Re-posting a video made by a fellow Autism parent, Lou Melgarejo. It's a simple video, there is no talking, just a song by Cold Play as the background music.. In the video, Lou goes through a series of flash cards, with the words on the flash cards screaming louder than the loudest voice. Watch it, learn from it, spread Autism awareness and make a difference.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
let him be a boy
Life with Autism is not something I chose - it was given to me by God, Universe, or just simply by the fact that my son, Will, was born with it. I struggle with Autism every single day and it breaks my heart because I see Will's struggles and unable to do anything about them. I try to be positive all the time and focus on how much he has grown and all the possibilities ahead, but, the reality is still with us every day, and Autism is my pain that never, ever goes away. It gets better at times, but it never goes away completely.
Some of us, however, chose to share a life with Autism. It's not an easy life, it has a lot of challenges and hassles that typical families never experience. For example, Will is going to be 6 next week, and we are still working on farm animals sounds: Will can identify a cow and that it makes a 'moooo' sound, and that's an achievement for us. Will can ride a 16-inch wheel bike by himself, with training wheels, and that's an achievement for us. Will can hold a pen and make horizontal and vertical lines, 4-5 in a row, and that's an achievement for us. Will can focus his attention for more than 30 seconds, and that's an achievement for us.
Ed, my husband and Will's stepfather, and I are a team, and it's Will's potential and possibilities that keep us going. While I am often afraid of Will's failures because I view them as my own, Ed is not afraid of them. He says that when he looks at Will, he sees a boy with a big heart and lots of potential vs. an Autistic boy. Ed is often the one who pushes Will to new things, while I stand behind and worry and pray that Will doesn't fail.
It's a tough balance between protecting Will from getting hurt emotionally or physically and letting him grow. Any mother would have this issue, especially when it comes to your special needs child. And, when fall into the overprotective mommy mode, Ed steps in and takes over for a bit as I move to the side and watch.
I do recognize that as a mother, I am overprotective... I just can't help it. Ed is famous around here for telling me "Let him be a boy!" when it comes to Will. As a father of a typical 12-year-old boy, Ed is often the one who is able to give me that reality check that not every single "wrong" thing that Will does is because of Autism -- a lot of it is just Will being a boy... silly, mischievous, slightly devious, calculating, and funny. My boy.
The reality is that I will never stop being overprotective - that's just one character flaw, perhaps, that is part of my DNA. But, it's an incredible, comforting feeling when you know that when you are way overboard, someone you trust can step in, take over, and do what's best for your child. And for that, I am forever grateful.
Some of us, however, chose to share a life with Autism. It's not an easy life, it has a lot of challenges and hassles that typical families never experience. For example, Will is going to be 6 next week, and we are still working on farm animals sounds: Will can identify a cow and that it makes a 'moooo' sound, and that's an achievement for us. Will can ride a 16-inch wheel bike by himself, with training wheels, and that's an achievement for us. Will can hold a pen and make horizontal and vertical lines, 4-5 in a row, and that's an achievement for us. Will can focus his attention for more than 30 seconds, and that's an achievement for us.
Ed, my husband and Will's stepfather, and I are a team, and it's Will's potential and possibilities that keep us going. While I am often afraid of Will's failures because I view them as my own, Ed is not afraid of them. He says that when he looks at Will, he sees a boy with a big heart and lots of potential vs. an Autistic boy. Ed is often the one who pushes Will to new things, while I stand behind and worry and pray that Will doesn't fail.
It's a tough balance between protecting Will from getting hurt emotionally or physically and letting him grow. Any mother would have this issue, especially when it comes to your special needs child. And, when fall into the overprotective mommy mode, Ed steps in and takes over for a bit as I move to the side and watch.
I do recognize that as a mother, I am overprotective... I just can't help it. Ed is famous around here for telling me "Let him be a boy!" when it comes to Will. As a father of a typical 12-year-old boy, Ed is often the one who is able to give me that reality check that not every single "wrong" thing that Will does is because of Autism -- a lot of it is just Will being a boy... silly, mischievous, slightly devious, calculating, and funny. My boy.
The reality is that I will never stop being overprotective - that's just one character flaw, perhaps, that is part of my DNA. But, it's an incredible, comforting feeling when you know that when you are way overboard, someone you trust can step in, take over, and do what's best for your child. And for that, I am forever grateful.
Friday, October 21, 2011
On Wish Lists...
As the holidays approach, I've been asked to start working on a Wish List for me, Ed, and the kids. Since this is Victoria's first Christmas, and both Will and Jordan will be here for the holiday, we will all be congregating at our house to celebrate the occasion.
