To The Parent Whose Child Just Received an Autism Diagnosis

Image is a blue background with white letters which read:
"Dear Parent, It'll be okay. I promise. Here are some tips.
Love, The Gonzo Mama." Pink lips in the shape of a "kiss"
appear in the lower right corner.

Hello, readers. I've recently been giving this topic a lot of thought, as I've been going through the diagnosis process with Bravo, and thinking about how different it feels, this time around.

When Curlytop was diagnosed, it wasn't news to us, because we knew who she was, and she had been with us for over eight years. We'd been asking and asking for someone to please, see what we are seeing, and give this kid a diagnosis, so we could arm her with the empowering language and identity she would need, as she grows to adulthood. Self-identification ("I'm autistic") is such an important part of self-advocacy ("so I may need accommodation"), and we wanted to ensure she was equipped with that personal toolbox.

And now, we have Bravo. Going through the diagnosis process was different, but just as important. Autism "looks different" in girls, you know? So, it's often easier to spot in boys, and the assessments and observations go more smoothly, and it's really just "yes, it's autism," or "no, it's not." In any event, we already knew Bravo was autistic, so the diagnosis was just a formality, just like in Curlytop's case.

Even though I knew I was autistic, I wasn't diagnosed in childhood, so I had no idea what an "autistic childhood" should or would look like, when Curlytop was diagnosed. I just kind of muddled through childhood and adolescence as the weird girl who didn't understand relationships and friendships, who was always writing or had her nose in a book so she didn't have to talk to people, and had a really overwhelming obsession with numbers and counting things like the number of steps from English class to History class, the number of seconds it took to evacuate the building during fire drills, and the number of tiles in the Science room.

I didn't have an autistic childhood. I had a really difficult, painful, tumultuous adolescence, and when I learned in adulthood that it was autism, it all made sense. It was freeing, liberating, and soothing. Everything I knew about myself fell into place.

How much easier would it have been, had I been able to -- and encouraged to -- identify as autistic in my youth? A large part of me wants to believe I would have mastered self-advocacy much earlier, and I would have felt safer, more comfortable, and less like an outcast. Of course, I'll never know, but I want every autistic kid to have the opportunity to learn self-love, self-identity, and self-advocacy.

Our job, as parents, is to provide those opportunities.

When Curlytop was diagnosed, because I didn't have a model for autistic childhood, I was easily influenced by marketing, false-advocacy, and pressure from healthcare professionals. It took me a full year to gain stable footing as an independent parent and advocate for my child (and myself!), and that footing actually didn't come from parenting communities or "Autism Awareness" campaigns or healthcare providers.

It came from my growing network and community of autistic adults.

What sort of future do I hope for, for my daughter, and the children in my care? I hope for one in which they are fierce, are proud of who they are, are in possession of strong and healthy boundaries, and ask for and receive help when they need it. So, it only makes sense to start setting that future up for them by learning from people who are already living it.

If I could go back to that day of Curlytop's diagnosis, armed with the knowledge I have now, this is what I wish someone had said to me, and what I'm glad I know, this time around (some of these things I already knew, but it would have been great to receive affirmation):

1. Your child's diagnosis does not change who they are, or who you are. 

You've known your child since birth (or -- for families created through adoption, kinship care, guardianship, or foster care -- since placement). You know who your child is. You've been together for a while, and your relationship is not changed by a medical proclamation. Your child is still your child, and your job is still to make your child feel safe, secured, loved, and protected in the world, while helping them to develop into the most beautifully awesome version of themselves they were meant to be.

2. You don't have to change anything, right this minute. 

Really. It's true. Your child was autistic yesterday, and they will be autistic tomorrow, and for the rest of their lives. Taking a little time to research, ask questions, and listen to your child and your heart will not doom them to failure.

3. You DO need to decide one thing, right NOW.

Right now, before you do anything else, you need to decide what kind of parent you are going to be as your child grows to adulthood, and beyond.

Are you going to be the kind of parent who shares things like, "You might be an autism parent if..." memes, without considering if they are offensive or harmful to your child and the autistic community?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who compulsively "likes" and follows every single Facebook page or social media community that has "autism" in the name, without first learning what the page's or organization's views and positions are, and whether those positions are in opposition to the autistic community?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who shares "inspiring" videos about how a football team helped an autistic kid make his first touchdown, without first asking yourself if the video exploits the autistic individual, for the sole purpose of spotlighting the non-disabled people, just to make them feel good/seem hero-like?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who consents to and agrees to everything your child's healthcare provider suggests, without weighing the risks and benefits for your individual child?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who is supports and embraces the notion that autism "stole" your child?

OR...

Are you going to be the kind of parent who establishes healthy boundaries for your social media and real-life conversational sharing?

(Hint: Talking about your child's poop, "stimming," or other behaviors in any way that could be embarrassing or uncomfortable for your child is robbing them of their dignity, and, likely, their ability to feel they can trust you. I'm the first to admit I have been reckless in this regard, in the past, but I've found clarity and sense over time. This post is insightful, though it uses PFL (see point number 4, below), and has some excellent points for consideration.)

Are you going to be the kind of parent who thoughtfully considers the values of a community, social media group, or fan page, and the impact of those values on autistics, before joining or following?

Are you going to be the kind of parent who researches thoroughly every single so-called "advocacy" organization before supporting it, amplifying its messages, or using its symbols and slogans to show your advocacy for your child?

(For example, I always tell parents to stay far, far away from "the puzzle piece," "Autism Awareness," and other high-dollar advertising which have become synonymous with autism in general, but do very little to actually advocate for autistics, and, in fact, may harm autistics through words or policy.) 

Are you going to be the parent who doesn't rush to enroll their child in recommended therapies without researching the methods used, and the possible future implications, first? (See my post on Applied Behavioral Analysis (ABA) therapy, here.)

Are you going to be the parent who embraces everything that your child is, and helps them to become confident in their identity?

