Thinking about Autism: In the Wreckage

When my son was diagnosed with autism at the age of 3, I was devastated.  I had only encountered two other people with this condition/disease/disability...I didn't even know what to call it.  The time I spent in denial and feeling defensive didn't help anything.  It didn't push me into action.  It didn't help me understand my son any better.  I felt like a ship at sea, going under in a terrible storm, with every thing, everyone, on board lost.  It took other autism moms to get me to face it all head on and start my journey of autism awareness.  And it took community and the realization that I wasn't alone to accept autism for what it is-- a part of my son that affects him but doesn't define him..  After opening myself to the greater autism community, I found out that most parents are wrecked by this diagnosis.  But I also learned that sometimes life needs a little wrecking.

I drive by houses like that sometimes.  They are falling apart and just look dangerous, and yet there are cars parked out front and lights on inside, and I wonder, Who would live there?  Why would you make improvements or cosmetic changes?  Why would you invest your money in it, or force your family to live in it?  And I think its like the abandoned "plan" for my son.  This is what I thought he was going to be, to do, to become.  But its not, and so instead of inhabiting this crap shack, I needed to just BURN THE MOTHER DOWN.  Raze it.  Instead of asking, Why is this happening?  What made him this way?  Because those questions don't serve a purpose, and might just be the complete wrong questions to ask.  The mental spiral that kills hope and joy?  THROW IT OUT.  Standing on the now empty plot of land, I finally asked the right question: What now?  It was time to take the materials I'd been given, my wonderful and amazing and unique son, and find out what he was.  Maybe he would be a new house, or maybe he'll be a grocery store or post office, or some piece of abstract art that makes everyone who looks at him think something different.  Who knows?  There is no "right" answer, no final destination that he has to arrive at, no timetable that I can impose on him.

When the doctor said that word, the dreaded "A" word, and the teachers and therapists and well-meaning friends confirmed it, the plans and dreams and goals I had laid out for my son imploded.  And thank goodness.  Now he gets to be the author and architect of his future.  Instead of pushing him to be the person I want him to be, I'm watching to see where he shows interest and ability.  I'm still presenting opportunities (come on kid, let's learn French together! It'll be fun!), but I listen when he says NO.  We have left the wreckage and are living in the new creation, the life that happens when we rebuild what was once thought to be lost forever.

This is My Son

We've all heard the phrase, "God is a mystery."  And its true.  There is so much that I don't understand, that I don't get, so much that just completely baffles me about this guy who is the Lord of the Universe.  But sometimes...sometimes the words jump out at me, and they are so true, and so in tune with the language of my heart, that the doubt is pushed aside and I fully worship this God that I love.  God sent us Jesus, His Son, and when Jesus' ministry began, when he was baptized by his cousin and started to live the life he had been sent to live, "A voice from heaven said, 'This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy!'"  Oh God.  I get you so much in that one sentence.  I know how you looked at him, I know how your heart swelled with tenderness and love because He. Was. Your. Son.  I know those feelings, because you blessed me with three sons, and each of them brings me great joy.

James

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  When I look at him, I see bright eyes and a strong body.  I see the child who made me a mom.  I see an amazing big brother.  I see a boy whose brain is wildly, wonderfully different from mine.  And maybe having that difference makes you think that he is a challenge, that my life is harder or less enjoyable because I am his mother.  Maybe you hear the word "autism" and a myriad of behaviors or disabilities cloud your vision.  Maybe you think it makes him less...less of a person, less important, less intelligent.  But you would be wrong, on all counts.  Because I consider it my great privilege to watch and raise this child, to learn from him just as much as he is learning from me.  Because I chose a while back to CELEBRATE my son, to cheer his accomplishments, at whatever rate they happened.  To be his safe haven in a world that doesn't "get" him.  To cherish every hug, every kiss, every cuddle. (to pause blogging and read a book about starfighters with him)  To stop comparing him to other kids, and focus on what makes him uniquely HIM.

James and Winston

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  Because my first child gave me a new sense of purpose, a title and a role that I never thought I would be good at.  So I said, Let's do it again.  And he was worth the uncomfortable pregnancy, the expansion that took place in my body so that it would never return to its previous glory.  He is bright, and open, and full of life.  He is a performer, who will repeat himself over and over and over if he gets applause or even a laugh the first time.  He loves to watch videos of himself, and finds them more entertaining than any DVD in our collection.  He is bossy, and a perfectionist, and can be very emotional.  I consider it to be my great privilege to watch and raise this child, who learns from his big brother every day, who wraps his arms around me and says, "Oh Mommy, I love you!  You are so beautiful!  Hug me tighter!"  Who takes off his clothes at any opportunity, and shows the world what God gave him.