The truth is that we do not really have wish lists. Tangible things have lost their meaning a long time ago, and, those that do serve a purpose get budgeted for and purchased when needed. We work hard to make that possible, and, one way or another, we make it happen.
Victoria already has everything she needs as she inherited so much from Will and got a lot of hand-me-downs from my friends. As for Will, he still doesn't have a concept of Christmas as it is way too abstract for him to comprehend. So, we use Christmas as the time to research the latest developmental Autism toys that would benefit him and put money aside for camps and programs to help him grow. Jordan is 12, so that means it's all about Wii and games, but, we are going to try to make it more about learning, school themes, and family time this year.
So, that leaves me and Ed. I wrote a list of things that Ed either has mentioned in the past or the things I know he would appreciate. But, for the most part, I know that he just wants more hours in a day, more sleep and less commute.
As for me, I want more time, too. I want more time so that I can paint a painting of Will walking on a farm, or him running on the beach in Virginia Beach. My art supplies have been waiting patiently and I hope to get to them. Someday.
I want a vegetable garden, so that I can grow tomatoes, cucumbers, dill and green onions. If all is well, I am going to have a garden this spring. We have to re-arrange some stuff in the backyard to make room for it, but it's doable. I can't wait.
I wish we could all travel to Russia soon so that Ed could see my roots, Will could see the church he was christened in, and Victoria could meet her great grand parents.
I want my sister and I to be closer, physically and emotionally. I know that she's been through a tough time, some to her own fault, but, nevertheless, I worry about her and miss her dearly. I wish I could visit her in England and give her a big hug. She is my little sister, I helped raise her from day 1, and, just like me, she is trying to make her life far away from home, in a different country. It is not easy.
I wish my mom had more strength and independence to move on with her life as a single person. I wish that she stopped looking back and living in the past. I wish she realized that we cannot change the past, but we do have a shot at changing the present for a better future. I also wish that she found someone to help her with her computer so that she could see the pictures and videos of her grandchildren.
I want Will's grandparents (both Russian and American) to play a more active role in his life... It doesn't matter whether you are an ocean apart, or the Bay Bridge apart, divorced parents or married, if there's a will, there's a way.. If there is Will, there's a way.
I wish Will's ABA therapy was still an option for us. I wish his therapists would find time to continue working with him on the side... I wish there was a way that we could bring Joanna back. I wonder if Will ever thinks of her, wondering where she went or why she is not coming back.
I wish that we would find a way for Will to express himself... I wish that one day he could tell us or "tell" us what is on his mind.
Santa, can you hear me?
The truth is that we do not really have wish lists. Tangible things have lost their meaning a long time ago, and, those that do serve a purpose get budgeted for and purchased when needed. We work hard to make that possible, and, one way or another, we make it happen.
Victoria already has everything she needs as she inherited so much from Will and got a lot of hand-me-downs from my friends. As for Will, he still doesn't have a concept of Christmas as it is way too abstract for him to comprehend. So, we use Christmas as the time to research the latest developmental Autism toys that would benefit him and put money aside for camps and programs to help him grow. Jordan is 12, so that means it's all about Wii and games, but, we are going to try to make it more about learning, school themes, and family time this year.
So, that leaves me and Ed. I wrote a list of things that Ed either has mentioned in the past or the things I know he would appreciate. But, for the most part, I know that he just wants more hours in a day, more sleep and less commute.
As for me, I want more time, too. I want more time so that I can paint a painting of Will walking on a farm, or him running on the beach in Virginia Beach. My art supplies have been waiting patiently and I hope to get to them. Someday.
I want a vegetable garden, so that I can grow tomatoes, cucumbers, dill and green onions. If all is well, I am going to have a garden this spring. We have to re-arrange some stuff in the backyard to make room for it, but it's doable. I can't wait.
I wish we could all travel to Russia soon so that Ed could see my roots, Will could see the church he was christened in, and Victoria could meet her great grand parents.
I want my sister and I to be closer, physically and emotionally. I know that she's been through a tough time, some to her own fault, but, nevertheless, I worry about her and miss her dearly. I wish I could visit her in England and give her a big hug. She is my little sister, I helped raise her from day 1, and, just like me, she is trying to make her life far away from home, in a different country. It is not easy.
I wish my mom had more strength and independence to move on with her life as a single person. I wish that she stopped looking back and living in the past. I wish she realized that we cannot change the past, but we do have a shot at changing the present for a better future. I also wish that she found someone to help her with her computer so that she could see the pictures and videos of her grandchildren.
