That Time I Wrote a Novel

When I think back to the happy times of my childhood, I remember books.  I remember getting lost in a story, to the point that I couldn't hear my mom calling my name or my sister asking me to come play with her.  Books truly transported me somewhere else, to Prince Edward Island at the turn of the century, to Sweet Valley, California, to the Orient Express chugging across Europe.  And like many readers before me, I wanted to use my words to move and inspire people.  I wanted to write.

I remember sitting at my desk, a fresh notebook open in front of me, pencil poised to record a new story.  That was the best moment back then, when the possibilities were endless and all I had to do was begin.  So I did.  Again, and again, and again, I began to write.  Sometimes I would fill a page, sometimes several.  But the same thing kept happening.  I didn't know what came next.  I would stop and chew my lip and tap my pencil on the desk.  I was great at inventing a character and setting and describing what was in my head...but then what?  I couldn't come up with a plot.  And because the words didn't just flow out of me (as I imagined they did for Judy Blume and Ann M. Martin and Agatha Christie), I considered myself a failure.

I never quite lost the idea that I would write something someday, that eventually it would all come together in a magical afternoon and I would finally figure out how to progress in my story, and even find the ending.  But when high school came along, followed by college, the focus of my writing turned to book reports and term papers.  There didn't seem to be time to imagine, to create something new, in a world that demanded I learn new information and regurgitate it for a good grade.  I downgraded my goal to writing a children's book after I took a class on Children's Literature in college.  It would be perfect.  The books were shorter, the stories and language simpler.  I could do that.  Please.

Except it's not that easy, if you've ever tried it.  Dr. Seuss deserves all the acclaim he gets for making stories that seem simple and singsongy...except they rhyme and draw from a pool of less than 50 words and tell a whole story in a handful of pages, with pictures to match!  It all began to feel hopeless and impossible as life moved on.  A title would come to me out of nowhere, and I would begin to imagine the story I could tell, but I'd dismiss it after a while as just a dream that would never materialize.

Then I became a mother.  I quit my job and stayed home with my tiny bundle of love and spent hours on the couch, reading classic literature and eating dried fruit while my baby slept on my lap.  And my mind began to wander in ways it couldn't while I was working or in school.  An idea took root, and I took the time to let the story come to me.  Finally, while the baby was asleep and my husband was at work, I snuck off with a pen and a notebook and began to write again.  My first story in over a decade.  There were plenty of stops, followed days or months later by starts.  I didn't put pressure on the idea.  I wasn't thinking about word count or whether people would want to read it.  I wrote what I found inside me.

The end result was a short story entitled "In My Mother's Closet".  To date, only my husband has read it.  I don't know if it's any good, but it was the start I needed.  After another baby, I had another idea.  I sat down late at night over the course of a summer and wrote.  This was it, the idea that had enough depth to become a book.  I was so excited that I showed it to my husband before I even finished the first draft.  I was proud and wanted the ego boost of his support.  Except...he didn't really like it.  He pointed out some holes in the character development and kind of shrugged over it.  It was disappointing, yes, but he was right.  I set it aside for about six months as we welcomed another child into the family.  In the meantime, I did some research.  I read some books on writing, I set a goal for myself to finish, then I pulled up the Word document and re-read it.  Suddenly, the fixes became clear, the edits I needed to make in order to finish the book and present it to my husband for a second opinion.

Because the life of a mother of three young children is hectic and distracting, it took another two years to get to that finished work.  (We added yet another child, a 3 year old foster daughter who left shortly after the book's completion.)  But I did it, I wrote a novel called Every Little Piece!  I shared it with some trusted friends, people who would be honest with me but also kind.  They offered some great suggestions to make it even better.

For the past 18 months, I've been sitting on this book.  I've sent queries to agents and researched the publishing industry and fretted about what to do next.  Four years after I began to write it, my novel is ready for Kindle Direct and becoming an e-book.  I have no idea what will come next, if anyone will read it or like it, but my childhood dream of writing a book has already come true, and now I'm ready to fulfill another goal: becoming a published author.