4. Learn how to talk about autism, and work through your own misconceptions. Get comfortable with the language, and get uncomfortable when people use language that doesn't respect your child.

This link has some really, really good information about five common language mistakes people make when talking about autistic children. It requires a download of a PDF, but I strongly suggest you not only download it, but also print it out for future use. Make copies to give to educators and service providers. The document is crafted by autistic voices, and when we talk about autism, those voices are the strongest -- and only -- authority on the subject.

Much debate has been seen among my blog comments and social media comments about person-first language (PFL) versus identity-first language (IFL) when talking to and about autistics.

Back when I was getting familiar with and comfortable with not only Curlytop's, but also my own, autism, I fell victim to the "PFL is always respectful, polite, and correct" dogma. However, after talking to actual autistics, I learned why a great majority of (but not all) autistics prefer IFL.

5. Decide, right now -- RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE -- whether you are going to be an "autism parent," OR "the parent of an autistic child."

It may seem like I'm trying to exaggerate what could be interpreted as a small issue of semantics, but the difference is huge.

If you identify as an "autism parent," the emphasis -- the priority -- is on you, and your identity.

When you're "the parent of autistic child," the emphasis -- and thus, the priority -- is on your child, and your child's identity.

It's staggering how such a small difference in wording can create such a huge difference in advocacy positions, attitudes, and effectiveness.

6. Your child needs to see you advocate for them.

Your child needs to see you fighting for them... so they learn they are worth fighting for. 

Your child needs to see you educating others about autism, autistic rights, acceptance, and inclusion... so they can learn to teach others the same.

Your child needs to see you changing the world for them... so they can change it for others.

PARENTS WHO HAVE AUTISTIC CHILDREN: What do YOU wish you had known, or done, when your child was diagnosed?

PARENTS WHOSE CHILD WAS RECENTLY DIAGNOSED: What questions, as the parent of a newly-diagnosed child, do you have?


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Get Out of My Face with Your "Quiet Hands"

In case you're out of the loop, we have two amazing kiddos staying with us through kinship care right now. That's right -- two bonus boys: Alpha, 8, and Bravo, 5 (almost 6).

Anyway, I had to take Bravo into the school today to meet with the school psychologist for some cognitive testing, as his IEP review is due before his birthday next month. I haven't worked with this psychologist before, and he seems like a nice enough guy, but I'm pretty sure he hates me now, because... you know... I can never seem to hold my firetrucking tongue when it comes to the treatment and education of the kiddos in my care.

So, I'm filling out the ABAS-3 (Adaptive Behavior Assessment System, Third Edition) while Mr. Psychologist gets out some puzzle pieces to begin testing. He's working in tandem with the SLP (Speech & Language Pathologist), and they're tag-teaming... Mr. Psychologist performs one part of his test, and then Ms. SLP performs one part of hers, and so on.

Everything is going fine -- I'm working on one side of the table on the ABAS, Mr. Psychologist, Bravo, and Ms. SLP are working on the other side. Mr. Psychologist has killed the fan in the room because the noise is distracting to me, and it's all good, until I hear it: Bravo, "quiet hands," please.

They were in the middle of testing, and Mr. Psychologist had asked me not to intervene with the testing process, so I lifted my head, gave the psych a look (he was too engrossed in the testing to notice), and went back to the ABAS.

When he finished the test portion, I butted in before Ms. SLP could begin her portion.

"Is this a stopping point?" I asked.

"Sort of," he said.

"May I speak, frankly?" I asked.

"Errrr... of course..." he ventured.

"Okay. So, we're a house full of neurodiversity and neurodivergence. We don't subscribe to ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapy, its tactics, its goals, or its dictionary. We don't use phrases like, 'quiet hands.' We believe physical stimming is healthy and productive, and we don't force children to refrain from it, hide it, or minimize it."

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, and Mr. Psychologist cleared his throat. "I understand that. That's great. I actually didn't even know that 'quiet hands' was an ABA thing."

Like, this guy wanted me to believe that he pursued an education in psychology -- presumably, with an emphasis on child development, at some point? -- to the point of receiving a degree, but had NEVER HEARD THE PHRASE "QUIET HANDS," IN THE CONTEXT OF ABA? I gave him the benefit of the doubt, in any event.

"Gentle redirection to return focus to the task at hand is fine," I said, "but I don't endorse attempts to restrict physical stims."

I let it go at that, but I wanted to scream, "BUT IT SERVES THE SAME PURPOSE, DOESN'T IT?! Does it even MATTER where you heard it, when what you want the child to do is stop his physical stimming?!""

Let me explain.

Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) is compliance-based "therapy" popular with parents of autistic children, which includes goals such as "reducing inappropriate behavior," "increasing socially acceptable behaviors," and "increasing appropriate and effective communication." Its primary goal? To "fix" autistic children, "correcting" their behaviors, so they appear more neurotypical ("less autistic"), drawing less attention to themselves and their caregivers, so those caregivers and society at large can feel more comfortable around them.

If you're not grasping why ABA is harmful to autistics, try reading "Quiet Hands," by Julia Bascom.

Is that too artsy for you? Try this one from Amy Sequenzia, of the Autistic Women's Network.

Want to see what this compliance-based indoctrination looks like as it carries into adulthood? Read this post from Neurodivergent K.

Anyway, so I was trying to explain to Mr. Wright that the new school psychologist hates me, now, and I started telling him the story, and when I got to the part about hearing "quiet hands," he fell out of his chair, laughing.

Not because he thinks ABA is funny, but because he's been in IEP meetings with me, before.

He said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh, hell... QUIET HANDS? Did you lose your ever loving shit? Were you standing on your toes? Were you doing that? I can just see you, standing on your toes! You do that, you know!"

Well, no. I was sitting down, actually. Mostly, anyway. I may have been slightly out of my seat. Reaching across the table. With my hands ready to snap the guy's neck.

But mostly, I was sitting. Technically. Pretty much, anyway.