Winston, Michael, and James in a fire truck

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  From the first time I held him in my arms, I wanted him to be mine, and mine alone.  But he has shown me how much room a human heart has, space for two moms and two dads, for two brothers and three sisters, for cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents ad infinitum.  When I look at him, I see her.  I see his first mom, the one who gave him life, who left him with me, who has no idea just how amazing her child is.  And when I look into his blue eyes, the beautiful eyes they share, I pray for her.  I pray that she is safe, that no news is good news, that someday she will come back to him.  So she can see how much he loves trucks and action, but also what a tender nurturer he has become.  So she can see his short little legs pumping and swinging to keep up with his big brothers.  So she can experience his smile, his frequent kisses, his possessive occupation of laps.  I consider it to be my great privilege to watch and raise this child, to soak in all these moments and tendencies, to watch over him in her absence.

These are my dearly loved sons, who bring me GREAT JOY everyday.

A Good Match

I call this one "Baby Faces"

Its nerve-wracking, that whole dating thing.  Isn't it?  Does he like me as much as I like him?  Does he like me a little too much and maybe I'm just not really feeling it?  Will we last?  Does he love me enough?  Is love enough?  Is it even worth jumping in, when you watch your parents or your recently married friends struggle, give up, set TNT around their marriage and just blow the whole thing up?  I don't miss those days.  I don't miss the uncertainty and the sense of how important it was to choose correctly.  And what was supposed to guide me?  Should I listen to the advice of friends?  Should I go with my "gut"?  Is there such thing as a soul mate...and is he The One?  If our relationship is nothing like a movie or CW show, does that mean its wrong? (*to clarify, it actually means you are doing something VERY right...the truth is way better than fiction)  And in the end, and how many of you married folks can say a big Amen to this, the things you were looking at while you were dating end up not being as important after the I do's, and if you are lucky and have made a good match, you will find a depth of love and tenderness and faithfulness that you couldn't even imagine existed before you were husband and wife.  And nine years later, I can look at this man beside me and say YES, we are a good match.  You and me together make a TEAM...we knock out the dishes, we take turns cooking dinner, you bathe the kids and I dress them, and on the rare night that they are all asleep before 9:30, sitting on the couch together and watching a movie is the absolute best thing ever.  He goes out every day and makes the money to pay for the house that I clean, the groceries I buy, the clothes and games and books for the kids that I spend all day with.  We challenge each other and grow together, we share ideas with each other (again, on the rare occasion that we can talk without screaming over four little voices).  He encourages me, tells me I can do it when the self-doubt reaches crippling mode.  I give him the once over before he leaves to make sure clothes are on right-side-out and collars are laid down evenly.  Despite the uncertainty I felt as a newlywed, the intervening years have made me appreciate how well we go together.

Three generations: Linda, Chris, and Winston

So then, when you start adding children to the mix, and you wonder how many?  And what will they be like?  Will we still be a good match?  Will they fit into our family?  When you give birth to a child, these questions are small and easily answered.  Of course he fits here.  He looks just like me.  He laughs like his dad.  He shares his grandpa's interest in moving little figures around in different patterns FOR HOURS.  He is undeniably ours.  But what if you go outside the box (no dirty pun intended) to get your kid?  What if you adopt from Ethiopia, a beautiful chocolate baby who requires homework and training to care for?  What if you become a foster parent and open yourself up to all the issues and problems that mal-treated children bring with them?  Then the doubt comes, and it reminds you so much of high school and dating and crushes, but its so different at the same time because its children who are joining your family and living in your home, and there is no divorce once the judge bangs that gavel and a new birth certificate is printed up.  Will she love me as much as she loved her first mom?  Does he wish we hadn't brought him here, made him one of us?  Is love enough?  And this is what I know, having passed from the hypothetical to the practical, transitioning from the foster mom to the mom (no qualifiers).  Just like I made a list of qualities that my future husband needed to have (not anything crazy, just a few items like having the same religion), a child who comes to our family has to fit within a parameter in order to be a good match.  We got lucky the first time around.  We got Michael, a sweet, angel baby who looks just like us and was our son (and James and Winston's brother) from day one, and I learned that sometimes your soul mate weighs six pounds and wakes up every three hours.  He doesn't know anything other than living with us, nor does he find it strange that he lives with his brothers but only sees his sisters a few times a year.  We rolled the dice a second time, not knowing if this had been a fluke, if it was possible to find, in this system of broken children and hopeful parents, another good match.  But we did.  A little girl has come to stay for awhile (oh, how we love the vagueness of caseworkers, but honestly, there is no way to know what the future, or even next Tuesday, holds for her).  And she runs around with the boys and learns their songs and teaches them to play with guns.  She yells and laughs and jumps on the couch.  She practices karate moves and plays Fight.  She calls me mom, and a few days ago, asked why she isn't in our family photo, the one we took a year ago, long before we met.  And I see, the way I see with Chris, that we are a good match.