Friends, I hope you'll check out my book.  I had fun writing it, getting to know my characters and telling their stories.  But more importantly, I hope you'll think back to the thing you loved when you were young, whether it was dancing or playing outside or making jewelry out of dandelions or painting, or maybe even writing the first page of a story.  And I hope that you can let go of whatever distractions or to-do lists have kept you from it.  Find room for that thing to be a part of your life now, without fear or embarrassment.  Return to your first love.

A busy life
Photo credit: We Love Your Love Photography

What I've Learned (About Writing)

I am a writer.  (deep exhale)  That's not something I say out loud, like ever.  But I'm finally starting to believe it enough to think it.  I am always quick to encourage someone else and also quick to discount my own gifts/talents.  I tell myself that anyone can do what I do.  Maybe that's true, but I'm beginning to see that, although others can, not everyone does.

Getting lots of writing done

So, my beautiful writer friends (Amber and Deanna!), here is what I've learned...

1. Writing is a way of life.  As soon as I learned how to form letters, I began to write.  I have kept diaries and journals, written short stories and term papers, love letters and bad poetry.  Writing has always been part of me.  Then, five or six years ago, when I found myself without many friends and with deep, dark thoughts bubbling inside me, I grabbed a pen and a half-blank notebook and I began to write all the things I couldn't say.  So, while blogging may be relatively new, writing has always been there.

2.  Writing is solitary.  This is good news for those of us who are beginning something, learning and honing our craft.  No one else will read what you write.  The only critics are the ones marching around in your own brain.  You get to take years to get better, to get to the point when you want to share your writing.  And all that time, your writing is evolving.  This can also be bad news for those of us who listen too much to our inner critics, who tremble at the blinking cursor and turn off the computer without entering a single word.  There is no one else who will do the work for you, there is no one to point out the obvious (stop listening to the voices that say you suck), there is no one to congratulate you on finishing your latest piece.  Write anyway.

3.  Writing brings community.  That's right...it's lonely work and it will bring you closer to other people.  Other writers who will edit and encourage, who will share their knowledge and commiserate with you.  Readers who will connect with your words and get to know the YOU that is sometimes hidden in everyday life.  And, of course, the external critics who don't like you or what you think or how you see the world.  Yay!

4.  Writing is therapy.  Before I can say it, I can write it.  All those deep, dark thoughts I mentioned in #1?  I wrote them down to get them out and begin to process.  Then I showed them to my husband because I couldn't tell him how I was feeling but I could write about how I was feeling.  Only after I have come to terms with what is happening, once I can stand on the other side and admit the truth do I share it with everyone else.  What if I'd never found writing?  Good Lord, can you even imagine the kind of insanely crazed woman I would be today?  Thank you paper, for being readily available and infinitely cheaper than a psychiatrist.

5.  Writing is an escape.  I spend all day with little people...have I mentioned that in the last five minutes?  Writing during nap time, after dinner, on weekends, in the car line, etc lets me leave this sometimes chaotic life and disappear into a world of my own creation, where there are no messes to clean and no homework to check and everyone does exactly what I want them to do (or else they get deleted!).  Writing is a mini-vacation that happens inside my head and pours out onto paper.

6.  Writing can't be everything.  Even as I bemoan the people who interfere with my writing and slow down my work, I have to point out that I had nothing worth writing until those people came into my life.  If I was some single lady writing at Starbucks after work, I would be staring at a blank screen.  So there has to be life beyond the words.  There has to be some real living going on to provide material and inspiration.  There have to be books in hand and tickles freely given and walks in the quiet spring evenings and endless loads of laundry or there would be no words.  I've also learned that some men don't like falling asleep with their wife and her notebook.  So live first, write second.

7.  Every writer requires her own fuel.  When I sit down to write, my favorite things are a quiet house, Hot Tamales, Suri's Burn Book (surisburnbook.tumblr.com), Pandora Love Songs, and Cinnamon Dolce lattes.

