My "Why"

Why do you do what you do? Why do you go to work every day, or not? What motivates you to do the things you do in life? These influences and your intended results are your "why".

These two are my "why".

As I am sitting here listening to the very loud sounds in my house - the older one is burp-singing in the shower, the younger one is talking incessantly and eating a peanut butter coated apple, the phone is ringing, the voice caller i.d. says another telemarketer wants to sell me something, and the dogs are licking my legs - the tension running up the back of my neck is making me begin to question why they are my "why".

In our daily activities, it is easy to get frustrated.  We all do.  I get frustrated when it takes Ian forty-five minutes to take a shower because he spends the first twenty minutes trying to get the water temperature right and then forgets to get in. I get frustrated from 4:45 until 9:30 p.m., which is when Ainsley talks non-stop. Every. Single. Day. The later it gets the higher her pitch goes and the deeper it drives a tension nail into my temple. I get frustrated when my children are so tired or unfocused that I have to give them step-by-step instructions on how to brush their teeth. I get frustrated when my husband and son are in a department store and are arguing so loudly that everyone in the three adjacent departments hears my son say, "I didn't pick my nose. I had an itch!"

But it could be worse. Much worse. And it isn't.

I used to think I was saving money for their college. In the traditional sense, higher education is becoming highly over-rated and I am not impressed with what it has to offer. It is a mold that we force people into, whether they fit or not. Then we try to hold them accountable for poor performance at something that doesn't meet their needs.

My goal for the fabulous duo has changed in recent months.  They are differently-abled. Traditional ways of doing just about everything don't work for them. Yet, they are capable of doing incredibly creative things, and both are very bright. One day they will each do something to change the world for the better. For certain, neither of them will take a traditional route to reach their own goals. It just isn't in the cards.

Rather than planning for the day my children leave home for college, I am preparing for a lifetime of having them with me, if that is what they need. It is certainly my intent that they be able to take care of themselves. Mamma WILL going on vacation without them once in a while. It would be nice if my parents can still come stay with them. Hopefully, when my dad is 90 that won't be necessary. Still, it's nice to have options, just in case.

I want these two beautiful lives to be able to take whatever varied course lies ahead of them, without having to conform to the expected order of events. When I brought them into this world, I was under the impression that they came with an eighteen year contract. After that, I would be free and clear and able to "par-tay like it's 1999".

Something tells me that ten years from now, they will still spend every night before bedtime reading Garfield comic books together on Ian's bed. Ainsley will still want my mom to sleep next to her when she visits. Ian will still be playing video games (or whatever has evolved by then) with my husband for way too many hours at a time. (It would be nice if that activity could involve total body movement and a little cardio instead of sitting in a chair using only fingers to play the games. Wii isn't cutting it in the exercise department. Just sayin'.)

Whatever it is that happens, I don't want them to be stuck in jobs they don't particularly enjoy or doing things that fail to connect them in some way to the world around them. I do want them to experience joy every single day. Meaning. Purpose. Fulfillment. To know their own "why", and to let it drive them to the pinnacle.

Time to get back to business

I have been away. Things got very complicated around here for quite some time, and sitting down to write every day was not a priority.  As my commitments from the last couple of years are drawing to a close, there appears to be a window of opportunity to do what I love again ... write and paint.

My thanks to Stark.Raving.Mad.Mommy for helping me see that sharing with others is where I can help the most.

Has the Smoke Cleared Yet?

No, I didn't burn the kitchen down. I am referring to the billowing clouds of furiosity that were the result of my trip to the grocery store on Sunday ... WITH MY CHILDREN!

You will recall I mentioned in my previous post that Steve has a cold. In an effort to be a loving, caring, nurturing wife, I took Ian and Ainsley with me to the store so Steve could rest. Let me just set the record straight now before I forget - When I returned home, the man who could barely open his eyes before I left, was sitting up in bed, eating a sandwich, and watching a football game! It's a freaking miracle!

Now, back to the grocery store trip. The kids have never done well at the grocery store. It is complete sensory overload for them. Too many lights, sounds, people, and choices. It's a nightmare. To get to the produce aisle, where I normally begin my shopping, we had to go through the florist and the bakery. Alone, this takes me about 7 seconds. With my offspring in tow, it takes 53 minutes.

Ainsley: "Mommy, I want to give my teacher some flowers. Can I get some flowers. Oh, I like these red ones. Mrs. E will really like these. Here I'll put them in the cart."

Me: "No, honey. Not this time."

Ainsley: "Oh, please Mommy? I really want to give her some flowers."

Ian: "I want to give my teacher some flowers too. I'll take these roses."

Me: "Stop, both of you, and listen. We are not buying flowers today. It's a really sweet thought, but we're here to buy what is on my list. If it isn't on my list, it won't be going in the basket."

Ian: "Can we have these?" He pointed to some small cakes.

Me: "No."

Ian: "What about these?" He pointed to some cookies.

Me: "No."

Ainsley: "Ooooooo... what about this?" She started to pick up a huge chocolate cake.

Me: "No."

Ian: "Awwwwwww. C'mon. You're always saying, 'no'. We never get anything."

Me: "And this is why the two of you do not have the privilege of shopping with me very often. We will buy what is on my list and only what is on my list. No discussion, no whining. Got it?"

Ian: "Hmmmmmmph."

Me: "Let's get some apples. Ian what kind would you like this week."

Ian: "Red Delicious, of course. I'll get five for me and an extra one for my teacher."

Me: "How about getting two for you and one for your teacher. The last time we bought Red Delicious apples you decided you didn't like them so much after the first couple."

Ian: "How about four for me and one for my teacher. I'll get one for Ainsley's teacher too."

Me: "Let's let Ainsley pick an apple for her teacher. What kind of apples do you want to eat this week Ainsley?"

Ainsley: "I want the yellow ones. And I want a yellow one for my teacher."

Ian: "Ainsley, you have to give her a red one. Teachers don't like yellow apples."

Ainsley [whining]: "I don't want to give her a red apple. I like yellow ones."

Me: "Ian, it's nice of you to help, but let Ainsley choose which one she will give to Mrs. E."

Ian glared at me over the top of his glasses while Ainsley began counting every apple in the bin. After some redirection, we finished with the apples. That little stop alone took ten minutes.

The can-I-have-this maneuver appeared again but was thwarted when we headed for the vegetables. Ian began feeling everything within reach and was fascinated when he found non-produce items conveniently located near fruits or vegetables that could be paired with them. Several times I had to call him away from the bananas. He was trying to hide a box of Nilla Wafers behind his coat.

