Autumn Calvert

Category: Autism

  • The Selfless Love of Special Needs Teachers

    The Selfless Love of Special Needs Teachers

     

     

     

    I arrived 15 minutes early.

    The classroom operated in organized chaos. I interrupted the flow.

    “I’m sorry! Did I come too soon?”

    The teacher smiled and said it was ok. I scanned the room for my little boy. There he was. He had been crying. They had just moved to their next station, and I guessed he was none too happy he had to leave his computer reading game.

    Asher’s teacher set the timer. Once it ticked down to 3 minutes, she announced, 

    “3 minutes, everyone! 3 minutes! Remember, our schedule has changed today!” She reminded the students of their new schedule for the day.

    There are only a few students in my son’s class. Each comes with their own set of strengths and challenges. 

    “2 minutes! Remember, our schedule has changed today!” She reminded them of the new schedule for the day.

    I couldn’t take my eyes off of the teacher and aides. Their duties were performed like a choreographed ballet.  Each knew what to do, when to do it, and how to accomplish the task.

    “1 minute until lunch! Remember, our schedule has changed today!” Another reminder.

    “Asher is the line leader today.”

    YES! I visited on line leader day! WHOOP!

    We made our way to the lunchroom, and the teacher’s attention moved from one child to the next with ease. Every problem covered, every tear received a hug, plates checked to ensure each child was eating…she was conducting a circus to look like a harmonizing chorus.

    “I brought him McDonald’s Sweet and Sour sauce,” chimed in an aide. A little boy giggled as he opened his favorite sauce.

    Asher smiled with pride as he showed me he earned 10 “Great jobs” on his lunch token sheet. The teacher gave each at the perfect time.

    “When do you eat?” I asked the teacher. She smiled and said she would eat later. 

    “How is this woman doing this?” I wondered as I watched her gather the motley crew for the journey back to the classroom.

    I visited for 2 hours. I did nothing but hang out with my kid. 

    I am exhausted.

    We do little for our teachers, even less for our special education teachers, but we expect miracles from them. The women in this classroom, with their one life, are committed to helping my son, and the sons and daughters of other parents, have the best education they can give. 

    And this is only one classroom of thousands in America.  

    It is time we acknowledge them with more than our gratitude. It’s time we cough up more cash to the coffers.

    I heard someone once say teachers were paid too much for what they do. Here is what I have to say about that.

    Let me throw you in a room full of challenging kids at 7:30 a.m. Your job is to educate them per their individualized education plan that you wrote and planned with a team of other professionals and parents, watch their diets (because these children all have different ones), don’t eat until you have a 5 minute lull in the day (if you’re lucky), keep them from hurting themselves or others, communicate with those whom are non-verbal, make sure they go to the potty and change them if there is an accident, remember who needs what for the note home to parents, schedule meetings with parents, listen to parents bark complaints, stay at school until 4:00 p.m. or later to finish the mountains of work not finished because the day was crazy, go to the store to spend your own money for classroom supplies, get home hungry and tired, and wake up the next day to do it all over again. 

    Underpaid, overworked, complaining parents, facility meeting, and more frustrations line the paths of saints. They do this not for praise and rewards but for the children and their future. It is selflessness defined. With every aching back and sleepless night worried about a student, they are bettering life for a human being and for society. 

    Saints, I tell you. They are saints!

    After today, if I have spare change, it is going in my son’s teacher’s account. Do you have a friend or family member who cannot stop bragging on their child’s special needs teacher? If so, take your spare change, or a hefty pile of bills, and go put money in their teacher’s school account.  This money will be used for classroom supplies and educational materials. (The front desk will assist you.) They deserve and need it.

    “Ok, guys! We have 20 seconds! Remember, our schedule is different today.” Asher’s teacher announced again. The faces of the children spoke gratitude and relief. They knew she had their back.

    Then, Asher’s teacher paused. A smile crept onto her face like she was wrapping her arms around the whole room to give it a loving hug. Her body was tired, but her heart was full.

    It was all worth it.

  • New Shoes and a Drunk Tornado

    New Shoes and a Drunk Tornado

     

    My son needed new shoes. He didn’t want new shoes. He liked his old ones, but they were too small.

