What It's Like

Below is a picture of my 3 monkeys.  My four year old on the far right is named Jacob and he has Autism.  He's beautiful. 

I get a lot of emails and Facebook postings in regards to Autism in an attempt to educate myself about my son's condition.  I don't read all of them and I rarely watch a video. Today I did, and I am so glad. It's hard to explain how it feels to have a child with Autism and not everyone has the same experience. I find it hard to put my feelings about my son into words. I don't want to get emotional or sound flippant, I don't want pity and I don't want to make others feel uncomfortable. Questions are welcome, parenting advice is not. 

The video I watched today.......nailed it. At least for me. This father, without using spoken words, said exactly what I feel. And when he held up the notecard that says, "They came to our house.", my tears started flowing. Ugh, I hate crying sooo much! But that day those people came to my house to assess Jacob was, excuse my language, absolutely shitty!

In fact the experience inspired me to write a poem, not something you will usually get from me unless it's more like a dirty limerick. I copied my poem below this video. Will you watch it for me?  Will you read my poem? I appreciate you.

A deep, searing breath

a retching cough

rub my eyes

tuck a curl behind my ear

wipe the hot tears off my cheeks

3 faces swimming in my living room

telling me my youngest needs further assesment forAutism

I scoop up my son

I offer them coffee and fudge

he sings Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star into my ear

I squeeze him and rock him

I glance at the clock

one face asks me if I need to leave to pick up my other kids

I say no we have 30 minutes

He laughs, looks at his colleagues and says, "We rocked this.".

Another face grimaces and asks me if I have questions.

Yes.

Can you be wrong?

Can somebody else with more letters behind their surname

deliver better news?

And once my child suceeds beyond all expectations

can his records be sealed so nobody can ever label him?

I need to go to bed,

I need to drive,

I need to drink,

I need to go to the beach and feel the sand beneath my toes,

I need the sound of the surf in my ears,

I need the cold wind to bring fresh tears to my eyes.

I need to yell,

I need to kick,

I need to hit,

And I can't.

I am a mother

and I have to maintain.

I have to smile.

I have to love.

Jump through hoops.

I need help.

Vote for me, me, me!! Please.

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If ever I have made you laugh, cry in a good way, made you spit some liquid out, say, "No shit.", "Amen Sister." No way fuck that!" outloud, made you mad, offended you, or just made you smirk appreciatively please go vote for me. 


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Gracias
Grassy Ass
Thanks,
N.E.O. Mom

Farrah, My Hair Icon, R.I.P.

Can you believe it's been 2 years since she died?! This is something I wrote on my old blog "You Sure Do Have Your Hands Full". 


With all the events going on in the world right now writing about the passing of Farrah Fawcett may seem shallow. But I loved her! I was born in 1970 and any girl born of that era wanted Farrah Fawcett hair. So feathery and full. See photo of me below for why this was an unattainable dream.

It was so unfair. My mom has a perm in this picture, her hair is straight, couldn't I have straight hair? Just so that I could curl it with a curling iron like all my girlfriends. Kellie, Linda, my cousin Crissy's hair was to die for. Look at my brothers! Blonde and blue-eyed! A complete injustice!!

I loved you so much Farrah! You were on Charlie's Angels for only one season and that is the only season I ever watched.

I tried to straighten my hair with perms, a blow dryer, and once horrible chemicals that made my hair fall out in chunks. But I still held on desperately to the straight pieces of hair that didn't fall out, and combed them over the bald spots. I did this against everyone's advice until a mean 8th grade boy asked me if I had been in a fire. I finally got a haircut.

At least in my high school years the spiral perm started to take off and I was such an angry teen that I started to care less about looking like everyone else.

But I was never angry at Farrah.

I finally waved the white flag of surrender, and my hair called a truce.

And now that I am older there are actually hair products for my hair. So we are good.

Farrah 62 years is too young to die. And to suffer from such an "unglamorous" cancer. I am so sorry, you deserved to die painlessly. But you were still so beautiful. Now I can only wish to be as gorgeous as you when I am 62. Rest In Peace, now you really are an angel.