Me: "Guys, one of the rules at the grocery store is 'If you're not buying it, don't touch it.' Ian, hold on to the cart and don't touch anything else. And put those Nilla Wafers back. Ainsley. . .Ainsley? Where the hell is Ainsley? Shit! Where'd that child go?"

Ian: "Mom, you're not supposed to say 'shit.'"

Me: "Don't be a smart-mouth. Help me find your sister."

We found her feeling up the kiwis. So began our two-hour trip through Tom Thumb, a ritual that normally would have taken me forty-five minutes if I were moving slowly with a raging hangover, and was talking on my cellphone - on a good day, thirty minutes. In the midst of our lengthy journey down the aisles came the time that I should have given the kids their afternoon meds for ADHD. That's when things really got ugly.

I must have blacked out from the baking aisle through the chip aisle, because it is difficult to recall the details or the words I said. At some point, a bag of marshmallows was tossed cleverly into the basket by small hands and removed by mine before a scuffle ensued. Said bag of marshmallows became mushy-mellows and had to be hidden behind some canned green beans. My apologies to whichever store employee finds them.

I do recall believing that I was thinking some things to myself that actually became audible. One of them was, "I know you are not intentionally trying to piss me off, BUT YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF!!!!" The rest of the excursion is a blur.

Poor Steve still hasn't figured out why seeing him watching a football game and eating a sandwich put me over the edge, or why his sudden winter illness has not automatically made him the recipient of my undivided concern and attention. At one point I wanted to say, "You'll have my complete sympathy for your pathetic little cold when I see you pass two watermelons with ADHD from your (insert name of any orifice in the male body) without an epidural!" But I didn't. He knows I win the toughest babe on the planet contest, and he doesn't even come close to qualifying for the competition.

I do care how sick he is. It sucks, really. That being said, however, Steve could be in a coma next Sunday; but I will be leaving the children in his care. They have a much better chance at surviving the day under those circumstances than if I have to take them with me to the grocery store again.

This is why margaritas garnished with jalepeno-stuffed olives are now my breakfast of champions.

Cooking For an Army of Four

When I was growing up, we ate dinner at 5:00 every day. Everyone was present, no excuses. Once in a while Dad would teach a night class, which meant we ate Lean Cuisine and salad instead of the usual meat and potatoes. Or rabbit (that's a story for another time). We had a delicious, home made, balanced meal. We discussed the happenings of the day and bonded as a family. That was then.

The last several months found me frazzled when it came to preparing dinner. Ian is getting pickier by the day. Ainsley just gets an attitude once in a while that sends me through the roof. Steve is rarely home at dinner time, except on the weekends. And after school activities during the week prevent us from having regular sit-down meals. This goes completely against my grain.

I am learning to adjust.

No longer do I expect us all to be seated at the table at 6:00 with napkin in lap and a hearty appetite. I am grateful if I can get three-fourths of our family to sit for thirty seconds at a time throughout the meal. Napkins? HA! My kids use their sleeves, shirt fronts, and pant legs for cleaning up, if they wipe their hands and faces at all. Using silverware is NOT optional, even though fingers are easier to manipulate. It's a constant battle to teach and reteach the same mealtime manners every evening. And it's exhausting.

There is no wonder why, over the last several years, I have given up on gourmet cooking. Oh, there was once a time when Steve and I would never eat the same dinner twice in a month. Every meal was an experiment in tantalizing flavors, scrumptious textures and colors and glorious aromas.

Now I try to limit chicken nuggets to no more than three meals per week with sandwiches ... sandwiched ... in between. That is all about to change.

My girlfriends get together once every few weeks and make entrees in bulk, then take them home and freeze them. I envy that their children will eat just about anything that is put before them. While I have yearned to join their group, it just didn't make sense to prepare huge casseroles that my children will not consume (no two foods are allowed to be combined or touch on their plates, or all hell breaks loose).

Today, in a stroke of pure genius, I came up with an alternate plan. I am going to prepare as much of the weeks VARIETY of menus as I can in the next twenty-four hours, freeze some of it, and relax the rest of the week. No more McDonald's drive-through in an emergency. No more mac-n-cheese from a box. No more friggin' chicken nuggets!

My mother-in-law bought me a new programmable crock pot for Christmas, and I plan to use it as much as possible. The bread maker that I so dearly love, will become its best friend as they sit side-by-side on my counter humming and rumbling and baking delicious meals for my family. Ian and Ainsley will surely give each appliance a special name. They believe all inanimate objects can talk and should have names. They will probably be very unique ... like "Bready" and "Crocky". Their first task: to make chicken soup and corn bread for Steve, who has been knocked out by a winter cold.

Did I mention it was 81 degrees yesterday? Just thought I'd throw that in.

The weekly menu is planned. The grocery list has been made. Now all that's left is to get my butt to the store and start shopping, chopping, stirring, and savoring.

If later today you see fire trucks outside my house, you'll know I overloaded the circuits in the kitchen. Wish me luck!

What Dreams May Come

I don't like to make New Year's resolutions because I know my incentive to do anything for 365 days only lasts about 72 hours. It could be ADD, I don't know. Being resolved to something seems so concrete and final. I prefer for things to stay fluid and full of possibilities. Life changes every day. Clinging to expectations made months or years past prevents us from taking chances.

Now I shall call them "potentialities" instead of "resolutions". They are my dreams for what may happen in the new year ... but who knows?

1. I hope to paint more and play Spider Solitaire less.

2. I wish to hear, see, and feel more love demonstrated in my home.

3. May my family show the world random acts of brilliance and kindness that will change someone's opinion of what it means to have autism.

4. I aspire to move my body more ... ten more minutes a day of yoga, 30 more minutes a week of heart thumping exercise, 6 more hours a month of not sitting on my ass.

5. I would like to travel to a different country.

6. I want to discover something new in the familiar.

7. I believe I can be stronger for my children and because of them.

8. I promise myself I will try to be forgiving.

9. I will look at the bright side.

10. I will laugh as often as possible.

Happy New Year! May your "potentialities" find you.

Ho...ho...ho!

Until two days ago, my kids had never been to see Santa. They had never told him in person what they wanted for Christmas. They had never been asked by the Bearded One, "Have you been good this year?"

It wasn't that they did not want to meet Santa. Christmas is as magical a time for them as it is for any child who believes their goodness will be rewarded with wrapped toys (but not clothes...Ian hates getting clothes for Christmas). In fact, Ian believes with all his heart that Santa is real, and he is awesome.