Caffeine and Sugar!!

In My Place

I was making communion bread the other night.  It's something I enjoy doing, something I volunteered to do a while back.  That's where I like to be.  I like baking in my kitchen.  I like playing with my kids.  I like listening to sermons in my pjs while I fold laundry.  That's how I like serving God, serving my church.  I want to be the proper church lady who bakes food for Sunday morning and teaches the three year olds about Moses and listens attentively as her pastor preaches.  That's what I can offer, that's my place.  Or so I thought.

This past year, our church went through a transition and we got a new pastor.  I was excited to meet him, to learn more about him, to hear him speak from the pulpit.  Imagine my surprise when our first conversation involved him asking if I preach.  Um, NO.  Not at all.  So I invited him over to the house for dinner.  So he could see me in my place.  So he could eat the food that I cooked, so he could meet the children I chase around all day.  But he came with other plans, and that night, he gave me a date, told me to get ready.

Well, okay, maybe, I thought.  Maybe I could get up on a Sunday morning and talk about orphans or why it's so important for adults to care about children.  I told my pastor that if he ever wants to address those issues, I'd be happy to help.  A few weeks later, he called with my first topic: giving.  He asked me to talk during the time of offering, something about why we give money at church.  Again, I thought, Um NO.  I don't even have a paying job, I have no income.  What could I possibly say about giving money at church?

Our pastor came over to the house again.  It was after I began talking during the offering; he wanted to make a video about our family.  And once he'd gotten the footage, he turned to me again with a date and told me to get ready.  He wanted me to do a *sermon* (cue fainting and hysterics) on prayer.    All I could think is, Why me?  What do I have to say?  What could I teach?

There are two ways to learn something: school and experience.  I love school.  I love sitting in a  classroom and taking notes and reading books.  I love the smell of libraries and the quiet of study halls.  I went to school for years, excitedly shopping for new folders and notebooks every August.  I went to college and studied political science with an international focus.  I briefly minored in French but dropped it to graduate early.  I never studied the Bible in a classroom.  I was never in a theology class, or even a philosophy class.  When I left college, I started working.  I took a job as a flight attendant and later at a bank, and I received on the job training, since my degree had little to do with either position.  When I became a wife and later a mother, I tried to learn from books.  I studied for these new roles, ones I wanted to badly to succeed at.  But in both situations, experience proved the better teacher.  Our families are ridiculously unique and personal, and we just have to figure it out as we go, what works best for us.

For me, it turns out that life has been a much better teacher about God too.  In the last ten years, He has become real to me in a way that I doubt I could have been taught.  Apparently God has more He wants me to learn, from a new place in His church.  The time has come for me to get up from my seat, and not just receive, but to give, to instruct.  I took the advice of my friend, Mandy, to talk about my experiences.  I don't know the big, theological words for this stuff.  I've never read the Bible in its original languages.  And maybe that's better.  Because no one can argue that my experiences are wrong the way we disagree over ideas.

So I stood before my church, the people who have loved and supported me and become some of my closest friends, and I talked about the changes in my heart.  I talked about who I was before, the events in my life and the reactions I had that put distance between me and God, and how it was hard to pray.  And then I talked about what happened to change my thinking, how Jesus became real to me in my early twenties and over time prayer became an easy and integral part of my life.  This experience is echoed in a book I'm reading called "The Way of the Heart" by Henri Nouwen.  He writes,

 "Real prayer comes from the heart...The prayer of the heart is a prayer that does not allow 

us to limit our relationship with God to interesting words or pious emotions.  By its 

very nature, such prayer transforms our whole being into Christ precisely 

because it opens the eyes of our soul to the truth of ourselves as well as to the 

truth of God.  In our heart, we come to see ourselves as sinners embraced by the 

mercy of God.  It is this vision that makes us cry out, 'Lord Jesus Christ, son

 of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'  The prayer of the heart challenges 

us to hide absolutely nothing from God and to surrender ourselves unconditionally

 to His mercy.  Thus the prayer of the heart is the prayer of truth."

