wants to attend. I'm determined to not freak out until everything is set in stone, though. Heh. *sigh* 
But, hey! I still have several years of Evie raising ahead of me. While I will never have the opportunity to take her to see an ex Python singing obscene songs, I have discovered that she enjoys going to the movies. That's something we will do at every opportunity. We just have to kick this flu crudbug first.

Parenting is Hard. Full Stop.

I saw another one of those 'why can't we say it's hard?' posts the other day and I've been thinking about it ever since.

We can say parenting is hard. That's really not up for debate. Anyone who has ever had kids knows it's true. What we can't say is,"Parenting this child is hard."

My offspring are a mix of spectrummy and neurotypical so I have experienced the challenges that come with parenting both. Yes, when my neurotypical son was four I could take a quick shower without fearing that he would tear the house apart or injure himself. Yet I know parents of other neurotypical kids who could not say the same. All kids are different.

Autistic kids are more likely to face bullying which my son has encountered little of. Instead he's the sounding board for too many of his troubled peers. He even has kids he hardly knows messaging him because they 'heard he was good to talk to'. He has needed help in the past dealing with the trauma of everyone else's trauma (sexual assaults, abuse, all the stuff professionals get training to deal with). That was painful and hard. Every bit as stressful as dealing with an autism meltdown.

"But fighting for services for my autistic child is hard!"
So is agonizing over how you're going to find funding for your neurotypical child's college.
Being poor sucks regardless of your child's neurology.

I won't deny that there are challenges to raising an autistic child that you don't necessarily see with a neurotypical child but the same can be said in reverse. I worry just as much about my son's future as I do my little girl's. In fact, I think I worry a little more about his because the world will expect him to do it all on his own. He'll also likely be the one providing support for Evie when her father and I are gone. Of course he adores her and doesn't see her as a burden.

There's also a huge difference between,"Holy crap, my kid just tore the house apart!", and,"My kid just smeared the contents of his diaper all over his bedroom walls!" Both occur with kids of any neurology but the latter is an assault on their dignity when expressed publicly. The world doesn't need to know your child's toileting issues. Many autistic children toilet train late or not at all. It's not the end of the world and they don't need to be publicly humiliated for it.

"My autistic child hits/kicks/bites me!"
Again, I've known parents of neurotypical kids who could say the same.

I get it. I do. We all want encouragement and acknowledgment for all we do as parents but it's not a walk in the park for anyone. Parents of autistic children are not automatically saints or martyrs and it's an insult to our kids when we insist or expect to be treated as such. What message is that sending them?

So...which one comes with the most challenges?

It depends on the day.

*Photo credit: Brooke Goodwin
**Image description: In the background is a smiling 16 year old boy with short brown hair with a tail in back, wearing a black tee shirt. In the foreground is a 4 year old girl with short blond hair wearing a Little Mermaid tee shirt. Both are smiling widely.

Please Don't Call Me a Writer

Yesterday Hubby and I had the same conversation we've had dozens of times over the past 6 years.
"You should be a Writer."

Um...

It's difficult for me to express why the label disturbs me so much. I've always enjoyed tossing out absurd blurbs that may amuse people or make them think but the whole 'Writer with a capital W' bit leaves me cold.

I used to think it was the pressure but I think really that it's been ruined for me by too many pretentious people. In the past ten years I have met many, many people who write. Some are absolutely brilliant, some are absolutely not but most fall somewhere in the middle. All have something to offer but nothing makes me want to walk away faster than when they take themselves too seriously. Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking about the folks I know who really have talent. I'm talking about the peeps who speak as if their recipe column in the local paper makes them the next Hemingway.

"I'm a *sniff* Writer."
Yep. You and everybody else, dude.

To be fair, I feel the same way about the word Artist with a capital A. My high school Art teacher is still disappointed in me. I know because I run into her a couple times a year.
"Are you creating any art?" Always asked in a hopeful tone.
Um...last week I was doodling stick figure pigs for Evie. She seemed to really enjoy them.

I think another part of it is that I don't feel compelled to reinvent the wheel. There is no shortage of  great material out there so I feel as if much of it has already been said and done. Do I have something to say about any given topic? Odds are someone with far more talent than myself has already so I can say,"Hey. See this? You should read this. I agree with it."  Yes, I will be happy to add accounts of my experience to a collective but it's generally more a way of saying 'you are not alone' than 'look at me writing all this writey stuff for the sake of writing writey stuff'.

I love my Writer friends and I love my Artist friends but they're just not labels I feel apply to me.
I won't get mad, however, if you call me a Mother. I rock that shit.

*Image is a blurry 'selfie' of an adorable 4 year old girl with blond hair and a middle aged woman with glasses. Both are laughing.

They Must Be Lying If They Didn't Report It At The Time

Really?
I keep reading that shit and it keeps making me want to punch people through my monitor.

I understand that not everyone has been sexually assaulted. What I can't understand is how anyone can go through life thinking sexual assault is akin to getting your car stolen or your house broken into.

It's not.

If our car got stolen today I would call the police immediately. Yes, we would get asked if it was locked but no one would sit back and let the thief keep the car because it was 'our word against his'. That shit's ours and we have the paperwork to prove it.

If I got raped today I would not call the police. Our society says my body belongs to whomever feels like fucking with it. If I don't want it taken I had better cover it up, stay away from parties and bars and not walk anywhere alone at night. Or date. Or simply exist. It would be 'my word against his' and everyone knows women are evil little seductresses that love to lie. Yes, I rolled my eyes as I was typing that.

To me it makes perfect sense that Bill Cosby's accusers are coming out of the woodwork now. He was a powerful man and those women, individually, knew they stood no chance of getting justice. Even now, with 20+ having come forward people still defend him. "Why now?!", they cry. I'll tell them why.
Safety in numbers.

When I was 16 I was accosted by one of our town's 'upstanding members'. He and his father had run a popular corner store for years. I had gone in there numerous times with no problems until the summer afternoon I walked in and was the only one in there. I was looking at a shelf of snacks when he came up behind me and put his arms around me. I blocked out the memory of what he said but I remember clearly what I was wearing. A light blue tank top dress over a white tube top. I remember so clearly because I wore the tube top underneath as I felt the dress alone was too low cut and I didn't want attention drawn to my breasts. That didn't stop him from pulling it open and looking at them anyway.
I'd love to say that I turned around and slapped him but I froze. I felt powerless because I knew I was powerless. He was a 'respected member of the community' while I was just a teen from a white trash family. No one would believe me.

Well, not 'no one'. One friend laughed and was all,"Duh. He does that to everyone." A few years later someone told me he had offered her money for sex (when she was underage) which she turned down.

To my knowledge no one ever reported him for anything but what would happen if someone came forward today? How many women, besides the three of us that I know of, could come forward? He ran that store for many years so I'm guessing the official number would be somewhere around a shit ton. Does it all magically become untrue because we didn't report it at the time?

Women grow up hearing the message that we're all liars and drama queens. Even when we're beaten up and bloody we must 'like it rough'. And it's not just from men. We do it to each other. If she's thinner or more attractive she must have 'asked for it'. On the flip side, if she's less attractive she must be 'making it up' because no one would want to sexually assault her anyway, right?

I don't know where to even begin to change these attitudes. I can only do me. If you tell me you have been assaulted I am going to believe you. I would rather risk having misguided faith than feed into our rape culture any further.