We tried to visit the large red elf in the past. Long lines, enormous crowds, and thunderous echos of holiday shoppers made it impossible for my sensory challenged little ones to tolerate the wait. The first time Ian tried, he lasted ten minutes in line before he begged to go home. He was three, and I was pregnant and grateful although a little disappointed.

The next year we opted to send a letter instead. The year after that, an email. And for the last couple of years, we went back to snail mail. Although I continued to ask each year if the kids wanted to go meet Santa at the mall, they would always say "no, thank you" because the idea of actually seeing the big guy scared them to death. In their eyes, Santa is bigger than god.

This year was different. Ainsley not only wrote her first letter to Mr. Claus all by herself, she addressed the envelope and insisted I put a stamp on it. Fortunately, I intercepted it before it was picked up by our postal carrier and placed in the bin of letters that go to the North Pole. I have often wondered how big Santa's mailbox must be to accommodate all those letters.

Early last week, Ainsley decided she wanted to meet Santa. She was certain she must meet him this year and wanted to know exactly when they could be introduced. We decided to go on Saturday (yes, I know...big mistake). By the time Saturday had arrived, even Ian was excited about meeting the toy dude.

We opted for an upscale mall, knowing the crowd there would be much smaller than at more popular shopping centers. The one we selected had Santa stationed in front of an enormous snow globe depicting The Polar Express, with "snow" falling inside as we walked through it. There were several smaller globes to keep them entertained as we waited in line for two hours.

My children were amazing. They were patient most of the time. They were polite. They tried to be calm to the best of their ability (we had forgotten to bring their afternoon doses of Adderall and Focalin). Compared to all the other kids, they did just fine. Steve and I were so proud of them.

When it was finally their turn, they walked gingerly toward Santa. He encouraged them with a warm smile and big hugs. Once seated in his lap, they each told him the one present they truly wanted. When it was over, they sighed with relief. With enormous grins, they knew that Santa now had the information he needed to make this Christmas extra special.

Walking away from Santa, I felt tiny tears build behind my eyes. After nine years Ian had finally experienced one of the true joys of Christmas before growing up had time to take it away. The magic of believing had been confirmed.

For Ainsley, the excitement of meeting St. Nick was on par with the effervescing happiness she feels every time she sees my mother. Santa is love and goodness, just like Nonni. The soft Kringle beard reminds her of Grandpa and his quiet kindness.

I know they are counting the days until the presents arrive. Honestly, I am really stoked, too. But there is a new calmness that has come over our home in the last couple of days. It is as if everything is right in the world and in its proper place. This is the feeling of Christmas I have missed for so many years. I am so glad its back.

Kung Fu Darling

Ainsley has wanted to do Kung Fu San Soo since she was two years old. That's when Ian started his study of the oldest martial art. All the other forms of Chinese fighting - Karate, Judo, Jujitsu, Tai Kwan Do, Tai Chi - are spin offs of Kung Fu. Ainsley doesn't understand that yet, but somehow she seems to know that what she is learning is very special.

Her teacher, or Sifu, is a 7th Generation decendent of the originial Chinese Masters. I'm not talking about genetics. This is the training lineage, and it is as sacred to the Kung Fu Masters as family. This means my children and husband are part of the 8th Generation of descendents of the Ching Dynasty, and they are learning from a Master who has earned a 10th Degree Black Belt in this ancient art. To study with him is an honor.

Whether or not Ainsley understands this now is irrelevant. She idolizes Sifu. She knows there is something very special about him and what he has to teach her. He taught her the very reverent salute when she was half the size she is now. She salutes him every time she sees him and then hugs him if she can get away with it.

Getting our family to Kung Fu tonight was a challenge. I won't go into the details of our preparation to leave the house; I'll just say there were several clothing/uniform changes before we made it out the door. Once we arrived at the center, Ainsley and I ran to the bathroom for a last minute emergency. I sent Ian into the classroom and told him to find some seats for us.

In a bathroom filled with children and mothers, Ainsley and I attempted to remedy the last emergency of the evening and get her completely dressed for class. It seemed to take us forever. In a frenzy of hand washing and gathering of sandals, belt, and purse, I looked around to find Ian casually walking into the ladies restroom to find us. Fortunately, no on in the room was exposed, and everyone remained calm.

Ainsley is usually on the cusp of medication effectiveness when class starts. Her noon time dose of Focalin has done just about all it can to keep her zeroed in on the tasks before her. By the end of class she is looking everywhere but the front of the room and walking around in circles. Sifu is very patient and understanding about her inability to watch at that point. Fortunately, she still hears and catches the information she needs to learn.

Tonight the class practiced a new kick that required ample vocal accompaniment. Ainsley loves to make the noises. They are part of the allure of this art. Sometimes she yells "dek" loudly enough that it takes her body of balance. Hopefully, at some point, she will get "right" and "left" sorted out in her mind so she will land solidly on her feet.

Between kicks and shouts, Ainsley likes to blow kisses to me. It is hilarious to watch this precious, beautiful little girl learning how to kick some major butt, yet remaining demure enough to sneak in an air kiss when she has a second.

What makes it even more special is when she has an extra second to pick her nose. That is truly the cherry on top!

At first I was a little worried that my ballerina was going to be giving up her femininity to play a boys game. But now I know she can do it on her own terms and love every minute of it.

The Power of Touch

Ever since school started, the kids have had to take their meds really early in the morning in order to see an effect by the time they get to school. One of the down sides to that is by the time Ainsley comes home from school she is rapidly descending in to la-la land. She walks around the house re-enacting scenes from Star Wars and cannot be brought back without great effort. Ian stays fairly aware of his surroundings until about 5:00. After that he, too, is glassy eyed and struggling to be part of a family unit that communicates effectively and has a lovely meal together. No, wait... that only happens in Leave it to Beaver. Maybe I should hide the Star Wars DVDs and start forcing them to watch reruns from the 1950s after school so they will know what "normal" was back in BA times (Before Autism). Naaaaaaaa - that might really freak them out.

To the person who is unaware of the more subtle characteristics of ADHD and Asperger's, my kids would seem like the rudest children on the planet if they came to my house at dinner time. They can't sit still at the table. They get up and walk around the house. Sometimes they just stare into space. I could give them verbal instructions, scream, and dance naked on the kitchen table and they still would not acknowledge that there is food in front of them and people talking to them. What I need at that point is to have had a nap about two hours earlier so I am thinking clearly and have the energy to redirect each of them continually without getting so frustrated I have to leave the room. Steve certainly doesn't need to experience this at the end of a 12-hour work day. One of our biggest challenges as a family is getting through dinner.