    Miracle League had a bowling day, and I decided we would bowl for an hour and then shoe shop. Children with autism need to know what is happening and what comes next. For 2 days, I told him the plans…over and over… He was well advised.

    Bowling was awesome! We made new friends, and my son even made a strike!

    The game ended, and I, again, told my son the plans. No problem. He was fine. We headed to the mall.

    We always go to the same shoe store. He is accustomed to the environment. It is quiet and well suited to children who overstimulate easily.

    I knew I was in for trouble when he resisted taking off his old shoes to be measured.

    The measurements spoke what I knew to be true. I showed him all of his options, and he said, “NO!” and ran to pick up his old shoes.

    “DIS! DIS!” which means “THIS THIS!” He held up the old shoes. He pointed to the dirt on the bottoms. He liked that dirt. It told the story of the places he had been.

    While taking off my son’s shoes, I had to get on my knees. It was a perfect time to pray. God was busy elsewhere. My boy wanted nothing to do with new shoes.

    The clerk and I tried every trick in the book. Even a couple of customers chimed in.

    Nope.

    “DIS! DIS!”

    “This child will NOT out stubborn me!!” My thoughts were pure stupidity. We were going to another store.

    “OOO! MAMA! It so HIGH!” he said, peering over the rail to the floor below. Between our current position and the other shoe store was a video game of thrilling explosive fire geysers, loud trombones, and circus rides. At least, this is what I imagine it must have been for him.

    By the time we weaved our drunken over-stimulated selves into the shoe store, it was all out spazorama. He ran the isles. I chased him. Brought him back to me. I tried to ask the shoe clerk where the little boy section was, and she ignored me. Maybe it was my own crazed look that shook her from her desire to neglect, but, she didn’t the second time.

    The shoes were in rows up over my head.

    “NO! NO! NO! DIS! DIS!”

    God…seriously? I could use some help here.

    He tore through that store like a tornado on cocaine. As we were walking out, the workers gave me a look. Oh, no you don’t. I saw what those grown women did to the sale isle. This kid knocked over a couple of boxes. Get over yourself.

    Some folks looked at me in judgement, and others in sympathy. I’ll have none of either. Walk a mile in my shoes, and then we will talk. And for you others, I’ll have you know this is the best kid in the world. I don’t need your sympathy. He is having a moment. I made a mistake. Life happens. He is still fantastic.

    I thought better of visiting another store.

    He won the stubborn contest. I lost at parenting.

    Autism, as I try to explain to others, is the world turned up to 11. The “go to” reaction for my kid is all out happy/crazed.

    I know this.

    He felt remorseful. Well, he felt sad he wouldn’t get a “surprise.” Even though I screwed up, I will not reward bad behavior. No need in adding more poor parenting to the stew.

    It is difficult raising a child. In this day and age, parent shaming is all the rage. Listen carefully, to these words:

    MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.

    People screw up. Parents are people. We do our best. It’s all we can do.

    My son still has his old shoes. I have post-tramatic stress. His teacher will be told of the dilemma. Between all of the adults in his life, maybe we can talk this kid into new shoes.

    If not, I’ll be cutting a hole for his toes until we can.

  • The Parade of the Wooden Soldier

    The Parade of the Wooden Soldier

    I cried all the way home from taking Asher to school. “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers” blasted from the stereo. I turned the volume up more as I focused through the tears.

    A few years ago, Asher was dismissed from (kicked out of) a children’s program. His behavior was too challenging. I was devastated. We left the church. I realized Asher would most likely never be allowed to be a part of a program where they had shows and costumes. It broke my heart because these are the memories from my childhood that always put a smile on my face. He would have no such memories. It took me a good year not to want to punch someone. It took a year more not to want to curse the names of those responsible. Now, I don’t care. (See a past post: When Dreams Die)

    Why?

    Someone wanted my son to be a part of a program. They not only wanted him there, they made every effort to make sure he could be a part. He was accepted and embraced!

    MERRIMACK HALL

    We had tried the Merrimack Hall program for special needs children when Asher was 3. He was not ready, and I was afraid to even try again. This year, I enrolled him in the summer camp program.

    The whole week was full of dancing and singing and art. At the end of the week, they put on a show for the parents. It was AMAZING! I cried through the whole show. There my little boy was, and as I thought, he was smashing! He danced and smiled and did exactly what he was not suppose to do. Everyone was ok with it! He grabbed one of the scarves from a previous dance and twirled and smiled and shook his booty. I thought he stole the show.