Mr. Wright asked what I hoped to gain from the exchange, and suggested that I simply wanted the guy to acknowledge that I am right about this issue. I thought about it, and replied, "No. I want people to earnestly consider the weight and implications of the ideals they hold dear, and I want them to come to the conclusion on their own that what they've learned or been taught may be wrong. I want them to realize they've got it all wrong, when it comes to the autistic community."

"In other words," he said, chuckling, "you want to be right?"

Well, yes. And, also, no.

See, I didn't come to enlightenment by nature. Nooooooo... I actually thought the "professionals" who were overseeing medical care for my children had all the knowledge, and I didn't really question their advice, until I hit a roadblock. ABA was one of many therapies suggested for Curlytop when she was diagnosed, and it wasn't available in our area for her. At first, I was devastated. Like, I didn't have the benefit of any type of interventions when I was growing up, so I wanted to make sure she had EVERYTHING that could possibly help her to succeed, so I went on a wild crusade to find an ABA provider, and did a ton of research to help find one.

It was that research that led to my enlightenment. I talked to actual autistics who had been subjected to ABA therapies as children, and learned that some of them had PTSD as a result of their experiences.

I thought about my own experiences, and my own struggles, and how difficult extended eye contact was -- and is -- for me, and how I always got poor grades in speech class because I couldn't look at my audience, and how I deal with that now (by simply saying to people, "Eye contact is really difficult for me. Please don't think I'm not listening to you if I'm not looking at you. I can actually listen better by NOT looking at you."), and how I'm actually existing pretty successfully in the world. I realized that if Curlytop doesn't get forced to initiate eye contact she doesn't feel comfortable with, it's going to be okay. She will be okay. She'll be better than okay... she'll feel safe, and comfortable, and accepted.

I thought about how I was always getting in trouble for having "fidgets" in class (my old-school favorite fidget was a retractable ballpoint pen with a button on top which I would click until my Spanish teacher took it away and gave me detention), and how we've come a long way in recognizing that fidget objects can be healthy devices which can help people concentrate.

I thought about how my fourth grade teacher called me out in front of the whole class for scrunching my nose like a rabbit, repeatedly, while I was silently reading, and how humiliated I was, and I was proud that my daughter felt safe enough to engage in her verbal "squawking" during times of stress and excitement, because we've never shamed her or tried to restrict it. It's just a really sweet, cute part of who she is.

And, just like that, ABA therapy was off the table for us, and for our children. We'd rather spend our time helping others to understand, accept, and embrace neurodiversity than spend it trying to mask the neurology and personalities of our children, who are amazing and perfect, as they are.

So, it's not so much that I want to be right about ABA as it is that I want others to consider that they may have it all wrong, when it comes to educating and serving autistic children. What if there's a better way? What if -- rather than trying to force them to be "less autistic" -- the best way to help them is to educate everyone else around them about neurodiversity? What if promoting autism ACCEPTANCE is superior to downplaying autism "SYMPTOMS/BEHAVIORS?"

Anywayyyyyyyyyy... I have to go back at 11am with Bravo tomorrow.

What do you want to bet that Mr. Psychologist will be all too keenly and freshly aware of my own personal hand-stimming (specifically, "clicking" my fingernails by placing my thumbnail under one fingernail, then pushing up and down, creating a satisfying series of  "clicks" as the nails pass over one another)?

Say "quiet hands" to me ONE firetrucking TIME... I dare you.



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When "Happy" People Battle Depression

Someone this disgustingly happy can't be depressed...
Or, can she?

Photo by Mary Brownlee

This is, I know, not going to be an easy post to write. For many, it won't be an easy post to read. However, it needs to be written, because it's going to force all of us to look deeper into the issue of depression, and change our ideas of how it "looks."

At least, I hope.

Most people in my world view me as a relatively happy, if not over-zealous at times, fierce mama who kicks ass, takes names, and works hard on making an impact on the world around me. I mean, just check out my Facebook feed! All sorts of rah-rah advocacy, sunny posts, occasional outrage, and "you can do it!" encouragement lives there, on a regular basis.

What you don't see is how I've battled depression since adolescence. You don't see how, after a tumultuous series of medication changes several years ago, I had a psychotic break. You don't see how, at times, I feel hopeless, ineffective, and like maybe -- just maybe -- life is too hard to live.

To many people out there, I'm among the least likely to be battling depression, either publicly or privately.

 In spite of that assumption, I told my husband this week, "I don't want to live anymore." What I meant was, I don't want to live like THIS anymore.

I told him, "Our children deserve a better mother than I can be." What I meant was, My children may not be getting the best care and advocacy I can provide, because an invisible illness is stealing me away from my family, and myself.

I told him, "I feel like I am falling apart, and I don't know how to put myself back together." What I meant was exactly that.

And then, I yelled at him for saying he felt "neglected." What I imagine he meant was, I miss you... Where are you? I need you, and I don't know how to help.

Really, I can't blame him for not knowing what's going on in my head, especially when I struggle to understand it, myself.

We might think depression looks like someone who suddenly isn't interested in their usual activities; who withdraws from the people she cares about (I know men suffer depression, as well, but women are more likely than men to do so); who maybe spends her days in bed, lethargic, and unable to accomplish the most simple self-care or other tasks; or perhaps is overly emotional, and commits a great deal of her time to crying.