I have rediscovered something that I have used over and over, especially with Ian. Touch. When they seem to be unreachable, I touch a shoulder. If that doesn't work, I touch a shoulder and hold a hand. If that doesn't work, I place both of my hands gently on two cheeks, stand directly in front of them, and say their name. It works most of the time. The secret is to use a gentle, loving touch - not a rough or anger driven grab.

Tonight it worked wonders. It was difficult for them to quiet their minds enough to go to sleep, so we played tag-team snuggle buddy to help them relax. That means I went between each of their rooms about half a dozen times and cuddled with them. There are times when I feel put out having to do this. So many chores await me downstairs - those will be put off until tomorrow . . . again. Countless times I have wished for the night when they are able to go to sleep on their own. I know it will happen some day, but for now I will savor the preciousness of being the calming force in their lives.

Drugs

Steve had an interesting and all-too-familiar conversation with a co-worker today. The gentleman and he were discussing their sons and attention difficulties. The guy said his teenage son was having trouble paying attention and he suspected ADHD might be a factor. When Steve said his son has the same problem, the colleague said, "But you don't have him on medication," to which Steve replied, "Oh, yes we do."

It is ironic that four years after Ian's diagnosis, the advice a friend gave to him is the same advice he now gives to other fathers who are beginning their journey into the autism spectrum.

If a single pill - or several - could give us back the son we had 7 years ago, we'd do it in a heartbeat. With drugs such as Ritalin, Concerta, and Adderall, we have been able to give Ian - and Ainsley - the ability to focus, to complete important tasks, to learn with less frustration and anxiety. Things make sense, and there is less "noise" in the brain when the right meds are given. Ainsley told me last week that she feels less nervous when she takes her methylin. That alone makes it worthwhile; but I can see the confidence my kids have when the drugs kick in. It's a beautiful thing.

Let me just say to any parent who thinks that putting off medicating your ADHD child is doing him/her a favor - WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING???

If your child had cancer, would you wait and see if he outgrew it? If your daughter breaks her leg playing soccer, are you going to hope it heals on its own? C'mon. ADHD is a neurological disorder for which there is excellent drug therapy. Kids with ADHD don't learn how to focus just because you tell them to. They don't "shape up" because their parents and teachers get tough with them. They don't outgrow it. With the help of medication and some educational strategies, your child can become successful at many of the behaviors that have been elusive. Without it, you are sentencing your child to a lifetime of failure.

The stigma of ADHD and having your child on drugs for it is in your own mind. GET OVER IT!

With that being said, let me confess that I was once in the same boat with the same mindset. A very wise developmental pediatrician helped me to realize that we had nothing to lose and everything to gain for our children.

And now, my currently sleepy children whose medication has left their bodies for the day, need some assistance getting ready for bed. Good night, dear friends. Good luck.

Finding Our Way Through the Quick Sand

I am losing my mind . . . again. Every time I think I have found it, the darn thing gets loose and runs away.

There isn't one particular event associated with my latest sense of exasperation. It's a colorful array of spring time madness that has sprouted pretty much every place I go, and I am the busy bee who must visit each pollen-infested bud.

I don't know where to begin. At the present moment, police and news helicopters are circling the square mile just southwest of my home. They have been whirling around up there for at least a couple of hours because of a teenager who has holed himself up inside the family home, apparently because he's pissed off at his parents. It is believed he is armed.

This situation and events of last month are proof enough to me that there should not and will never be any guns in my home.

Ian has become extremely angry. He doesn't want to follow rules, unless he makes them. He thinks Steve and I are mean and we make up rules just to frustrate him. Countless times he has stated vehemently that he wishes Steve, Ainsley, and I would move to Mars so he and Sugar could do whatever they want to do. The dog is the only one who truly loves and understands him.

It is true that we have instituted some new policies in our home over the last few weeks, and they have been difficult for all of us. In the long run, however, I believe we will all benefit. The one that bugs the kids the most is the "One hour of screen time per day" rule. That means one hour divided among t.v., computer games, and Nintendo. They get to choose how to spend their hour, but once it's over, it's over. Ian thinks this is terribly unfair because it takes him just under an hour to complete a chapter on his Star Wars video game. Then he immediately wants to start another one and doesn't want to quit the game after starting the next one. We have had to pull him away from the computer, kicking and screaming, on so many occasions we took the game away until further notice.

Ian is allowed 30 to 45 minutes to unwind after school. Then he is provided a nutritious snack and must begin his homework by 4:00. The kicker this week has been the warm swimming pool in the back yard. I won't let him swim until the homework is finished each day, and that is very unfair. Requiring him to do homework at all is such a tremendous injustice. He feels like he is in jail. On some days, I do too.

He has become more picky about what he eats, unless it is candy. He was doing really well for a while, willing to try some new things every once in a while. Now he's back to the same thing for breakfast, the same thing for lunch, and the only thing he ever wants for dinner is chicken nuggets. He only gets those once a week.

Ainsley has good days and bad. She is still having difficulty with potty training. I have rinsed so many pairs of poopy undies, the smell is stuck in my nose. Gag! She does fairly well when the methylin is still in her system. That is a fleeting six to seven hours each day, which leaves plenty of time for accidents.

Ainsley's situation can probably be remedied with a little more time and possibly another ml of medicine; but there is no rush. Ian's situation, however, requires intense study and a quick solution. He can be so fragile at times, explosive at others. I don't want the police and news helicopters hovering over my house any time soon. In fact, never would be o.k. with me.

I have decided the best way to gain control of this situation is to do two things. The first, take him off the medication that seems to be providing no benefit. The second, find a new psychiatrist who can manage the medications and provide therapy that is appropriate for a child with his conditions and consistent with they way we are raising him. I have found the person I believe can handle this challenge. My hope is that Ian will trust him to help.

O. K., so I'm not losing my mind after all. The quicksand that has been pulling me down with all of these behavior issues seems a little less sticky than it did last week. There is a rope within reach. I just need to s t r e t c h a l i t t l e f a r t h e r .

Multi-Tasking ... It's Not for Wimps!

I love Sunday mornings. I sleep in (till 6-ish), the others sleep much later. I have time to myself to plan the week's menu and make a grocery list while I enjoy that wonderful first cup of coffee. Sometimes I check out what's on Flickr or play Boggle on line while I try to decide what to fix for dinner each night. This is why I am tired at night - my day begins with multi-tasking, and it never ends.