    His reaction to being there sparked another round of tears for mommy. His excitement was contagious! Every day, he would act out all of the activities he enjoyed. There was no doubt: he would be enrolled in the fall/spring program.

    Merrimack pairs each special needs child with a helper. Asher has 2 helpers: 1 for his tumbling class and 1 for his dance class. He loves these girls! They love him back. It is beautiful.

    SURPRISE!

    Because I am sometimes a bit slow on the uptake, and my emails from the hall were going to my junk inbox, I didn’t know about their Christmas show until 2 weeks before it was to be performed. Asher had been absent from class for almost a month due to one sickness after another. I was in the dark.

    I wish I was a good enough writer to put into words how excited I was when I learned of his Christmas show. The program director sent out videos so we could rehearse the dance. It was so cute!!

    More tears.

    Then, because this is my first year with the program, I found out they had costumes. I was handed his costume at the end of class on Monday.

    Tears again.

    It was PRECIOUS!!! How can this dream be so perfect? This is so far beyond a little local church show. This is the real thing. This is high class production. Not one detail is missed for these children. They get the best.

    On Wednesday, I got another costume.

    Are you trying to dehydrate me with all this crying, Merrimack Hall?

    The costume was, again, PRECIOUS. My little boy would be all dressed up and doing a dance for people who pay to see the show. A quality show with trained helpers and leaders whom accept my little boy.

    The surprises kept coming when, after Wednesday rehearsal, Asher’s helper and he showed me his dance. He was so good at it! He knew all of the moves! The dance teacher made sure I knew which video to watch and the song to listen to.

    SCHOOL JAM

    One day, on the way to school, I surprised Asher with the song blaring over the speakers. In the rear view mirror, his smile lit up the sun.

    I kept it together until I dropped him off.

    Once he was safely in his teacher’s care, I turned the song back on and let the joy roll down my cheeks.

    What people don’t understand about parenting a special needs child is this:

    We want the same thing for our children all other parents want for their children. We want them to be loved and accepted.

    In this world, it is not often the case. We have to deal with segregation and frustration on a daily basis. It is agony for a parent. We see our children and know their challenges.

    But, we also see billions of reasons you should love our child.

    THE REHEARSAL

    The day of the dress rehearsal, my son had a tooth loose. It became more and more loose as the day progressed. By the time we reached Merrimack, the tooth was barely hanging on. He was frightfully frustrated by it all.

    When we dropped him off with his helper, he was in no mood to dance. He would take his hat from his costume and throw it into the trash…over and over. His helper looked a bit fearful as we departed. We were not allowed in dress rehearsal.

    When we returned, Asher proudly smiled big to show off his missing tooth. “It came out after tumbling,” the helper told us. This was something to celebrate! I had been so worried the tooth would hang on through the show the following night. The worries were gone!

    THE SHOW

    I made sure I wore my fancy clothes, curled my hair and carefully applied make-up. My husband dressed up as well. The night was too important to our family for carelessness.

    I dropped Ash off in the dance hall, hugged his neck, and quietly spoke, “break a leg!” I dared not let him hear me. It would have been too hard to explain.

    My husband and I found our seats. I had my phone camera ready and my professional camera ready. I’m certain I went a bit overboard, but, oh well. One must do what one must do.

    Asher was in the 3rd group. He did a great job! I was surprised how nervous he looked. The big overtures he made while practicing at home were blanketed in fear as he made his way through the choreography. His helper later told me that when he saw all of the people in the audience, he said, “Oh man!” It was a surprise to him. But, instead of giving into his fear, he gave way to his training and marched onto the stage. This is part of learning how to be a performer, and I was THRILLED! He did all of his moves, and looked as cute as a button. It took everything in me not to run onto the stage, gather him in my arms, and tell him how proud I was!

    His tumbling came 2 acts later. Again, he did remarkably well!

    After the show, I rushed in to see him. He was full of life and happiness. He handed roses to his helpers, and we went onto the stage to meet Santa and take a few photos.

    The whole night was magical.

    WARM CHRISTMAS

    Merrimack Hall has brought our family a warmth I never thought we would experience. It is a place Asher is excited to visit. He absolutely loves it, and I never have to reason with him to get into the car. He bounces right out the door.