Here's what depression looks like for me:

• Ensuring my kids get to (currently) six therapy appointments per week, but dropping the ball on at-home therapy supplements
• Having my home and office look like a demilitarized zone, but not having the energy to care
• Dragging myself out of bed most days to do a lot of nothing, because the things which are most necessary, and bring the greatest return, seem unmanageable 
• Neglecting my business, clients, and team, but somehow, by grace and luck, receiving awards for my "achievements" during my most massive bouts of depression
• Mentally "rallying" before answering the phone, so I can have a conversation with someone which focuses on them, and deflects attention away from myself
• Always answering, "Great! How are YOU?" when someone asks how I am, because I would much rather hear about and worry about someone else, rather than myself
• Appearing and feeling numb most of the time when I'm alone or with my husband (because even tears require too much energy), but really knocking it out of the park as a "social butterfly" in public or at work
• Ignoring deadlines for things I really do want to accomplish, because meeting that deadline will mean new, different labor or work, which I can't even begin to think about right now
• Failing to dial the phone, but always hoping it will ring, and someone, anyone, will notice things just aren't right with me... and then assuring them I'm "fine... great, even!" when they ask
• Feeling constantly overwhelmed, and at the same time, being unable to feel good about the things I actually am doing well ("You navigated that IEP meeting like a boss today!" is met with, "Yeah, but I didn't cure world hunger, so... what's the point of even trying?")

But here's what you probably see:

• A super-active mom, who advocates for her kids daily, and tries to make the world a better place by spreading awareness
• A creative genius, or someone too busy for housework? Actually, no... you'll still see a demilitarized zone. I'm not even going to try to kid myself.
• A woman who enjoys her "free time," because she's designed her life to provide "self care" and "downtime"
• A small business owner who is killing it!
• Someone who greets each social interaction with enthusiasm and positive energy
• The "social butterfly" you are meant to see
• Someone who has a lot on her plate, because her talents are so varied... Surely, it's reasonable that some deadlines will need to be adjusted?
• Someone who simply doesn't give herself enough credit for all the awesome she brings into the world
• A woman who is -- depending on how much you like me -- either adorably or annoyingly distracted

Some days, I see that, too.

Some days, it's not so bad. Some days, I am the warrior woman, on a mission, and I succeed in conquering a lot of villainous things, and rescuing a lot of people -- metaphorically, of course. SOME days, I really am "fine... great, even!"

And then, there are the other days. The days when, as my friend Anna puts it, depression is "...like the boogie man hiding around the corner, ready to kick you down if you're not on guard." These days seem to come when I least expect them -- when things are going pretty well, thank you very much, and I really do feel like I have it all together.

As it turns out, I am not alone. 

I wrote the majority of this post based upon my own experiences and feelings, but I wanted to know if anyone else had similar thoughts, or even vastly different thoughts, on depression. I tossed up a couple posts, asking for folks to tell me what they wish others knew about depression. 

Overwhelmingly, I found that a lot of people had similar knowledge about how depression can strike even the "happy" people, and the deep feelings of confusion, helplessness and fear that accompany it. People shared with me their experiences, and really helped to sum up a lot of what I didn't think to say. Take a look:

Siena: It's frustrating when people ask me why I'm depressed, and then don't understand when I say, "I don't know." 

It's not as easy as "getting on something." (medication)

Lei: I hate when people think it's as simple as being sad about something. "what do you have to be sad about?" That just makes me feel more ashamed and guilty about having depression.

Audi:  ...it is real and it happens to the best of us. Especially Post partum, which is a time where you are "supposed" to be happy, by the definition of other people.

Kristin: Depression is heavy.

(NOTE: I found this simple statement so profound, I couldn't improve upon it. So much, in those three words. It goes along with the next quote.)

Anna:  It feels like having 1000 lbs of weight crushing you from every angle. And all people can say is "why don't you just take the weight off!?" I had a Bible study leader tell me that I must not have faith in God because if I did, I wouldn't have such a problem. Because God is JOY and if I don't have that then I am not "in-Christ."

(This last part hurt my heart SO MUCH! The church needs to better understand depression and other mental health disorders, and lead those suffering to hope, not condemnation over a perceived lack of faith.)

Cera: On the outside I look like I have everything together, while on the inside I'm battling years of hidden depression and making it up as I go along. 

The monsters don't live under my bed; they live in my brain. 

No matter how much sleep I get I'm still tired, no matter how tired I am I can't sleep!

Chelsie: I wish people didn't say "it could be worse." Everyone's situation is different and it is belittling to be told that "you don't have it that bad."

Kasmira: That sometimes it presents itself as anger, not sadness. Every single person is different, but it is no less real.

A parent with an adult child who battles depression: When you repeatedly feel something is wrong with your child/loved one, speak up. Don't be afraid to ask "Do you think you might be depressed" (I was afraid to ask) If you observe upbeat, 'appropriate' emotional responses when around others but experience negative emotions or worse, lack of emotions one on one, you need to pay attention.

A friend who chose to remain anonymous: Sometimes a depressed person is the funniest, happiest and most outgoing guy or girl that you know. (DING! DING! DING! We have a winner! This is what I was trying to say, at the beginning of this piece.)

So, today, I agonize over how to tell my mother that I'm not really feeling well enough, mentally and emotionally, to get together for Thanksgiving. (Mom, if you're reading, call me to discuss. I don't seem capable of picking up the phone, lately.) 

I think about the to-do list I should write (first on the list: MAKE A LIST). 

I hope my friends, my family, my team, and my clients somehow get the telepathic message that I care about them, and love them, and to please not hesitate to connect with me -- some days, it really is the fuel that keeps me going -- because I'm not always well enough to reach out and say so.

I spend all day blogging about everything I think I should say, when, really, all I want to say to those who love me is:

I'm still here. I'm surviving. I'm a little lost, a little hopeless, and a little mixed up, but I love you, even if I can't precisely show it.

Be tender with me. Understand I am rather fragile right now.

Be tough with me. Don't let me withdraw, or retreat, even when I say it's what I need. It isn't. What I need is to know I have a wall of love and safety around me -- even if I'm not brushing against it, it will be there when I try to run.

Mostly? Please... don't give up on me.

Can you ALL help me to change the way we think depression "looks?" Reach out to someone you haven't heard from in a while. Invite a friend out to coffee. Write a letter to someone you care about. Love on your loved ones a little harder. And, of course, don't forget to share this post. Let's change the world, friends. 

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Really, I’m Trying to Listen!