After breakfast, I had the overwhelming urge to paint something small. It is rare for me to paint a 5x7" watercolor, but when the mood hits, strike hard. So I did. I'll post it on Flickr later when it's dry.

Ian and Ainsley joined me in the playroom/painting studio not long after I got started. They were playing Lego Star Wars on the computer. Life doesn't get much better than that, as far as Ian is concerned. He's got Legos, his favorite movie, and his favorite activity all rolled into one thanks to Aunt Lisa, who gave him the video game for Christmas. It took her a while, but Ainsley has finally figured out how to play the game with Ian. If I allowed it, they would spend all day in front of that screen kicking butt and trying to save the galaxy.

Steve joined us once we were all deeply engrossed in our activities. It had been almost a month since the fish tank had been cleaned, and he decided employing Ian as his assistant would be a good transition from the computer to another activity. It also gave Ainsley the rare opportunity to play on the computer alone. Typically, Ian watches over her shoulder, then gradually he begins "helping" her until he is able to completely take over the operation.

Steve's plan to keep Ian occupied worked. In fact, it worked so well, Ainsley was able to do some serious multi-tasking of her own. Sounds of blasting, exploding, and cheers prevailed. Then suddenly, Ainsley yelled, "SWIPER!"

That seemed a little odd, considering she was playing Star Wars. Then she said it again, "SWIPER! [pause] SWIPER!"

From opposite ends of the play room, Steve and I both turned to face Ainsley. We tried not to laugh at what we saw, but it was impossible. Ainsley was playing Star Wars on the computer using her left hand on the keyboard, and she was playing Dora the Explorer on her Nintendo DS with her right hand, and her head was nodding in jerks as she alternated looking between each screen.

That's MY girl!

How Much Do You Know About Your Child?

I have been completing the paperwork to take Ainsley to a Developmental Pediatrician for a second opinion. The process started about 3 months ago. Fortunately, the forms are available online, and, when printed, make a stack of paper about one quarter of an inch thick.

That little pile of trees is intimidating as hell. I completed the same forms four years ago when I took Ian to the same place. Somehow, back then, the questions seemed easier to answer. It could be that I am duller than I was a few years ago. Every time I sit down with pen in hand, it is so difficult to get through more than three questions. By the time I read the fourth question, a raging headache is pounding on one side of my head causing one eye to close partially and blurring my vision.

My reaction would be completely understandable if this were a calculus test, or if one of the questions was "Can you solve the equation E = MC squared in your lifetime?" But it isn't. These are questions about my daughter. I should know the answers. Other than a few hours a week, she and I have been together for almost 5 years, non-stop. So why is this so damn hard?

This one gave me fits: "Describe your child as a young child." Assuming this is ages one to three, it is difficult for me to remember that far back. You'd think they were asking for a description of something I saw forty years ago. I just can't do it. I know I was paying attention because I was extremely worried she was going to have Asperger's too. I think I spent so much time watching for symptoms, that maybe I forgot to see the whole child. My own child.

So, I asked Steve to answer the question. He said, "She was happy." That's when I realized, Steve wasn't around much back then. He was traveling and working long hours. Ainsley seemed happy to him because every time he saw her was a reunion. He missed about six straight months of her changes. Six months of speech therapy and learning to talk. Six months of frustrations while we prepared to move. He never saw the struggles. In a way, he is fortunate that he didn't have to wonder if his little girl would ever say "da-da". To Steve it happened overnight - but it was really about 8 months.

I guess I'm on my own with these forms, and I've barely made a dent.

Now it's Thursday. The pile of papers is still sitting next to me, untouched since Tuesday night. This is crazy! Most of what remains is checking boxes labeled "yes", "no", or "sometimes". I know why I am putting this off. It's so obvious.

When I completed the same packet for Ian, I cried for 2 days after mailing it in to the Center. It was heartbreaking to openly admit to someone just how difficult things were and how little we knew about how to help him. I don't want to feel that way again.

It shouldn't be that bad this time. Ainsley's symptoms are a little milder than Ian's, and we DO know what to do this time. Still, I know how dreadful it is to be honest with myself about these multi-faceted autistic gems. There are many angles to each one, many complications, sharp edges that cut holes in my heart and remove reason from my brain.

It takes moments of truth to make me see that this is not an end, it is a beginning.

One of those moments of truth happened to me this morning. Ian, through his tortoise-like morning rituals, gave me the opportunity to see that my eight year-old is capable of doing more for himself than I thought was possible. He does not need me to do things for him. Guidance and confirmation are often all the help he needs. Words. Not deeds.

We stood at the end of the driveway this morning, waiting for the carpool. Resting my hand on his shoulder that is now up to my waist, I whispered, "This is my big kid." I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and dropped my hand to my side, giving him some grown-up space from a mom who sometimes hovers a little too much.

With a hand gloved in knitted Spider Man (NOT Thomas the Tank Engine OR Star Wars!), Ian reached for my cold fingers and gave them a gentle squeeze back. "And you're my Mom," he whispered with great pride. Then he did something really amazing. He put his hands on my cheeks, looked me straight in the eyes, and kissed me on the lips, just like I do to him when I want him to know how important he is to me.

He understands. He gets it! He has already moved from "my little guy" to "my big kid" right before my eyes. And it seemed to take right around 49 minutes.

It's time to finish Ainsley's paperwork. It will be done today. I promise.

Monday was day one of pool construction at our house. Steve and I decided several months ago that a swimming pool would be a good investment in our children's therapy. The proprioceptive input from the water is excellent for calming them when they are out of control. The added advantage of being able to get good exercise year-round in our own back yard made it impossible to resist.

In just a few rainy hours, our back yard went from this:












to this:



















When Ainsley returned from school at 2:30, she looked out the living room window and said,

"Mommy, I don't want to have a swimming pool."

"Honey," I replied, "I think you're going to love it once it's finished. You'll be able to swim whenever you want to. Remember all those days last summer when you wanted to go to the pool but Ian didn't? Now if that happens, you can still go swimming in our backyard with me. And Ian can do the same when you don't want to swim. Or, you can swim together and have lots of fun."

"No, I really don't want a pool," she countered. "Here's what I want them [the guys digging the hole] to do: I want them to put the dirt back, and then put the grass back, and then put my swing set back. Then it will be perfect."