    Merrimack makes certain the children and adults receive the best. There are no short cuts…Only quality instruction and shows.

    I’m crying again. It is the weird crying laughing thing going on.

    As I am writing this, I have “Parade of the Wooden Soldiers” playing. I have to stop writing every now and again to wipe my nose.

    I am so proud of my son. I would not change one thing about him. Merrimack Hall wouldn’t either. They love him exactly as he is. He is not to change one little bit. Open arms and smiles greet Asher each time he walks in the door.

    By the end of the night, I had black tear lines dripping over my cheeks.

    Why?

    Because, more than once, my child was not wanted. He was not loved. He was cast aside.

    Now, he is twirling around in happiness and acceptance.

    Asher is the best person I’ve known. Merrimack Hall plans to let the world know, and I will cry happy tears as he shines.

     

     

    Merrimack Hall is a non-profit organization providing programs for special needs children and adults. Click HERE to donate to this amazing program.

  • To Dream of Horses: Conquering Allergies and Fear

    To Dream of Horses: Conquering Allergies and Fear

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    “OH JESUS! HELP ME, GOD!”
     
    The winding country roads filled with clouds of dust and dirt as my friend, Jerry Dwain, navigated the sharp turns and twists like a NASCAR driver. He owned a bright blue Z28, and he drove it at full capacity.
     
    The day had begun with a simple request.
     
    “Hey, Autumn! I’m headed out to look at a horse. Wanna come?”
     
    I agreed.
     
    Jerry Dwain, was horse crazy. This part of his life I only heard about. My eagerness to support him in his pursuits caused me to accept the invitation.
     

    CHILDHOOD ALLERGIES

     
    As a child, I had severe allergies. Most foods, mold, mildew, and all animals caused me to go into reactions. Often, the reactions would send me to the hospital. Much of my early years, I considered the hospital to be a second home.
     
    The worst of the reactions?
     
    Horse hair/dander
     
    Before my parents knew any of this, they allowed me, at 2 years old, to go on a horseback ride with a family friend. Not long after this ride, I came close to death. I stayed in the hospital for 2 weeks. It would not be the last time.
     
    My parents tried to avoid horses, but with horse and cattle farms everywhere in our South Alabama culture, it was impossible. 
     
    My little sister once went horseback riding with a friend. As soon as she stepped into the house, the allergies kicked my butt. Back to the hospital for me, and I never touched her.
     
    These types of situations happened all the time. The doctors said I would outgrow the allergies. I believed them.
     
     
      

    NOT ANOTHER FRIEND!

     
    Many years later, I met my soul sister, Cris. This friendship was “love at first sight”. We swear we were friends in previous lives. Then, she said these words: “I love horses!”
     
    “Well, shit,” I responded.
     
    She laughed at me. I told her my predicament.
     
    “Well, shit.” She responded.
     
    Then, we found out we were pregnant the same month. Our firstborn children were born 4 days apart.
     
    Cris had gotten serious about her horses, and her daughter, as a babe, would frequent the barn. I wanted my son to go, too. How could I keep this wonder from him? It broke my heart.
     

    RETRAIN THE MEMBRANE

     After Asher’s diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder, Cris called.
     
    “Girl! Get him involved with Happy Trails! They are awesome!”
     
    “I wish I could, but…” Cris understood. She knew something I did not, but, being a great friend, she waited to tell me.
     
    Cris started a teacher facilitator program a few years later. The program worked with horses and humans. Yoga, Somatics, and other alternative therapies taught students how to help others. She asked if I would be her guinea pig. I told her it was fine, but, NO HORSES! She agreed, and in January 2017, we began.
     
    The lessons were odd. It took me a minute to become accustomed to the style, but after a lesson or 2, I was starting to see differences.
     
    Cris gave me a list of questions to answer, and one of those questions led me to where I am today.
     
    “What is a dream you never think you’ll see come true.” (A synopsis)
     
    Easy one.
     
    I want my child to be in therapy at Happy Trails, and I want to ride horses.
     
    When I told Cris my answer, she smiled.
     
    “I’ve been waiting to talk to you about this,” she said. “I do not doubt you have allergies, but I believe your biggest problem with horses is PTSD.”
     