And in this way my experience has taught me and my studying merely reinforces (and much more eloquently so) what I know to be true.

Ready to leap

Communication and Assumption

"Either it's a hoax, which it isn't, or we are grossly underestimating tens of thousands of people."
                                                     -David Mitchell, translator of The Reason I Jump

It's as innocuous as it is common.  "He talks so well!" people gush over my youngest son.  Mostly because he is small for his age and they assume he's younger and therefore advanced to be speaking in sentences.  No harm is meant, I know, but I cringe every time I hear it.  Yes, it is adorable and humorous and downright helpful when our children learn to talk and begin expressing themselves.  But I'm also the mother of a child who doesn't talk well, who has never been gushed over by strangers.  I struggle because every day I'm confronted with this misplaced belief that verbal communication equals intelligence, that a child who looks away and makes sound effects when asked a question must be less smart, less capable than his brothers who are able to engage in conversation.  But it's simply NOT TRUE.

All of my children are beautiful, smart, capable, lovely people.  They each possess skills and they excel in certain areas, just as they struggle in others.  But if they can communicate in the way we understand, in the language and social context that most people use, then they are perceived as having worth.  Yet words aren't the only means of communication.  Often words are the least reliable way to communicate.  There is behavior.  There are gestures.  There are emotive sound effects and pictures and facial expressions.  And this is why autism awareness and acceptance are so important to me.  Because my wonderful son belongs to a group of people who are continually underestimated and deemed unworthy of time and expense and humanity.

This is something that I have learned over the years, as I have read and searched to understand my son.  I first found it in the works of Temple Grandin, whose memoir is aptly titled Thinking in Pictures.  She doesn't think in words, but sees pictures instead.  Another author, Daniel Tammet, describes numbers as a series of images.  His book, Born on a Blue Day, is full of illustrations.  Just recently I finished The Reason I Jump by Naoki Higashida, who describes memory as a circle and it finally clicked into place.  For James, words are a second language.   There are some days when he speaks very well; his words are plentiful and his expression is clear, and on those days it is all so blessedly easy to understand each other.  So why are there other days when he doesn't seem like he wants to talk at all?  Why does he respond to me differently and return to his large vocabulary of sound effects?  Because that's his first language.  When he uses movie quotes instead of his own words, it's the emotion behind them that he is trying to express.  How I wish I could be inside his head on those days, to really understand what it means to think in pictures or circles or colors.  It reminds me of my trip to Europe.

My dad loves to tell this story, although he wasn't there, and when he does it makes me feel very stupid, which is not a fun feeling.  After flying into Germany and spending a few days with friends there, my mom and I took a train to Paris.  It was the end of a long day of travel, of navigating a new city to secure a hotel for the night, of arguing with my mom, and finally we sat down in a restaurant, ready to eat and relax.  We perused the menu (in French) and I tried my best to translate for my English-speaking mother.  We placed our order, but Mom was displeased when the food came out and our waiter placed a raw beef patty in front of her.  She looked at me in alarm and said, "I'm not eating that."  And so I turned to our French-speaking waiter and opened my mouth to explain, only the words wouldn't come.  I had studied French for years, to the point that I was fluent.  Sometimes I even dreamt in French.  But we had just been surrounded by German, a language I am familiar with, but not as well, and I was tired.  The meat needs to be cooked, I thought in English.  Kuche, I thought in German.  Hot, in English.  Kitchen.  Pan.  Skillet.  My mom was getting agitated that the raw meat was still sitting there, the waiter's forehead was creasing deeper, and I could not for the life of me think how to communicate in French.  I want to say that it took hours to sort it all out, because that's how long it felt, but it may have only been five minutes.  Eventually, the meat was taken back to the kitchen and returned a nice, brown hamburger, and the rest of our stay in France went smoothly.  Now I ask you, am I stupid?  Because, of the three languages I was capable of speaking in that day, the only two that came to mind made no sense to the waiter?  Or is mastery of language a tricky skill for anyone, and in moments of distress, difficult to access?