Ahhhhh, the beloved swing set. The one that rarely was used. It went two doors down the street to her best friend's house where she spends several afternoons a week playing. She has played on the swing set more in the last four days at Georgia's house than she did in the last month at ours. Ainsley has gone to great lengths to make us feel terrible about getting rid of her swing set. Every day, as often as is humanly possible, she reminds me that she wants it back.

I am fairly confident that by mid-February, both of the kids are going to be in that swimming pool every waking moment that they are not in school. I could be wrong ... I certainly hope not.

The one member of the family who is truly going to have a difficult time adjusting to the change: Sugar. The pool is taking up most of the space where she used to do her business. The new fence will create two very large side yards that she can use, but until then she has to go in the front yard. This does not make her happy. She held it all day yesterday until I took her for a walk at 4:15. Surely the dog is not manipulating me into taking her for more walks ... is she?

All I have to say to both of them is this: "Cry me a river, baby, 'cause we need the water to fill the pool."

The Best Birthday Party of All Time

It has taken me forever to write all this down. I started this on the 18th, but now it's the 23rd and I'm still writing. Sheeeeesh!

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined putting together a party like the one we had here yesterday. It certainly wasn't without a lot of help. Every adult had multiple jobs on Saturday as we pulled together the last minute details that made our Star Wars adventure the coolest thing ever to happen at our house. Thank you to all my family and friends for pitching in when I really needed you!

The thing that surprised me the most was how Ian behaved throughout the day. Not once did he ask how long until the party would start. He was constantly being told to stay out of this room or that, to go here or there while the adults put something together, or to do something else until another chore was completed. He was perfect in every way.

When the kids were told to go put on their costumes, they knew the fun was about to begin. Steve had on his Obi Wan Jedi robe and greeted guests with me, Queen Amidala. Together we put the guests in felt tunics tied with white cord at the waist. As we dressed them, we would ask, "Padawan [name], are you certain you are ready to commit yourself to the rigorous training of a Jedi?" The boys would giggle a "yes". Then we sent each of them into the great dining hall [our kitchen] for a Force fortified meal [pizza, grapes, vegies and dip, and Yoda soda served in cups with glowing straws].

After the meal, the Jedi trainees gathered in the Jedi temple training gym [our formal dining room], where they received verbal instructions from Obi Wan. He told them the importance of learning the Jedi code (respect for each other, never strike an unarmed person, no swinging light sabers near the chandelier, quiet solemn voices inside the temple, etc.) Then my brother-in-law and I placed the light sabers on the table for each child to select his own. Steve, Ian, and my Dad constructed them from bicycle handle bar grips, pvc pipe, and foam pool noodles. The kids went crazy over them.

Then we took the kids to the front yard to practice. First, the adults took turns throwing bean bags at each kid so they could practice swinging. I made the bean bags from Ian's old socks and pinto beans. After they each had hit a few bean bags, we brought out balloons for them to hit to one another. (Notice Ainsley's costume: she is Luke Skywalker wearing Dora the Explorer crocks!) They loved this part because the balloons were easy to hit, and even more fun to pop. Then, of course, they started dueling with each other and chasing Steve around the yard. After about 20 minutes, the kids were getting tired, so we rounded them up and headed inside for cake and ice cream.



We gathered around the bar in the kitchen with Ian sitting on a bar stool in front of the cake. We observed a moment of silence in honor of Obi Wan, who had just died. The boys were pushing each other down trying to see the R2-D2 cake. They sang the Happy Birthday song to Ian then rushed to the table to wait for sustenance. We barely made a dent in the cake. Both arms were gone and part of the dome, which left 3 entire cakes at the base!

As the kids were finishing up with their cake and ice cream, we took them 3 at a time to the laundry room for their next assignment. I told them, "This is the last phase of your Jedi training. Behind that door is a maze through which you must travel to the place where special light saber glowing crystals are hidden. Obi Wan is waiting for you on the other side to give you further instructions when you reach that point. When you return to the Jedi Temple, please do not tell the others about your journey, for they must find the way on their own. Here are Force fortified tablets to help guide you through the darkness [I gave each of them a gummy worm that I pulled from its package with a pair of glowing tweezers. They made the worms light up - very cool.] Then I opened the garage door and sent them through the maze Steve had constructed with cardboard boxes. The garage was completely dark.

At the other side of the maze was our inflatable jump house. It was filled with flashing balloons (the balloons had lights inside) and paper sacks with each child's name on them. They had to crawl into the bounce house and find their bag. Inside the bag was a crystal necklace that flashes when you squeeze it. There was also a small Lego space space ship kit, which they were told was going to be their fighter jet once they assembled it. The kids were loving this part.

We gave them some time to play before I announced that I had just received word that the Death Star had been completed. Their first assignment as Jedis was to destroy the Death Star and restore balance to the galaxy. The kids grabbed their light sabers and ran screaming for the back door. The Death Star pinata was hanging from the swing set (as usual-these kids know that is where we always hold our pinata bashing sessions). Into the darkness they ran, barely able to contain their excitement at getting to hit something really hard. Each used his/her own light saber to inflict tiny dents in the surface. After four rounds of beatings from each child, Steve had to use a baseball bat to smash it open.

The kids were as all children are when a pinata breaks - ravenous! They were like starving jackals on roadkill. As they were searching around the lawn, stuffing candy into their mouths and paper sacks, we smelled it...dog poop! Everyone had it on their shoes. I heard someone shout, "Who put dog poop in the pinata?" Man, I zeroed in on that kid immediately and quietly reassured him there was no poop IN the pinata, it was probably on his foot. And it was. It was on everyone's feet. Including mine. Steve and the kids had picked up all the messes before the party started. I don't know where this one came from, but it was smack-dab in the middle of the pinata line.

We were able to get the kids' shoes cleaned off as each re-entered the house. They gathered in the dining room to eat candy and flop on the floor. These children had already been on such a roller coaster ride, they were beginning to get tired. And Ian was getting itchy to open his presents. As soon as I agreed to let him begin, it was over. I swear. . .I didn't get to see a single gift unwrapped. It was done as fast as a lightning bold striking a 9 iron. And of course, Ian wanted to open every toy and get started playing immediately. Fortunately, my great friend Christy had my camera in hand and captured as many as she could.

I gave my mom the signal. Quietly, she walked upstairs and disappeared. Seconds later, Darth Vader appeared at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily and proclaiming,

“I have been waiting a long time for this meeting, Master Skywalker. You and your youngling Jedis may have destroyed the Death Star, but you cannot escape the Dark Side of the Force. Surrender now!”