    My face must have mirrored my confused mind.
     
    “Autumn, you went through a lot. Why don’t you have the doctor run an allergy test on you to see where you are now. Then, we will take the next steps to make this dream come true. We are doing this. Are you in?”
     
    “Uh…let me think about it.” That’s exactly what I did.
     
    A couple of months later, I called the doctor.
     
    The results of the test were encouraging. The nurse said, “Wear a mask and gloves, make sure your arms are covered around the horses, and you will be fine.”
     
    I asked, “So, what exactly will be my reaction? Will I need hospitalization if I do not do these things?”
     
    “No,” she answered. “You will need allergy medicine. You’ll be sneezing and itchy. Allergy meds will take care of it.”
     
    “Ok,” I responded with a shake, “so, if I start allergy meds daily, will that cover it?”
     
    “Yep. It should. Take it slow. Be mindful. Take your meds. You will be ok.”
     

    JUMPING INTO THE WATER

     
    As soon as I stepped out of the car, I walked over to the horses. It was Cris’ daughter’s 8th birthday. They had recently moved to a majestic farm. They had also moved their horses, and the barn was close to the house. This was my first visit since the horses moved. Fear gripped me.
     
    “It is ok, Autumn. You have meds on board. Let them come to you. You’ll never know what will happen unless you try.” I convinced myself and proceeded with caution.
     
    Indiana Jones walked over to me (a beautiful, gentle horse). I reached up and touched his soft nose. I looked him in the eye and smiled. Everything was ok! I cried.
     

    GET ME HOME! 

    Jerry Dwain rounded the sharp curves, “OH GOD! GET ME HOME, JD!”
     
    My dad came home not long after we arrived. Jerry Dwain sat in a chair staring at me as I struggled with my body on the couch. Dad relieved him of his duties.
     
    “Autumn, what were you thinking?” Dad was angry as he handed me my meds. “Go get in the shower and wash it off. If you get any worse, we will head to the hospital.”
     
    A hospital visit proved unnecessary. Though the night was difficult, I managed to stay above the line of emergency.
     

    HAPPY TRAILS

     
    “Sure! I’m there on Friday. Would you and your son like to come out then?” I had spoken to Kathi, the owner of Happy Trails, of my horse allergy drama. She was happy to help me overcome my trials. We would take it slow.
     
    We arrived and were greeted by a dog fascinated with the game of fetch. My husband and Asher played with the dog until Kathi returned from a ride.
     
    After the introductions, a horse, a gorgeous brown horse with black legs that looked to be dipped in paint, caught my attention.
     
    “She is gorgeous!” I exclaimed to Kathi.
     
    “Let’s go meet her. Her name is Zoe. She is an Arabian.”
     
    I had smelled the horses in the air. The mask was in my hand at the ready, and I had used it a few times out of pure fear. But, for Zoe, I wanted to be without it. I didn’t want to frighten her.
     
    Kathi attached all the head gear and explained the purpose of each rope as she worked. I couldn’t wait, so I walked over to Zoe. My stomach bubbled with excitement and fear. I reached up and stroked her face.
     
    “Hello, Zoe! You are a beautiful horse! And you know what else? You are helping me overcome a mighty giant. I will always love you for it.”
     
    My courage mounted as Kathi handed me the rope and allowed me to play a game with Zoe.
     
    I continued patting her face, her hair, her neck, and her body.
     
    No reaction.
     
    We went into the barn and met the other horses.
     
    No reaction.
     
    Kathi’s brilliance and training was clear. Her presence told me if I needed a break, it would be fine. Her confidence in my ability to triumph surpassed my fears.
     
    When it was time to go, she encouraged me to sign Asher up for lessons. I knew he would thrive in this environment. His countenance, being around the horses, had changed. Yes. He would be signed up.
     
     

    PTSD BE DAMNED

     
    I got a little sneezy when I returned home, but, I was fine. I also made my son and husband strip their clothes and put them straight in the wash. Old habits die hard.
     
    PTSD, at its core, speaks lies. Though the experiences that caused the PTSD are real, future reactions to similar experiences are not. It takes a retraining of the brain to realize the new is not the old. After years of desire, I finally torched the idea I would never touch a horse.
     
    One of the first things I did after going to the farm was to send a picture to Cris. She was thrilled!
     