Naoki Higashida was 13 years old when he wrote The Reason I Jump, and was described as non-verbal.  Meaning he was unable to speak to communicate.  Yet he could write a book that was both creative and informative when given the right medium to do so.  It makes me wonder how much uncovered potential my own autistic child possesses.  And beyond our own community, it makes me wonder how this narrow view of communication affects other people who don't speak well, people whose voices are limited due to physical impairments like being deaf.  What are we missing by not seeking out and supporting those who aren't like us?

It was a huge deal the first time James told me he loved me at the age of six.  Of course it was.  But it wasn't new information, just a new way to communicate.  He had told me thousands of times that he loved me, by touching my face, by kissing my cheeks, by inviting me under his dark blanket and showing me his toys, by sitting on my lap, by sleeping on my lap, by holding my hand, by running into my arms when he was scared, by pointing out fans and dogs and the moon.  When he said, "I love you Mommy," it took all my strength not to say "I know" and inwardly exult in my Han Solo moment, but to say, "I love you too."  And as much as I love hearing him speak my language, as important as it is for him to learn these words to succeed in this world, I'm learning to speak his language too.  Because the best way I can say "I love you" is to meet him halfway.

This is a link to a website that features Naoki in a video entitled "I Write, So I Am Alive", as well as other videos explaining Facilitated Communication.  Watch, it's fascinating! http://soe.syr.edu/centers_institutes/institute_communication_inclusion/about_the_ici/Videos.aspx

Happy birthday (and Autism Awareness)

April is Autism Awareness month.  It's special to me because I spend all year becoming more aware of autism, learning about it so I can be a better mother to my son James.  It's a funny turn of events, since James was born at the end of March, so our celebration of him turns into a month of trying to better educate those around us to understand this thing that affects how he interacts with the world.

So let's start here:
Autism is characterized by three things.
1. Social interaction.  Autistic people can be shy or outgoing, but they will struggle to know how to connect with other people, often characterized by limited eye contact, trouble taking turns, and becoming overwhelmed by the presence of "too much" (too much...noise, light, physical touch, etc).
2. Delays in verbal and nonverbal communication.  Some autistics will never speak, but this should not be confused for having nothing to say.
3. Repetitive, stereotyped behaviors.  Don't all kids flap their hands when they get really excited?  Or repeat the same phrase over and over when they get overwhelmed?  Or just make random sounds at seemingly inconvenient times?  No? 

Now let's talk about autism and birthdays.
James began using single words around age four and a half, and we were like starving people who can only be fed with verbal communication.  "Say it again!" we'd cheer.  Whatever seemed to cause him to speak would be repeated over and over so we could hear his beautiful voice.  Just in the past six months, his words have really taken off, and he's using sentences and sometimes really loudly and clearly telling his little siblings what he doesn't like (it's true, I stand outside the boys' room and do a little happy dance when I hear his scream, "No Winston!  That's James' car!  Give me that!").  I really want him to have good manners, but for now, I'm applauding what I see as the seeds of self-advocacy that will help him later on.  Okay.  So apparently when you have a March birthday, you begin inventory the day after Christmas: what you got, what you want, how many days until I get presents again?  For the past few years, James has better understood the concept of time, the months, days passing, etc, so we start our countdown to March 30th.  He's had a recent renewed interest in Pixar "Cars"; combine that with his ability to navigate YouTube and find commercials for products that are no longer sold in stores...I've been getting a very specific request for the four cars he didn't previously have (if you're interested, they are Raoul CaRoule, Rip Clutchgoneski, Lewis Hamilton, and Shu Todoroki.  He would like the die-cast models to complete his World Grand Prix lineup.  Every day).  I was thrilled to find three of these at Target (on sale, no less) about a month ago, but several trips have come up empty for the Lewis Hamilton car.  When I checked Amazon, he was available....for $12.  So I let James know that *maybe* he was getting some new cars for his birthday, and if he got birthday money from the great-grandparents, he could purchase the rest.  And maybe this all seems mundane, not worthy of note...but he's telling us this.  With his words.  That is so HUGE.