He descended the stairs slowly, brandishing two red light sabers, one single beam and the other a double, like Darth Maul's.

The kids went crazy. They beat him, stabbed him, pummeled him. I actually felt sorry for poor Darth. Within seconds he was on the floor putting up the fight of his life.

All the rules of Jedi combat were being ignored. Vader was screaming "I surrender", but the Jedis were not listening (actually, they couldn't hear him through the mask). Finally, with Obi Wan's help, he was freed. Immediately, the Jedi's pounced on him again as if the fate of the galaxy depended on bringing this man down. Ainsley-Luke Skywalker was standing on a dining room chair, swinging her light saber at Darth Vader, barely missing the chandelier. My china cabinet was in grave danger - forget Vader, save the crystal!!!

Eventually, we get the Jedis to accept their victory and allow Darth Vader to retreat with dignity. Unfortunately, they destroyed his nads back on the stairs, and he had to limp to the laundry room for his costume change. Man, those 8 year-old boys can be brutal! Thanks for taking one for the team, James!

I looked at my watch: 6:35 - oh, crap! We still have 55 minutes to kill before parents arrive! Karin and Obi Wan quickly gathered the kids for a rousing game of Star Wars trivia. Karin, a veteran school teacher, had them sitting quietly on the floor and raising their light sabers to answer the questions. Damn, she's good!

With all the questions exhausted and 40 minutes remaining in the party,
Steve ushered the kids upstairs to the media room and let them watch the first part of Star Wars I. Ahhhhhhh, nice save Obi Wan. At this point, my dad was ready for the party to end....quickly!

The adult actors, stage hands, photographers, grips, gaffers, lighting specialists, and clean up crew began straightening as best we could. Mostly, we were enjoying the quiet. I didn't even mind the mess, because as the kids went upstairs, I heard one of them say,

"This has been the best birthday party I've ever been to!"

A couple of hours later, as my 8 year-old son lay in his bed, I snuggled next to him and asked how he was doing.

"Great," he said.

"I'm glad to hear you say that. What did you think of your party?" I asked.

"It was awesome!" he said in an exhausted whisper.

"How was the cake?" I querried.

"It was so cool," he smiled, remembering the glow of icing under candles.

"Favorite present?"

"R2-D2," he said with pride.

"Favorite birthday game?"

"Destroying the Death Star," his excitement preceded a yawn.

"Favorite moment during the party?"

He thought momentarily, then spoke slowly. "When my dad and I were fighting with our light sabers and he almost killed me, but I didn't die. That was the best part."

Evaluating a Child for ADHD

It has been a long time coming, but the signs are too strong to put it off any longer. We're having Ainsley evaluated for ADHD. Our pediatrician had me complete the Vanderbilt ADHD Diagnostic Scale. I know it is widely accepted because three different clinicians, all in different cities, have used this scale to evaluate Ian. I trust its accuracy.

I went through the questionnaire three times. The first time, I answered each question with instinct, putting down the first answer that came to my head. Then I went back through each question and thought about the answers for quite some time, trying to come up with as many examples as I could for the behavior in question and asking myself if that was the truest possible picture of my daughter. Then Steve and I went through the answers together, concluding that the responses were accurate. And then we cried.

We have always known that the possibility of Ainsley being somewhere on the autism spectrum was not only possible but highly likely. It has been easier to keep hoping she has an exuberant personality than face the reality that she is adept at masking hyperactivity as a joyful outlook on life. It has become clearer over the last few months that she is plagued by tremendous anxiety and behaviors she cannot control. She needs help.



Over the next couple of weeks we will be seeking no less than two additional opinions about her condition. I am not eager to medicate her at this time, because she will not be entering kindergarten until next year. If I can provide her with appropriate play therapy to introduce her to coping skills, then maybe we can delay medication until it is necessary to get her though the long school day. With Ian, there really was no other option but to treat his ADHD with medication early. There were so many co-morbidities that could not be addressed with ADHD in the way. Ainsley does not have those factors to contend with, thank goodness.

Friends have been asking lately how I manage to deal with all of this. I suppose part of me stays numb all the time - the part that has to make difficult decisions and keep it together so our life can move along as smoothly as possible. The blinders are up all the time, sheltering that part of my brain from any emotion that can interfere with rational thought processes.

Another part of me feels just enough stress to keep me constantly alert to changes in the kids' behavior. It's that part of my gut that can be fooled into believing things are o.k. by just the right amount of chocolate or a second glass of wine. I have to worry a little so I'll watch Ian and Ainsley closely. Tiny changes are often cause for celebration. Every little thing that causes us to rejoice keeps us optimistic about the future. Some alterations are cause for concern; I have to be on guard for those as well, but not so much that I dwell on what might be rather than what is.

The part of me that aches terribly right now is my heart, and I don't think it is because the Crestor I take each morning is ineffective. Another dream has died for me - the dream I have had for so long that at least one of my children would experience a normal life. A life without the complications of autism. A life without medication. A life without therapy. My daughter will have insecurities that her peers do not have. She will face additional physical and social challenges they do not face. Her reality will be skewed by neurological abnormality. Yet, to her credit, the strength of her personality will be the force that keeps her moving forward. She will have an older brother who understands her better than anyone else. And she will have parents who love her so deeply they will fight for whatever it takes to make her whole.

I don't know how I do this every day. Right now, I am not doing it very well, but this too shall pass. The hardest part for me has always been getting through the initial acceptance of a diagnosis. I'll be pissed as hell for a while. That's just the way I am. But eventually, Ainsley's unending joy and beautiful smile are going to heal my soul so that I can help her. It's the symbiosis that makes our family work. I guess that's the answer to the question.

Countdown to Second Grade

In just four more days, Ian will be a second grader. He is excited and a little scared. The routine of a school day helps him feel settled, and this summer has been far from routine. This week has been one of the most difficult ones of the last 3 months, and I am very much to blame.

Steve went to Chicago on Sunday for two days of meetings. Normally, I don't sweat it when he leaves town. I know I won't be able to sleep, so I rent chick-flicks and eat popcorn in bed. Ainsley usually finds her way to me in the middle of the night, snuggles into my spot on the bed, pinning me between her little body and the dog's. It's a nice way to rest, as long as it's temporary.

Steve's absence made me exceptionally irritable. Maybe it was because the kids have been testing the limits to the extreme, and I knew I had to handle it completely alone for a few days. No tag team parenting to keep me from losing it. This was not a good situation for any of us given the end-of-summer tension in the air.