Image source

Most moments, I have—on average—between eight and eighty people talking at me. I try to listen. Really, I do. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult. That’s why Mr. Wright and I have conversations like this:

Mr. Wright: Do you want to watch Almost Famous with me?
Gonzo: I’m really tired, and I might fall asleep during the movie. I haven’t seen that one yet, so I want to be awake for it.
Mr. Wright: Okay, how about Notting Hill? You’ve seen that.
Gonzo: Well, I don’t know... What do you want to watch?
Mr. Wright: Almost Famous.
Gonzo: Maybe something else? I haven’t seen that yet...

Curlytop and Snugglebug become understandably annoyed when I don’t listen to or respond to their every word. Here’s a question for you, though: Have you ever intently listened to a four- or five-year old talk? It starts with “Mommy, I’m hungry,” segues into “...and then you can ride on my purple dragon...” and continues with “Mommy, she’s not sharing!” That’s before the child even pauses to take a breath.

Try. Just try to focus all your energy on that conversation which, by the way, originates from the back seat of the car during rush hour, with a county sheriff in the rear view mirror. Try to mediate the not-sharing issue without physically turning around to grab the unshared object away from the dueling darlings. Try to ask all the right questions about the pink dragon— Oops. It’s purple. You’ve already lost the respect of your children, who now know you never listen to a word they say.

I’ve dropped into a dead panic when children didn’t come home, knowing—just knowing—they’ve been snatched by “the bad people” or involved in an accident. When I finally track the kids down, they are safely and comfortably enjoying the event I was told about the week before, and wasn’t I listening when they told me they wouldn’t be home?

Does motherhood affect one’s hearing? How about marriage? Mr. Wright claims I haven’t heard one word he’s uttered since “I do.”

The more I hear, the harder it is to listen. The world is staging an auditory attack on my brain, and I’m absorbing less and less of it. I can hear a can of forbidden soda pop hiss open behind a closed door in another wing of the house, hear tiny footsteps coming down the hall in the middle of the night, pick up on a subtle vocal inflection when a kid is trying to pull a fast one, but I can’t process the words my child is saying two feet in front of me.

While attempting to navigate a recipe to make dinner, I’ll have one kid asking if they may go to a friend’s house; one kid telling me the latest drama among her circle of friends; one kid asking where the power drill is; one kid tugging in my shirt, asking for a drink of water; one kid foisting a party dress on me, asking for help putting it on; and Mr. Wright telling me his schedule for the rest of the week.

Is it any wonder I squeeze the dress onto the wrong child, give the power drill to the kid with the drama, tell the teen girl she can’t go anywhere until she gets a drink of water for the wrong little sister, hand the recipe book to Mr. Wright, and retire to the hot tub with a snifter of Southern Comfort?

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“My Dad has a Yacht of Girls”

Curlytop and Snugglebug have made great strides in their language development since we first consulted with a speech therapist over three years ago. Still, there are some words they use which can only be understood by family; and Curlytop still serves as a Snugglebug-to-English translator all too often.

Music Store Bob’s wife, Brenda, watched the girls one night while Waterdog, the band featuring Bob and Mr. Wright, played a local venue. She commented on the girls’ speech patterns, likening it to “twin speak.” Even though Curlytop and Snugglebug are thirteen months apart, they function pretty much like twins, and they do appear to have words that they use exclusively with one another. This phenomenon of secret or made-up language is called “idioglossia.” When it occurs in twins, it’s known as “cryptophasia.”

Some of their speech, though, is just difficult to understand. They’re speaking English, but the average listener can’t decipher it. Since I’m their mom, I consider myself to be an above average listener, and I’m often able to simultaneously translate for the listener as the words come out of my girls’ mouths.

For example, “chex monks” are not cereal friars, but chipmunks. “Hizzards” are scissors, but the singular form, “hizzard” is a lizard. A “jam witch” is a sandwich, whether or not it’s made with jam (which is actually “jwelly”); though it’s often made with “pea gut bunner.”

Toward the end of the month, the girls eat a lot of pea gut bunner jam witches, but when payday comes around, they’re living high on the hog with pea gut bunner and jwelly jam witches.

A “cow; oaty” is obviously a coyote, and “a yacht” is simply a phrase meaning many; a lot. Therefore, the statement “My dad has a yacht of girls” really just refers to his five daughters, who don’t even come close to filling up a yacht – not that we have one to fill, anyway.

Then, too, are the words that are spoken plainly, but signify something other than their original meaning. A “princess” is a dress, no matter the royal status or title of the young lady wearing it. “Cow,” not to be confused with “cow; oaty,” refers to beef or anything resembling it and intended for consumption. A “wiggle” is any skirt that provides a beautiful swish when the wearer wiggles her groove thang, and “break-uh-ull” (breakable) refers to anything they aren’t allowed to touch.

Okay, maybe that last one is my fault.

I’ve provided my little ones with many terms that have become commonplace in their language, such as “coffee,” which indicates any beverage Mommy is allowed to drink but they aren’t (I thought “Southern Comfort” a little too formal) and “working,” which is anything Mommy is doing at the computer that she doesn’t want interrupted.

Because, you know, “Facebook” is a pretty complex concept to explain to a preschooler.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/kygp/2868456244

Pretty Funny, Eh?

Mama's made her Canadian debut over at Edmonton's Child. Check me out!

I feel so sophisticated and world-wise, being listed as a "humour" writer, rather than plain old "humor."

Join me in a Molson toast while wearing a toque, won't you?

(Plus, I get to use the "i love my french-canadian readers" tag again. Are they French-Canadian in Edmonton? Or am I completely ignorant of all things Canada? I LOVE HOCKEY. Does that buy me any grace?)

I Wore Flowers in My Hair; They Made Me Sneeze

Growing up, I always suspected I was born about thirty years too late. I imagined I would have been a wonderful flower child; barefoot, braless and sticking daisies in the barrels of rifles.