I want Will's grandparents (both Russian and American) to play a more active role in his life... It doesn't matter whether you are an ocean apart, or the Bay Bridge apart, divorced parents or married, if there's a will, there's a way.. If there is Will, there's a way.
I wish Will's ABA therapy was still an option for us. I wish his therapists would find time to continue working with him on the side... I wish there was a way that we could bring Joanna back. I wonder if Will ever thinks of her, wondering where she went or why she is not coming back.
I wish that we would find a way for Will to express himself... I wish that one day he could tell us or "tell" us what is on his mind.
Santa, can you hear me?
Monday, October 17, 2011
"Parenting, I’ve come to understand, is about loving my child today."
"...NOBODY asks dragon parents for advice; we’re too scary. Our grief is primal and unwieldy and embarrassing. The certainties that most parents face are irrelevant to us, and frankly, kind of silly. Our narratives are grisly, the stakes impossibly high. Conversations about which seizure medication is most effective or how to feed children who have trouble swallowing are tantamount to breathing fire at a dinner party or on the playground. Like Dr. Spock suddenly possessed by Al Gore, we offer inconvenient truths and foretell disaster... "
A friend shared ths article with me, and it moved me to tears. It's not about Autism, in particular, but it's about raising and loving a child who has an illness with no cure. I love every word in this article because it's true. Some things are the things I've exprienced before so many times, and it made me feel completely alone and depressed. Self-help, self-motivation and faith have become key in this journey because you cannot make it without being positive.
When I read this article, it struck a chord with me and reminded me that there are so many of us out there, feeling depressed and sad and yet find the strength and faith to persevere, to never give up, and to cherish every moment. It's articles like this one that make me a better parent.
I am posting a copy of the article below.
By EMILY RAPP
"Notes from a Dragon Mom"
Published: October 15, 2011
Emily Rapp is the author of “Poster Child: A Memoir,” and a professor of creative writing at the Santa Fe University of Art and Design.
Santa Fe, N.M.
"MY son, Ronan, looks at me and raises one eyebrow. His eyes are bright and focused. Ronan means “little seal” in Irish and it suits him.
I want to stop here, before the dreadful hitch: my son is 18 months old and will likely die before his third birthday. Ronan was born with Tay-Sachs, a rare genetic disorder. He is slowly regressing into a vegetative state. He’ll become paralyzed, experience seizures, lose all of his senses before he dies. There is no treatment and no cure.
How do you parent without a net, without a future, knowing that you will lose your child, bit by torturous bit? Depressing? Sure. But not without wisdom, not without a profound understanding of the human experience or without hard-won lessons, forged through grief and helplessness and deeply committed love about how to be not just a mother or a father but how to be human.
Parenting advice is, by its nature, future-directed. I know. I read all the parenting magazines. During my pregnancy, I devoured every parenting guide I could find. My husband and I thought about a lot of questions they raised: will breast-feeding enhance his brain function? Will music class improve his cognitive skills? Will the right preschool help him get into the right college? I made lists. I planned and plotted and hoped. Future, future, future.
We never thought about how we might parent a child for whom there is no future. The prenatal test I took for Tay-Sachs was negative; our genetic counselor didn’t think I needed the test, since I’m not Jewish and Tay-Sachs is thought to be a greater risk among Ashkenazi Jews. Being somewhat obsessive about such matters, I had it done anyway, twice. Both times the results were negative.
Our parenting plans, our lists, the advice I read before Ronan’s birth make little sense now. No matter what we do for Ronan — choose organic or non-organic food;cloth diapers or disposable; attachment parenting or sleep training — he will die. All the decisions that once mattered so much, don’t.
All parents want their children to prosper, to matter. We enroll our children in music class or take them to Mommy and Me swim class because we hope they will manifest some fabulous talent that will set them — and therefore us, the proud parents — apart. Traditional parenting naturally presumes a future where the child outlives the parent and ideally becomes successful, perhaps even achieves something spectacular. Amy Chua’s “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” is only the latest handbook for parents hoping to guide their children along this path. It’s animated by the idea that good, careful investments in your children will pay off in the form of happy endings, rich futures.
But I have abandoned the future, and with it any visions of Ronan’s scoring a perfect SAT or sprinting across a stage with a Harvard diploma in his hand. We’re not waiting for Ronan to make us proud. We don’t expect future returns on our investment. We’ve chucked the graphs of developmental milestones and we avoid parenting magazines at the pediatrician’s office. Ronan has given us a terrible freedom from expectations, a magical world where there are no goals, no prizes to win, no outcomes to monitor, discuss, compare.