Could you say no to that face?

Its not without challenges, don't get me wrong.  But my marriage has plenty of challenges too.  That's what happens when two imperfect people come together and live on top of each other and eat all the Oreos and knock over piles of folded laundry (am I talking about the hubs or the kids?  I can't even tell).  Its why we filled out a profile, we will consider a child with this, we cannot take a child with that.  Right now we can only handle little kids...later, we hope to make room for some older ones.  And our family worker knows us, knows what kind of kid would do well here, and what kids will do better in a different family.  It doesn't mean that it is wrong.  It doesn't mean we made a mistake.  This is why love exists in the first place, to overcome those difficulties.  And love is enough.  Big, perfect, fearless, humble, compassionate love.  It moves mountains.  It changes lives.  It makes strangers into a family.

Moses and Foster Care

When we finally took the leap and started our paperwork to become foster parents, Chris and I realized that we needed to explain what was happening to our kids.  We needed them to understand how our family was going to change, who the new kids would be, why they might leave and never come back.  Because foster care is not just my job or Chris' job...our whole family participates.  And while Chris and I spent 36 hours in training classes just to get licensed, James and Winston spent four weekends playing with their grandparents, oblivious to the upcoming changes.  I thought and thought and researched and researched, trying to find a clear, simple way to tell our four and two year old sons that they were going to become siblings in a non-traditional way.  Finally, one night during our story time, I found what I was looking for.  I turned the page in the Bear Bible to the story of Moses.

 

"Moses was in danger, he was hiding in a stream.

A princess came to take a bath, and heard a baby scream.

She hugged that tiny baby, and carried him back home,

And loved that tiny baby, as if he were her own.

Just like Baby Moses, we are always in God's care.

He will love and keep us, now and always, Tiny Bear."

 

It was perfect: simple, to the point, and Biblical!  It even rhymed.  And I was struck for the first time that Moses was kind of the first recorded foster kid.  He saw his mom, he knew who his siblings were, but he was raised in another home to keep him safe.  That's exactly what we're doing, I told the boys.  There are more baby Moses' out there, and Mommy and Daddy want to help them be safe and grow up big and strong, just like you.

 

Then we got our first placement, and it was a baby boy.  A real, live Baby Moses to complete the explanation.  I held him when he cried.  I gave him medicine to soothe his aching body.  I bathed him and changed him and bought him clothes.  And I came to a wondrous, surprising realization about parenting:  he is not mine.  Of course, it was very literal at first, because every other week, I dropped him off with the social worker to visit with his parents.  But even after they stopped coming to see him and the judge rescinded their rights and we moved to an adoption, I knew that he wasn't mine, any more than the boys I gave birth to.  My children aren't my property.  They aren't an extension of myself or my husband.  They are little people, little versions of the self they will become someday, and I'm given the chance to be their mom, to watch over them and care for them, for a while.  I'm not perfect at what I do, I yell and lose my temper and forget to bring the diaper bag (always when a huge poop is imminent, too).  These boys came from God, and they are always in his care.  And when they no longer need me to wipe their tushies or rock them to sleep, they'll start to pull away and eventually leave my home.  This realization made me cherish our time together.  It made me stop trying to do, do, do, to push them to enjoy the things I enjoy and dislike what I dislike.  I started looking at who they really are, and finding ways to cultivate, rather than dictate that.

 

The story of Moses stuck with me.  It was the lesson in the 2s class I taught the weekend we took custody of Michael.  It was the sermon preached the first Sunday we came to church with our new placement.  Its the story I try to impart to all the foster kids I meet.  He was just like you, I tell them.  He could have been killed as a baby if his sister and mother hadn't made arrangements for him, and his new mom hadn't had compassion on him.  But that's not the end of his story, and its not the end of yours, either.  Because when he became a man, capable of making decisions for himself, Moses came back to his people, and he spoke for them and he cried out to God for them, and he led them out of slavery.  You can do that too.  You can come back to this place of hopelessness and confusion where you live right now, and you can lead other kids to safety.  You can break their chains because you know exactly where they are bound.  Your childhood doesn't determine the rest of your life.  I know this, because its my story too.