Now that I’m grown up, I hate going without shoes, and my post-nursing breasts demand a brassiere. As if that weren’t enough to disqualify me from the free love generation, I’m allergic to daisies.

I set aside my shortcomings –and endeavored to rediscover the flower child roots I was cheated out of due to my delayed birth date– during our trip to San Francisco in 2007. It was the 50th anniversary of the first reading of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” the entire city was cloaked in a heavy cloth of anticipation, and I intended to follow Ginsberg’s advice— “Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.”

Madness, as it happens, would be found nightly at Harry Denton’s Starlight Room, but that’s a story for… another story.

Even before unpacking, I hopped a trolley and set out for the infamous intersection of Haight and Ashbury. I pictured natural foods co-ops, markets filled with handcrafted wares, and street musicians playing just for the sake of art. Exuberant and expectant, I watched the passing street signs, preparing to disembark the trolley and embark on my flower child communion.

Whatever may have been at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury during the Summer of Love, I suspect it wasn’t what I found in 2007: a Starbucks and a Gap.

“WHAT?” I cried. “Where are the flower children?” Peering in the window of Starbucks, I suspected the aged free love brokers were sitting inside, dressed in khakis and pressed button-down shirts from the Gap across the street.

Disappointed but determined, I pressed on. I planned only one purchase in San Francisco – apart from a commemorative copy of “Howl and Other Poems,” of course. I figured San Francisco must be the best place in the world to find a peasant skirt –one of those flowing, lightweight skirts that look great with Birkenstocks.

I walked the entire length of the Haight, popping into every boutique, looking for my souvenir. Hours later, with blisters on my heels, falafel in my stomach and frustration upon my brow, I called Mr. Wright from my cell.

“How can the peasants afford them when they’re over $150?” I asked.

I wasn’t going to let a failed shopping expedition ruin my trip. Oh, no. I returned to the hotel, braided some silk daisies into my hair, and dragged Mr. Wright to City Lights bookstore, the epicenter of the Ginsberg celebration. We entered, and I began collecting stacks of free poetry journals and zines.

Mr. Wright stood in the middle of the bookshelves, afraid to touch anything. “Don’t sign up for anything,” he said. “Don’t give our names or address. I’m pretty sure we’re going to end up on some Communist watch list just for setting foot in here.”

I laughed and perused the shelves of anarchist poetry while Mr. Wright sprouted a healthy crop of hives.

The sound of applause filtered down the stairway, and I realized there was a reading taking place. Tugging on Mr. Wright’s sweat-drenched hand, I climbed the stairs and entered the small room at the top. There, a tattoo-covered, multi-pierced person was reading an essay about pigeons.

To this day, Mr. Wright and I have an unresolved bet regarding the gender of the reader.

“Pigeons are rock doves,” they said. “Doves are symbols of peace. Why do people hate pigeons so much? I mean, if we started calling them ‘rock doves,’ maybe people would give them the respect they’re due.”

Gasping, I leaned over and whispered into Mr. Wright’s ear, “I’ve finally found my people!”

The look he gave me in return suggested he would have much preferred to see a copy of my family tree BEFORE the wedding.


Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scragz/429695535/

Ugly American: The Gonzo Mama in Japan

A light dusting of snow covered us as we made the five-minute walk from Tokyo Station to our hotel. At the entrance, I stooped down to put something in the small trash bin near the door. The debris fell out of my hand and I crouched low, picking it up. I didn’t crouch alone.

The doorman was down there with me, helping me stand and intent on relieving me of my luggage. “Really, I can stand on my own,” I wanted to protest, but he was so earnest I let him help me up.

As we approached the front desk, a uniformed woman made her way into our path, bowing and offering us each a clean, dry washcloth. At the front desk, I whispered to Mr. Wright, “What do we do with the washcloth?” He shrugged. The front desk guy spoke English well enough to get us checked in, so I went for broke.

“Can you help me?” I asked. He nodded vigorously in response. “What should I be doing with this washcloth? I mean, should I be wiping off my wet shoes, or drying my face, or what?” Apparently, his English training didn’t include answering basic etiquette questions from ignorant Americans, because he smiled and nodded some more.

I discovered what to use the washcloths for fifteen minutes later when Mr. Wright made my dinner in our room’s electric teapot and it boiled over, spewing boiling water and piping hot rice stick all over the top of the dresser.

My first public restroom experience left me feeling like a dirty, ugly American. The toilet was confusing enough, with its buttons: one for bodily function-masking sound to play while the user does her business; one for a “powerful deodorizer;” and two (two!) for bidet functions. “Would you like a rear or frontal water attack?” it asked.

I’d learned my lesson about playing with the loo buttons back in our hotel room, when Mr. Wright pressed the “front wash” button, “just to see what would happen,” and got a face full of water. Unbelievable – thousands of miles away from the toddlers and I still had to shout, “Stop playing with the toilet!” Anyway, I resisted the urge to punch the button for a powerful deodorizer, since I wasn’t sure exactly what odorous target it may be seeking.

Placing my hands under the faucet, I was pleased to be at a simple sink – no confusing buttons; just a simple pump for soap. I pumped twice, and the liquid that covered my hands was thin and watery, unlike the thick, shiny handsoap we use at home. I rubbed my hands together vigorously before rinsing under the running water, taking notice of the sign that said, “Prevent disease by washing hands and gargling.” Gargling? Sure enough, the ladies to either side of me were gargling with gusto.

Feeling a bit awkward about being the only gal unsanitary enough to leave the restroom before gargling, I placed my hands in the high-powered air dryer, and then exited. Mr. Wright was waiting for me near the doorway. I showed him my hands. “I think I just washed my hands with mouthwash,” I said.

He took both of my hands and pulled them to his face, inhaling deeply. “Ah… minty fresh!”

People carry mouthwash cups with them into restrooms. They also carry tissues, since some public washrooms don’t have toilet paper. I saw one man heading into the men’s room in Tokyo Station with a pair of chopsticks.

I don’t even want to know what he used them for.