We've been talking lately about the love languages, and how we should really try to love other people in the way that they feel loved (which is almost always NOT the way that we prefer to give love).  I thought about this as it pertains to parenting, and specifically to my child who is so easily overwhelmed, so inside himself.  I really wanted to watch him open his cars today.  I wanted to see the look on his face, and, if I'm honest, I really wish he would look at me and say something like, "Oh, thank you so much mom!  It's exactly what I wanted!"  But I'm not an early riser, and I'm certainly not "together" or even really "awake" until 11am or so.  After I talked it over with Chris, I grabbed the cars from their hiding spot, unwrapped, and put them in James' bed after he fell asleep.  This kid has been looking forward to playing with these cars for THREE MONTHS.  If it was all about me, and getting some sort of response for how awesome I am at buying toy cars, then I would have made him wait until this afternoon, so I could really appreciate his reaction.  But instead, I did what I thought he would like, and just cut to the chase.  Chris heard him squealing in his room at 7am, and he had at least two cars in his hands at all times today.  I think we did it right.

Another change we've made over the years is the way we celebrate James' birthday.  My instinct is to gather together in one place all the people who love James.  Family, teachers, friends, neighbors.  Let's spend two hours at our house, talking and laughing and eating and watching James open presents.  Guess who freaks out in such an environment?  So we pulled back.  We had immediate family over for cupcakes.  We shrugged at each other.  How do we make this special FOR HIM?  Last year, we tried something new.  James' birthday almost always falls over spring break, so Chris took the week off, and we did something different every day.  We went to the Cleveland Zoo.  We played at the park.  We went to Red Robin for dinner.  Each place was fun, and then we went home to relax.  It seemed to work.  This year, I asked James for his input.  "How would you like to celebrate your birthday?" I asked him as we snuggled in his bed at night.  "I want to go to Pump It Up," he whispered to me.  Again, this might seem really basic, but this thing of me asking a question and him responding to it in a way that makes sense to me....it's a rare treat.  Okay mister, you are going to Pump It Up!  We arranged to meet another family with boys James' age for an afternoon of jumping.  It was perfect.  Then my parents asked if we could all go bowling together, another of James' favorite activities.  We brought Winston and Girl, and invited our neighbor Amanda at the last minute, and she brought her friend Katie.  At eight people, it was almost too much.  But we had a great time, and James figured out how to hold the ball with his fingers in the holes, instead of rolling with both hands.  As we were leaving, another kid's birthday party arrived.  There were at least 10 young kids, and as many adults chasing them around, helping them bowl.  It made a contrast to our quieter celebration, but I was glad we chose to do it in a way that made James comfortable.

Instead of a cake, this year Chris suggested putting a candle in James' birthday donut.  We all sat at the table while he sat on the heating vent in the kitchen, and we sang "Happy Birthday".  When the song ended, James stood up and blew out the candle with a big smile on his face.  I was smiling too.  Our journey as parents has been influenced by the children we've been given.  A while ago, I started praying that God would show me how to be the best mom for James, for Winston, for Michael.  Not to be the mom that all the other moms want to be, or the mom with the best facebook photos, or even the kind of mom I think I should be.  Just who they need me to be.  I swear God is speaking through my kids every day.  And I'm finally learning how to listen.

Diary of a Mom shared this facebook status today, which I feel echoes how we celebrated James' birthday:
"Today, we celebrated her eleventh birthday. She was having a blast until she became overwhelmed. When she did, she said, "I'm going into the den because there's too much here." This time, I fought the instinct to convince her to stay. This was her party. She'd enjoy it in her way.