Monday morning was all out of whack. Ian was hyperactive, belligerent, and disrespectful. He has been hitting Ainsley a lot lately, and that morning he added me to his selection of punching bags. No matter how many times I said "stop", he just laughed and kept going. I began doling out the punishments as fast as he could throw a punch. By the time he left for camp, he had lost two weeks of computer use. That didn't stop him from socking our 4 year-old neighbor a few times on the way to camp. This was so unlike him.

A few hours later a teacher from the camp called. Ian was sobbing. He said he was in pain and was tired. He had been to the bathroom several times, had refused to eat lunch, and was asking for me. We spoke briefly on the phone. He begged me to come get him as fast as I could. I could tell he was terrified about something. So, I drove as fast as I could get away with to find out what was wrong.

When I arrived, he was still sobbing. I took him into a darkened room that had a rocking chair in it. He sat in my lap with his head on my shoulder, and we rocked for about 20 minutes. Slowly, he came around and was able to tell me that he missed me terribly and was afraid I was going away forever. How he'd come to that conclusion was beyond me at that particular moment, so we just hung out together for the next fifteen minutes until camp let out.

Once home, he was back to badgering Ainsley and practicing his left jab on me. By 4:00, I'd had it. This must stop immediately! I marched him to his room and told him he had 15 minutes to think about his behavior, then we would talk. As I turned to leave the room, I saw the prescription container lid we use to hold his pills when it is time to take them. That morning's dose of Concerta and Zoloft were still in the lid. I had remembered to bring them to him when I woke him up, but I must have been distracted and forgot to give them to him. OH. . .MY. . .GAWD!!! He'd had an ADHD tirade/panic attack. I felt three inches tall.

I suppose it could have been worse. This could have been the first day of school. There is no telling how that would have turned out, but knowing how good his teachers are, they could have handled it remarkably well. Considering his Spanish camp teachers know very little about him, I think they were pretty amazing at dealing with him under these circumstances. There is something about seeing strangers cope so well with my challenging kid that shakes me out of my pity party.

Tuesday wasn't much better as far as either child's behavior goes, but at least I had my head on straight. Maybe a day without meds takes two to get back into the swing of things - I don't know, but I wasn't willing to let him get away with much. I also didn't yell, even though I wanted to; but I made it very clear that Ian and Ainsley could choose to follow the rules and be rewarded for good behavior or they could choose to ignore my requests, suggestions, and requirements and experience the consequences. They chose the latter. Not a good choice.

Today was a much better day. Ian and I were on the same page and moved steadily and smoothly through the day; Ainsley was still staring at the cover trying to decide if she wanted to read this book. Hopefully, tomorrow, she will choose to jump ahead to the next chapter with us.

Telling Ian About War

Grown-up television programs, like the News, are not viewed by the younger half of our family. They are too violent. Enough turmoil exists within these walls. There is no need to add more. This week it was unavoidable.

Late Monday night I received a phone call from my parents. Any phone call from them that comes after 7:00 p.m. should be considered a warning that something bad has happened. My cousin, a Marine serving his 5th tour in Iraq, was seriously injured when an IED (improvised explosive device) detonated in front of him. His best friend, a fellow Marine, was killed.

It was difficult to sleep that night, or any night since. I have been haunted by a terrible ache that has been reawakened, one that I first felt the night I went into labor with Ian. Steve and I watched the movie Simon Birch. After the conclusion of the story, I wondered if my child would be born normal or if he would have a birth defect that would present challenges he could not overcome. It was a sense of sudden panic that this fully developed baby in my belly might not be perfect. As I lay in bed crying, feeling completely unprepared to become a parent, my water broke.

Those insecurities were quickly replaced by the excitement of knowing I was in labor and would soon see my son. Twenty-four hours later, as I nursed my newborn, neither of us had a clue what was going on two floors below us in the Emergency Room of the Bryan, Texas hospital. It was just the two of us in a dimly lit, quiet labor and delivery room, getting to know each other as only mother and baby can.

The next morning when I turned on the television to watch the news, the ache returned when I learned that during the night, the Texas A & M bonfire structure had collapsed, killing 12 students and injuring 27 others. They were kids - teenagers and young adults in their early 20s. I cried as I watched the families and friends mourning helplessly. To myself I wondered, "How long will I get to keep this precious baby? 18 years? 25? 30? Will I see him marry and raise kids of his own? How long will he be mine to hold?"

A few months ago I was told by a life insurance company that I could add Ainsley to my policy, but not Ian. When I asked why, I was told it was because as he enters his teens, he will be a high suicide risk. Great. Now people who have never even met my son are laying odds on the probability that he will take his own life before he reaches adulthood? The ache was back again. It was beginning to sink in that our life as a family might not go the way we had planned.

My cousin, Kathie, has probably wondered if her plan to see all of her children live long and happy lives would come to fruition. It is her son, Brad, who underwent at least 5 surgeries this week to save his life after shrapnel entered his body and severely damaged his stomach and intestine. She agonized from Monday to Friday evening when she finally got to see that her child of nearly 24 years was still alive, and he was safely back in the U. S. It has been a heartbreaking week for all of us knowing that another soldier's parents were waiting to see their son come home in a casket. This is not the way it's supposed to be.

How do you explain any of this to a 7 year-old? Every sentence creates new questions that often have no satisfactory answers.

"Why did Brad go to Iraq?"
"Why is there a war?"
"How did Brad get hurt?"
"Why would someone do that to him?"
"Why do people get killed in a war?"
"How will we know when the war is over?"
(It would have been easier to tell him where babies come from.)

Ian has mulled these questions for several days and still seems perplexed by it all. He knows where Iraq is, he knows where Brad is now and where his home is, he knows where we are. It is all too complicated. Ian has concluded that "War is stupid." Right now, as far as I am concerned, that is an acceptable position to take.

As a mother, I cannot hope that my son will go to war. In fact, we should all hope that the armed forces will never want him. It takes him forever to make a decision. If he ever pulls the pin on a grenade, he and everyone around him will be toast. Thanks to ADHD he will get distracted by something and forget he has the grenade in his hand; or his sensitivity to loud noises will cause him to shield his ears from the impending explosion using the device as an earmuff. Thinking quickly on his feet is not Ian's forte. They would probably kick him out of boot camp for insubordination. I threatened today to send him to military school for arguing with me so much, then laughed in my head at the thought of him doing the same to someone in command of a military establishment.

For this characteristic, too, I shall be eternally grateful, even when he is driving me crazy.