We read that it is extremely rude to gesture with one’s chopsticks. We were told the same by our travel advisors. Somehow, in the confusion of engaging in conversation while consuming enough food to feed a third world country, Mr. Wright and I consistently forget that advice. We’re animated talkers, my husband and me, and it’s just so hard to break habits that are ingrained into every fiber of our being.

Our saving grace is the very nature of the people of Japan. They are patient and kind. They dismiss our faux pas like we dismiss our toddlers’ inappropriate exclamations and less-than-perfect table manners.

This week, I consider myself a daughter of Japan. Like my uncouth daughters, I ask question after question about customs, food preparation, traditions… the equivalent of a small child’s “Why? Why? Why? WHY, Mommy?”

The only difference is: I’m taking notes.



Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toddmecklem/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jpellgen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Pillow Talk With The Gonzo Mama: It's Hot. I Know.

What do the parents of seven children talk about in bed?

You wouldn't believe me, if I told you.

Take last night for example. Instead of falling promptly asleep, I was seized by a fit of giggles.

Mr. Wright: What's so funny?

Me: I was just thinking how bad it would suck if a person were a werewolf or werecat and allergic to herself or himself.

Mr. Wright: Yeah... Can you imagine waking up with hives after every full moon?

Me: What if you were a sucky kind of were? Like a weresheep? What would be cool about being a weresheep? I mean, they're not fierce or anything. A wereturtle? I can understand that. That might be cool in a battle; you could just tuck yourself up in your little wereshell and be safe. But a sheep?

Mr. Wright: Oh, it's a full moon! Hide the oats! Here comes that crazy weresheep... He's outta control! Get the pitchforks... and start pitching the hay somewhere safe!

Me: What if you were a wereslug? And you had to always worry about people chasing after you with a salt shaker? I mean, how bad would it suck to be a wereslug? Or what if you were a werebarnacle, and you attached yourself to a cargo ship during the full moon, and when you changed back, you were under a ship in Singapore? That would suck.

Mr. Wright: Yeah...

Me: Yeah.

Maybe tonight we'll discuss how bad it would suck to be a vegan and turned into a vampire. Is it any wonder we have seven kids?

I think not.

Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/leomiranda/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/70267096@N00/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

There is No Japanese Word for “Vegan”

Mr. Wright and I have been collecting every bit of information we can find about Japan, in preparation for our trip this month. We’ve Googled; we’ve Wikipediaed; we’ve talked to friends who lived in or traveled to Japan.

A study guide we found advises we will be expected to remove our shoes and wear slippers when visiting a home in Japan. The slippers are to be worn at all times indoors, except when using the bathroom, where “house slippers” are to be replaced with “toilet slippers.” Care must be taken not to forget to change out of the toilet slippers before returning to other rooms of the house. A girlfriend from college, who lived in Japan for several years, added that it’s regarded as unsanitary to put a nude or almost-nude foot into guest slippers; and she suggested I take footie socks along to slip over my stockings.

The same guide discusses after-hours business meetings, which may include dinner and drinks, which our hosts will insist on paying for. The guide gave a warning that “hostess bars” are not a good idea for businesswomen to attend, but didn’t say exactly what a hostess bar is.

I mentioned this warning to Mr. Wright, and suggested that Japanese hostess bars may be akin to American “gentlemen’s clubs.” Mr. Wright disagreed, opining that “Hostess bars” were probably establishments where Twinkies, HoHos and Ding Dongs were served.

“Probably not a good idea for businesswomen who are watching their weight,” he said. “The book probably just left that last part out.”

One of our Japanese colleagues who will be traveling with us tells me “hostess bars” are simply high-priced clubs that provide expensive atmosphere and sake, but I’m not sure I believe him.

If he and Mr. Wright head out to a hostess bar, Mr. Wright had better come back smelling like chocolate and cream filling. Enough said.

Business cards have a level of importance and regard in Japan not seen in the United States. We may be accustomed to casually handing over our business card, or taking an acquaintance’s card and haphazardly slipping it into a pocket or handbag. Not so, in Japan. The Japanese regard business cards with particular reverence. A business card is a serious thing, recording the bearer’s credentials. It is to be offered – and accepted – with two hands and a slightly bowed head. The receiver of the card should take a few moments to study the card, absorbing and carefully committing to memory the information contained upon it. We will be expected to solemnly study and “understand” the card, even though we don’t read Japanese.

It’s all about ritual.

I was relieved to hear that many of the Japanese read some English, even if they don’t speak it; and some may even attempt to speak English with us. While I found the knowledge comforting, it made me regret my lack of foreign language education. Most developed nations in the world have at least a basic understanding of our language. How arrogant are we Americans to assume that everyone else in the world will speak our language, when our schools – with the exception of a small percentage of bilingual and immersion schools – only teach foreign languages as a college-prep offering?

I feel rather ashamed that I speak no Japanese, yet will be interacting with the people of Japan for a week.

At a pre-travel meeting with our team, I asked our Japanese colleague, “Is there a Japanese word for ‘vegan?’ Or is it such a strange concept in Japan, no one ever needs to say it? Will I be able to eat in Japan?”

After a moment of consideration, he answered, “It’s really the latter. You might want to pack some food to take along.”

If you’re in Japan this month, stop by and say, “Kon'nichiwa.” Or, “Hello,” if you want me to understand you. I’ll be the ignorant American with footie socks and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, peering in the windows of the hostess club.


Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/24443965@N08/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Table for One, Please...

Remember when I urged all of you mamas to break into spontaneous conversation about parenthood with any fellow mama you might bump into?

I did that today. With Mr. Wright out of town and the kidlings safely deposited in institutions of glorious education, I slipped into a new-ish Pan Asian restaurant for lunch. Alone.

I actually rather enjoy dining alone, once I get past the hostess who, invariably, says, "Just one?" I often answer - in song, "Not JUST one... I'm ONE! SINGULAR SENSATION! Every little move I make!" It tends to be an embarrassing spectacle for everyone involved, except, of course, me.