She left her guests in the kitchen and went into the den to bounce on her peanut. When the next animal came out, I called her. She came to look, was the first one to pet it, then went back to bounce again. When the next animal came out, so did she. It worked for her. She knew what she needed. And I, finally, knew enough to understand that there was nothing sad or "disastrous" about giving it to her.

After she blew out her candles, she said to no one and everyone, "This has been my best birthday of ever!"

I dare say we're all getting the hang of it."

This I Believe

" And we are not perfect.  We say the wrong thing.  We grow and we change and the words we spoke in the past are words of which we now repent, but that is the nature of sanctification and there is no one exempt from that process."  -Fabs Harford

I believe that words are important.  I believe that what we say and what we write can affect people, and it is our choice to encourage and build people up, or tear others down with our negativity.  So often, as I was growing up, my parents would admonish me to THINK before I spoke, usually as a follow-up to something insensitive or inappropriate that had just come out of my mouth.  I would sigh in exasperation, because the challenge to evaluate all spoken words before enunciating them, and discarding the unnecessary ones, seemed too much for me.  I didn't want to stop long enough to consider my words, I wanted to get them out, to share them with others and join in.  People gave me labels: I was cynical, sarcastic, jaded.

I often wrote as I grew up, I filled notebooks with thoughts and observations.  I still wonder if anyone is ever going to read those words or if they will get thrown away at some point, without being seen by the world.  I want to have influence, I want to share my mind and my feelings, but I lack the confidence that I have anything worth saying.  Then I started a blog.  I began not knowing what to write, and the first year I think I wrote 3 entries.  My husband was the only one to read them.  The next year I posted just once. 

It was surreal to find myself, this lover of words, the mother of a non-verbal child.  I yearned for the day I would hear him speak, when we could converse and share our words and learn more about each other.  It didn't come.  The doctors and the speech therapists and the educators all told me the same word: autism.  They gave other words and phrases, like developmental delay and no imaginative play and isolated and early intervention.  We started therapy and preschool and while he struggled to find his voice, I did too.  I couldn't figure out how to tell people what I was coming to terms with, the reality of having a son with a "disability".  I found myself dropping out of the mom-petition, avoiding playdates and birthday parties and listening with jealousy as the other moms compared their children's milestones.  I wondered if my child would ever use a toilet, make a friend, learn to read or write his name, much less play on a basketball team, speak Spanish, or write a play for his third grade class to perform.

I was scared for my son to receive an official diagnosis.  I was afraid of that word, afraid of what being associated with that word might mean for him.  Would he become a target of bullies?  What other words would they call him, when they saw him riding the "short bus" that is no longer short?  How many times had I made jokes at others' expense, how many times had I declared something "retarded" in my adolescent speaking-before-thinking phase?

But I came to realize its not a word spoken by a doctor in a white coat that I am afraid of.  Its what we are teaching all of our kids about words and about how we treat people who are different from us.  And that's when I found my voice.  I began sharing my opinions and stories and family with the internet, simultaneously afraid that no one would read and afraid that everyone would.  I found, through blogging, that I could form my words, gather my thoughts, and take the time to present an idea without being offensive, hurtful, thoughtless.  Although it can often be a place where people comment without any regard for the fact that a person is on the other end, reading their words, for me, the internet is the place where I finally learned to think before speaking.  I can look at a person's profile picture, I read about their struggles and hopes, and I take my time forming a response.  My hope is that what comes out is different, so that people perceive me differently.  So that they use words like "loving" and "encouraging" to describe me.

Another benefit of speaking boldly for my son and others like him, is that he is now finding his voice.  He is speaking and learning to read; he is expressing his needs and communicating to others.  One of his favorite stories is The Lorax by Dr. Seuss.  I love to hear him loudly proclaim, "I am the Lorax...I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues."  Where I once saw myself as speaking for my silent son, now I wonder what voiceless, invisible group he will speak for.