    Then, I sent the photo to Jerry Dwain. He and his husband own a horse farm in Florida. JD has become a notable horseman, and he breeds show horses. This was his response to my photo: “The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man.”
     
    Yes, Jerry Dwain. You speak the truth.
     
    As a child, the outside of a horse broke the inside of me. The doctor said I would outgrow it, and I did. What I did not outgrow was fear. Fear, as I have learned, is not something to outgrow. It must be fought.
     
    After years of PTSD symptoms, the thing that almost killed me healed me. The war within my body turned into a war within my mind. Winning did not occur overnight. It was a steady uphill battle. But, when the battle ended, a dream came true.
     
     
    FOR MORE INFORMATION: 
     
    This non-profit is a worthy cause. To sign up or donate, please visit their website! 
    Quote from their site:
    “We are horse lovers who use horses to improve the lives of children and adults with disabilities. Our
    goal is that the personal confidence students gain  from Therapeutic Riding will affect their lives in a 
    positive way.”
     
    Cris Pyle works with people and horses. She offers her expertise to those wanting to become their best, and her services are available for helping your horses, too! 
     
    Jerry Dwain’s farm in Florida is a wonder! Check it out!
     
    This site offers more information on PTSD. Name it then work on it! You can do this!
     
  • Retarded

    Retarded

    retard: a contemptuous term used to refer to a person who is cognitively impaired.  Dictionary.com

    The term “retarded” didn’t appear in the slangy, usually offensive sense until the mid-20th century. Frank Rooney’s 1954 novel “The Courts of Memory” contains an insulting use that should be familiar if not comfortable: “God, you’re simple, Dick. . . . You’ve got an I.Q. about equal to a squirrel’s. You’re retarded, do you hear me?” The Oxford English Dictionary offers an understated way of describing the current radioactivity of “retard,” “retarded,” and “retardation”: Each is “not the preferred term.”

    The R-word and the challenging history of words for dummies by Mark Peters, Boston Globe

    The Dirty Word

    When Asher was born, it was a learning curve. I had no idea what it felt like to have my heart beat outside of my body. The thought of anything hurting him made me physically ill. In time, this new reality became second nature. Then, the bad news started rolling in.

    “He has cysts on his brain.”

    “He has a heart problem”

    “He is not meeting goals.”

    It was years of one blow after another.

    In the meantime, I was parenting him like any other child, with the additions of multiple therapy sessions each month and doctors visits all the time.

    It was not long after first learning about my son’s challenges I first heard the word “retarded” spoken in slang.

    This was not my first time hearing the word. It was, however, the first time the word revolted me. I was lava hot mad. I’m surprised I didn’t spontaniously combust on the spot. I was LIVID.  Unfortunately, I’ve heard the word used as an assault towards another more times than I care to remember.

    Dirty Word Begins

    Schools and the medical community are always changing the “label” for special needs children.

    Why?

    Because ignorant and hateful people keep turning these words into slang describing those they feel are less.

    Today, the word “exceptional” has replaced all previous words. The term is accurate despite the fact people will turn this word into something to be laughed at or avoided. At some point, the word will be changed again.

    “Retard” does seem to hang on in slang.

    Cleaning up the Dirty

    Though the word has been used to break the backs of enemies in verbal combat, I would like to take a moment to bring an awareness most may not have considered.

    I propose this:

    If you are not a special needs person, you are retarded.

    You are the one who is slow.

    You are the one missing something.

    In my experience being around special needs children, they are brilliant. Seriously. Some could probably build rockets. Others, they have a niche for enjoying life. There is much diversity in the intellect in special needs children.

    One factor I find the most common is this:

    An ability to see the world in a way we could only dream of.

    It is as if everything is beautiful. It is a vision of another dimension to humanity, and they have little patience for those who cannot see it.

    Jesus called this dimension “the kingdom of God.” Remember, he said time and time again, “the kingdom of God is at hand.” He said it was available right now. The suggestion was we didn’t have to die to experience heaven. Even his patience was tried by those lacking vision.

    Buddha describes this ability as “enlightenment.”

    My kid knows this. He is enlightened to the kingdom of heaven. Most special needs children are. They “see” something we do not. They understand concepts completely out of our reach. (See THIS article for an example)

    Special education teachers, therapists, and doctors will all tell you the same.  Special needs folks are simply amazing.