Anyway, the staff at the restaurant actually had to pull a larger table apart to make a small table for lonely little me. About five minutes after I was seated, a waiter approached and said, "I'm bringing you some neighbors. You don't mind?" I was so engrossed in my book, I barely noticed as he pulled the adjacent table a little further away, putting a bit more distance between my table and its separated twin.

Guess who sat down? Two ladies! Two MAMA-ladies! They asked what I was having, and ordered the same thing. We talked about kids' sports, about adoption, about mama stuff. We all finished at about the same time, and I was pleasantly surprised when one of the mamas wrote down her name and email address, and asked me to keep in touch. She said, "Isn't it great when you go in for lunch, and come out with a new friend?"

Amen, Sister.

Thank you, Pan-Asian-Lunch-Place-Mamas... You made my day!


Have you met someone who made you smile recently? Tell me about it!

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/damaradeaella/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Oh, Canada!

In honor of Canada Day, allow me to don my toque and re-post today's entry in the requisite "also-in-French," courtesy of Google Language Tools.

I've always meant to learn French, as a show of solidarity with my neighbors to the north, but instead expressed my support by playing hockey and groovin' to The Guess Who, Bryan Adams, Loverboy and Rush.

Divine Secrets of the Sisterhood Ma-Ma

La maternité fait quelque chose d'étrange à la psyché des femmes. Quelque part, le voyage dans l'autonomisation et déconcertant mère monde produit un besoin physiologique de partager des histoires.

Même avant de donner naissance à mon fils, j'ai vu les signes annonciateurs. Je regardais les mères parlent de leurs enfants au jour le jour les activités comme si leur progéniture ont été les premiers à explorer jamais, un coup de balle, monosyllabiques non-sens absolu ou "faire une odeur." Ridicule!

"Pour ma part, je ne pourra jamais exercer de cette façon:" Je promis. Naturellement, j'ai dû manger de ces mots simples heures après Pockets est né. Je ne peux pas l'expliquer. Il ya un besoin biologique de partager des histoires de la naissance, l'éducation des enfants et des mères avec d'autres mères.

Il est peut-être d'un type de maladie congénitale que les cours par le biais de tout homme de sexe féminin, en attendant le commencement de la maternité à éclater. Comme moi, la plupart ne savent même pas qu'ils sont porteurs jusqu'à ce qu'ils trouvent eux-mêmes de discuter d'une seule couche en désordre à la longueur avec de parfaits étrangers.

Le phénomène n'est pas limité à la mère biologique. Adoptive mamans aussi, l'expérience de la contrainte à partager leurs histoires sur tous les aspects de leurs responsabilités parentales voyages. Compte tenu de la possibilité, nous feront part de tous les complexes de détails sur la durée de nos adoptions a pris, le nécessaire mais frustrante de navigation du "système", ce sont nos craintes au sujet de l'éducation des enfants dont les antécédents médicaux, nous mai ne sais pas, et ce qui nous a conduit à choisir l'adoption . Lorsque nous sommes fait, nous allons vous parler de notre enfant de la première dent, premier jour d'école, et comment notre enfant est incroyable.

Que ce soit en vantant nos enfants ou commiserating sur le procès des responsabilités parentales, Mommies nécessité de ne pas regarder plus loin que le programme chargé de la mère à côté de la femme ou un enfant rebondir sur sa hanche à l'arrêt de bus. Je suis frappé de conversations à propos de pot de formation, les siestes, la dentition, la scolarisation des femmes et des adolescents dans le métro de Washington, DC, des avions et dans des toilettes publiques.

Bien sûr, il est bien connu que je n'ai pas honte.

Néanmoins, je trouve que les mères sont très réceptifs à des conversations non sollicitées sur le rôle parental. J'ai été menacé avec une injonction de 15 ans de ma verbalement violent étrangers espaces personnels.

Croyez-le ou non, la maternité peut être solitaire. Certaines mères se sentent, ils sont uniques dans leurs craintes ou de luttes ou de l'inquiétude qu'ils "ne font pas comme il faut." La contrainte de se connecter avec d'autres mamans et de partager nos histoires est important, et il ne devrait pas être ignorée. Partage nous expose à des points de vue différents sur les questions dont nous traitons et nous rappelle que nous ne sommes pas seuls - d'autres mamans ont vécu des situations difficiles, inquiet au sujet de leurs enfants et fait des erreurs dans les responsabilités parentales.

La semaine dernière, je me sentais comme un candidat à la Mère Ever pires quand je frappe le volant à Taco Bell pour acheter des fromages roll-up pour mes deux jeunes enfants, avant de lui laisser à la garderie à 9h30 Je l'ai appelé "brunch. "

Je me sentais coupable et a dit que bien sur mon Facebook et Twitter mises à jour. J'ai reçu un flot de messages provenant d'autres mamans, en réponse, me garantir que je n'avais même pas fait les séries éliminatoires pour le titre de Mère pires Ever et de partager leurs propres inférieur glamour parentales moments. Une mère m'a dit qu'elle est souvent en retard le matin et prend son fils par le biais de Jack in the Box pour frit poulet, puis les parcs dans la rue de l'école jusqu'à ce qu'il termine, afin d'autres parents ne voient pas de quoi il manger pour le petit déjeuner. "Un autre a admis qu'elle nourris de sa fille et la fille, l'amie de gâteau avec un glaçage quand elle s'est rendu compte qu'il n'y avait rien pour déjeuner dans la cuisine. «Penser l'autre maman va l'esprit?" At-elle demandé.

Ne soyez pas timide, ma mère-sœurs! Lorsque vous voyez une mère luttant pour garder son couvain en ligne à l'épicerie, vous régalerez avec son histoire sur la façon dont votre bébé a pleuré sans arrêt sur une durée de six heures de vol. Elle va apprécier.

Bienvenue à la fraternité!

Photo by Ian Muttoo