But the day-to-day is often peaceful, even blissful. This was my day with my son: cuddling, feedings, naps. He can watch television if he wants to; he can have pudding and cheesecake for every meal. We are a very permissive household. We do our best for our kid, feed him fresh food, brush his teeth, make sure he’s clean and warm and well rested and ... healthy? Well, no. The only task here is to love, and we tell him we love him, not caring that he doesn’t understand the words. We encourage him to do what he can, though unlike us he is without ego or ambition.
Ronan won’t prosper or succeed in the way we have come to understand this term in our culture; he will never walk or say “Mama,” and I will never be a tiger mom. The mothers and fathers of terminally ill children are something else entirely. Our goals are simple and terrible: to help our children live with minimal discomfort and maximum dignity. We will not launch our children into a bright and promising future, but see them into early graves. We will prepare to lose them and then, impossibly, to live on after that gutting loss. This requires a new ferocity, a new way of thinking, a new animal. We are dragon parents: fierce and loyal and loving as hell. Our experiences have taught us how to parent for the here and now, for the sake of parenting, for the humanity implicit in the act itself, though this runs counter to traditional wisdom and advice.
NOBODY asks dragon parents for advice; we’re too scary. Our grief is primal and unwieldy and embarrassing. The certainties that most parents face are irrelevant to us, and frankly, kind of silly. Our narratives are grisly, the stakes impossibly high. Conversations about which medication is most effective or how to feed children who have trouble swallowing are tantamount to breathing fire at a dinner party or on the playground. Like Dr. Spock suddenly possessed by Al Gore, we offer inconvenient truths and foretell disaster.
And there’s this: parents who, particularly in this country, are expected to be superhuman, to raise children who outpace all their peers, don’t want to see what we see. The long truth about their children, about themselves: that none of it is forever.
I would walk through a tunnel of fire if it would save my son. I would take my chances on a stripped battlefield with a sling and a rock à la David and Goliath if it would make a difference. But it won’t. I can roar all I want about the unfairness of this ridiculous disease, but the facts remain. What I can do is protect my son from as much pain as possible, and then finally do the hardest thing of all, a thing most parents will thankfully never have to do: I will love him to the end of his life, and then I will let him go.
But today Ronan is alive and his breath smells like sweet rice. I can see my reflection in his greenish-gold eyes. I am a reflection of him and not the other way around, and this is, I believe, as it should be. This is a love story, and like all great love stories, it is a story of loss. Parenting, I’ve come to understand, is about loving my child today. Now. In fact, for any parent, anywhere, that’s all there is."
By EMILY RAPP
Published: October 15, 2011
A friend shared ths article with me, and it moved me to tears. It's not about Autism, in particular, but it's about raising and loving a child who has an illness with no cure. I love every word in this article because it's true. Some things are the things I've exprienced before so many times, and it made me feel completely alone and depressed. Self-help, self-motivation and faith have become key in this journey because you cannot make it without being positive.
When I read this article, it struck a chord with me and reminded me that there are so many of us out there, feeling depressed and sad and yet find the strength and faith to persevere, to never give up, and to cherish every moment. It's articles like this one that make me a better parent.
I am posting a copy of the article below.
*****************************
By EMILY RAPP
"Notes from a Dragon Mom"
Published: October 15, 2011
Emily Rapp is the author of “Poster Child: A Memoir,” and a professor of creative writing at the Santa Fe University of Art and Design.
Santa Fe, N.M.
"MY son, Ronan, looks at me and raises one eyebrow. His eyes are bright and focused. Ronan means “little seal” in Irish and it suits him.
I want to stop here, before the dreadful hitch: my son is 18 months old and will likely die before his third birthday. Ronan was born with Tay-Sachs, a rare genetic disorder. He is slowly regressing into a vegetative state. He’ll become paralyzed, experience seizures, lose all of his senses before he dies. There is no treatment and no cure.
How do you parent without a net, without a future, knowing that you will lose your child, bit by torturous bit? Depressing? Sure. But not without wisdom, not without a profound understanding of the human experience or without hard-won lessons, forged through grief and helplessness and deeply committed love about how to be not just a mother or a father but how to be human.
Parenting advice is, by its nature, future-directed. I know. I read all the parenting magazines. During my pregnancy, I devoured every parenting guide I could find. My husband and I thought about a lot of questions they raised: will breast-feeding enhance his brain function? Will music class improve his cognitive skills? Will the right preschool help him get into the right college? I made lists. I planned and plotted and hoped. Future, future, future.