    My son taught me a lot about myself.

    I am the one who is slow on the uptake.

    I am the one who lets the worries of this world steal my joy.

    I am the one whose mind is in a constant state of chaos.

    I am the one not noticing the sunset, sunrise, and light in people’s hearts.

    I am the one not living in the here and the now.

    I am the one working too hard and breathing too little.

    I am the one slow in seeing the beauty of what this world is…not what it could be.

    I am the one who needs to be more like him.

    I am retarded.

    Yeah…I might be able to talk, walk, write, sing, not worry about my health too much, and so on, but, I am missing out on the greatness of life.  My vision is blurred.

    So, the next time you use this word in a way to harm another in front of me, please understand.

    I know the truth. You are speaking of yourself.

    Only retarded people would be ignorant enough to not see our special needs children for who they are.

    Who are they?

    They are our only hope to knowing truth.

    The Dirty Truth

    I wish people would just stop using any term using my son, and countless other beautiful people, as a description of what not to be or a description of “less than” me. It is ignorance defined.

    Here is the real truth.

    My son, and the sons and daughters of parents who are blessed enough to have a child who is special needs, know something you do not.

    Our children are magical. They hold the keys to joy and knowledge. They are not perfect. However…

    They are not retarded.

    We are.

  • What’s His Name?

    What’s His Name?

    It was a gorgeous day.

    Wind was blowing the tall pines shading the playground. I could hear the laughter and smell the aroma of food from the family reunion being held at a gazebo nearby. I hoped for an invitation to eat their fried chicken, potato salad, and casseroles of all kinds.

    Maybe around 11 years old, a little boy sat on a swing in the mainly deserted playground. With his smart device in hand, he used his feet to swing just a bit as he played his game. He seemed to enjoy the alone space away from the festive reunion, but, there was also a loneliness in his eyes.

    My son, Asher, and I played on the little kids playground before making our way over to the big kid playground. On the way over, I noticed Asher looking back towards the swings. He was curious about the little boy with the smart phone.

    Realizing the obstacles on this playground were steep and above his skill level, Asher decided to walk over to the swing next to the boy.

    “What’s his name?” Asher asked me.

    I responded, “I don’t know his name. Ask him!”

    “Jake,” said the little boy.

    Asher signed and asked me if the little boy was playing “birds” (any smart device). I told him he was. Asher watched him play on the phone a while, and then decided to swing. There were few engagements between the 2 boys. Both seemed perfectly happy to simply be present.

    When it was time to go, and Asher turned around and smiled at the little boy. The little boy smiled back.  I smiled and told the little boy to have a good day, and Asher and I headed to my Dad’s truck.

    “What’s his name?” is a common question in my world. Asher is deeply curious about who people are. The conversations are scripted as follows:

    Asher: “What’s his name?”

    Me: “I don’t know his/her name.” (He understands gender differences, but “her” is not easy for him to say.)

    What happens next is dependent on the time we have to continue. If time permits, I will tell him, “I don’t know. Ask!”

    Turning to the new person of interest…

    Asher: “What’s his name?” (“Your” is also a hard word for him to say.)

    He does not care what color someone is, what they are wearing, if they smell or not…nothing. All are vulnerable to the “What’s his name?” game.

    The responses from people are interesting. Some don’t understand what was said, some smile, and others engage the conversation.

    I’ve yet to figure out the formula to the ones who engage this conversation, but goodness is a common thread. It is hard to ignore this cute little boy with big blue eyes and crazy hair.

    I used to think miracles were rare, but, now, I see them everyday. From a middle-aged man smoking a cigarette in front of the gas station to the war torn lady behind the counter at the restaurant, the power of kindness and curiosity breaks through and wins.

    In one question, “What’s his name?”, hearts open and take a deep breath…if only for a moment.  Asher meets people in sad situations and leaves them with a smile. He also reminds them that they have a name and someone cares enough to want to know it.

    Sometimes, all folks really need is a good moment. Sometimes, people just want to know they are not invisible. 

    The little boy in the swing smiled as we walked away. He somehow looked happier. Refreshed. I knew why.

    He played the “What’s his name?” game, and he did not feel alone anymore.

    …………………………………………………………………………………………………..