The Dance of Motherhood – Mother’s Day 2015

The bedroom door creaks open, spilling in the unwelcome light from the hallway.

Instantly, I’m awake. A glance to the bedside clock. 3:21 AM.

“Ummm… Mom?” comes the loud whisper of my daughter.

And I know.

I know in the way that every mother knows what to do when a door opens in the middle of the night, and a child’s voice asks for Mom.

My husband twitches in his sleep. I stumble out of bed, over the basket of neatly folded laundry that somehow never makes it into the dresser across the room. I go to her, moving in the familiar dance of Motherhood. She is my youngest of three. There have been many night whisperings and cries for help before this. A terrified toddler with a bad dream to share. A feverish forehead. A cautious babe seeking shelter from a booming thunderstorm. They come to me, and I go with them.

Two hours later, her hair washed clean of her sickness and her body smelling like baby powder, she crawls into her freshly made bed and once again closes her eyes.

The floor needs to be scrubbed. And the bath tub.

There is laundry to do. Lots and lots of it.

Downstairs, I notice the empty bottle of two-months-outdated pineapple juice sitting on the counter. I’d cleaned out our minibar fridge earlier, and the half full bottle had gone in the trash. Yet here it is, empty.

Abandoning the overflowing laundry basket, I shoot off like a world-class sprinter. Up one flight, two flights, three. In my son’s room on the third floor, I see his oversized water bottle on the floor, empty. The foul pineapple juice is gone, and he is in bed rubbing his stomach. He does this… with whiskey sour mix, lemon juice, and even once with vinegar. I clean out the trash can and place it near his bed in preparation for the inevitable sickness.

As the sky lightens with the first sun’s rays, I settle in for what I hope is a few more hours of sleep.

Later, at a more reasonable hour, the plans to attend a family outing will be canceled with a tired-yet-familiar-to-everyone apology, my well rehearsed Sorry-But-We-Can’t-Make-It speech.

Motherhood may not be for everyone, but I love it.

I love them.

I wouldn’t trade my life as a mother for anything.

This is my life. This is my family. This is my day.

Mother’s Day.

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The Day My Son Became A Twi-Guy

My son was 15 when the Twilight frenzy reached a peak in our little corner of rural Maine. I was content to let it pass by us, and because he’s non-verbal and immerses himself in train videos on YouTube, I assumed that he shared my apathy for vampires and pouty school girls.

That’s when it happened. That thing I didn’t see coming.

He needs support with using his electric razor, due to tremors and low tone in his hands and fingers, so I was assisting in shaving off the scruff of the weekend. As he guided my hand, he steered clear of the areas around his ears… and I reasoned that his ears were sensitive to the buzz of the razor. I suggested that he cover his ears while I trimmed that area, but he took the razor from me and softly said, “No.” It’s the only word he can say clearly, so when he used it I respectfully followed his wishes and left the fuzzy sideburns. It was strange, but life gets busy and I didn’t think much more about it.

The next day he came out of the bathroom after his shower, his dark, damp hair looking even more wild than usual. My attempt to comb it was met with another soft, “No.” When it was time to go outside for the bus, he quietly refused a hat, or to put his hood up. I was concerned. It’s Maine. It’s cold. Maybe he had an ear infection? I made a mental note to ask his ed techs and community support staff if they’d seen signs of an ear infection. If so, I’d schedule an appointment with his pediatrician.

Later that night we went out on an errand. The car was low on gas, so we pulled up to the pumps next to a car with a group of teenage boys in black leather trench coats. Immediately, my Butter began making his “happy” noises, smiling, and rocking back and forth. He was clearly excited, but why? “Do you know those boys? Do they go to your school?” I asked. As usual, my son’s severe autism and communication disorder prevented him from answering.

By the time I finished filling the gas tank, with the car rocking from Butter’s excited movements in the front seat, I had managed to sneak a few sideways looks at the boys. What was it about them? Something familiar… And it hit me. The sideburns. The longish, tousled hair. They looked like they’d just been at an audition for the latest Twilight movie.

Back in the car, I asked him a more direct question. “Do you want to look like those boys? Do you want sideburns, and to have your hair like that?” BIG HAPPY SOUNDS! Big, big, BIG! And flapping. I’d solved the mystery. Unfortunately, there was no PECS symbol for it.

We drove directly to Walmart, where I showed him the display rack of gossip magazines, each glossy cover with Robert Pattinson splashed across the front. “This?” I asked, still doubting what I was “hearing” from my sweet, introverted, train-loving boy. “SAHH!” he said loudly, signing “Yes” vigorously. “Sah” is his version of “Yessah!” He is a Mainer, after all.

Hair cut. Brush-on blond highlights. Hair gel. I never in my wildest dreams would have thought my son, the one with sensory integration challenges, would have tolerated any of it. But he did. EVERY day. And he was happy with his new, in-style Edward Cullen look.

Eventually, Twilight dwindled away and one day my Butter took my hand and guided the electric razor to cut those sideburns. The blond highlights are gone, but the lesson stayed with me.

My son has hopes, dreams, and fantasies that I have never even considered. I don’t know everything about him, and I never will. He will always be autistic, but first he is a PERSON.