We never thought about how we might parent a child for whom there is no future. The prenatal test I took for Tay-Sachs was negative; our genetic counselor didn’t think I needed the test, since I’m not Jewish and Tay-Sachs is thought to be a greater risk among Ashkenazi Jews. Being somewhat obsessive about such matters, I had it done anyway, twice. Both times the results were negative.
Our parenting plans, our lists, the advice I read before Ronan’s birth make little sense now. No matter what we do for Ronan — choose organic or non-organic food;cloth diapers or disposable; attachment parenting or sleep training — he will die. All the decisions that once mattered so much, don’t.
All parents want their children to prosper, to matter. We enroll our children in music class or take them to Mommy and Me swim class because we hope they will manifest some fabulous talent that will set them — and therefore us, the proud parents — apart. Traditional parenting naturally presumes a future where the child outlives the parent and ideally becomes successful, perhaps even achieves something spectacular. Amy Chua’s “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” is only the latest handbook for parents hoping to guide their children along this path. It’s animated by the idea that good, careful investments in your children will pay off in the form of happy endings, rich futures.
But I have abandoned the future, and with it any visions of Ronan’s scoring a perfect SAT or sprinting across a stage with a Harvard diploma in his hand. We’re not waiting for Ronan to make us proud. We don’t expect future returns on our investment. We’ve chucked the graphs of developmental milestones and we avoid parenting magazines at the pediatrician’s office. Ronan has given us a terrible freedom from expectations, a magical world where there are no goals, no prizes to win, no outcomes to monitor, discuss, compare.
But the day-to-day is often peaceful, even blissful. This was my day with my son: cuddling, feedings, naps. He can watch television if he wants to; he can have pudding and cheesecake for every meal. We are a very permissive household. We do our best for our kid, feed him fresh food, brush his teeth, make sure he’s clean and warm and well rested and ... healthy? Well, no. The only task here is to love, and we tell him we love him, not caring that he doesn’t understand the words. We encourage him to do what he can, though unlike us he is without ego or ambition.
Ronan won’t prosper or succeed in the way we have come to understand this term in our culture; he will never walk or say “Mama,” and I will never be a tiger mom. The mothers and fathers of terminally ill children are something else entirely. Our goals are simple and terrible: to help our children live with minimal discomfort and maximum dignity. We will not launch our children into a bright and promising future, but see them into early graves. We will prepare to lose them and then, impossibly, to live on after that gutting loss. This requires a new ferocity, a new way of thinking, a new animal. We are dragon parents: fierce and loyal and loving as hell. Our experiences have taught us how to parent for the here and now, for the sake of parenting, for the humanity implicit in the act itself, though this runs counter to traditional wisdom and advice.
NOBODY asks dragon parents for advice; we’re too scary. Our grief is primal and unwieldy and embarrassing. The certainties that most parents face are irrelevant to us, and frankly, kind of silly. Our narratives are grisly, the stakes impossibly high. Conversations about which medication is most effective or how to feed children who have trouble swallowing are tantamount to breathing fire at a dinner party or on the playground. Like Dr. Spock suddenly possessed by Al Gore, we offer inconvenient truths and foretell disaster.
And there’s this: parents who, particularly in this country, are expected to be superhuman, to raise children who outpace all their peers, don’t want to see what we see. The long truth about their children, about themselves: that none of it is forever.
I would walk through a tunnel of fire if it would save my son. I would take my chances on a stripped battlefield with a sling and a rock à la David and Goliath if it would make a difference. But it won’t. I can roar all I want about the unfairness of this ridiculous disease, but the facts remain. What I can do is protect my son from as much pain as possible, and then finally do the hardest thing of all, a thing most parents will thankfully never have to do: I will love him to the end of his life, and then I will let him go.
But today Ronan is alive and his breath smells like sweet rice. I can see my reflection in his greenish-gold eyes. I am a reflection of him and not the other way around, and this is, I believe, as it should be. This is a love story, and like all great love stories, it is a story of loss. Parenting, I’ve come to understand, is about loving my child today. Now. In fact, for any parent, anywhere, that’s all there is."
By EMILY RAPP
Published: October 15, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Pumpkin Patch at the Wegmeyer Farms, VA
Today, we went to the Wegmeyer Farms in Hamilton, VA for pumpkin picking and hay riding. This is our second year in a row going there, so it may as well be our new annual family tradition.
The place is lovely and not crowded, the staff is friendly, the views are great, and it just feels like you are on a real farm, in the middle of nowhere, which, technically, you are. I love picking your own pumpkins and having to cut the stems to get your "own" best pumpkin. Last year, we went a little earlier than this year, so there were a lot of pumpkins to pick from. This year, we were a bit late, so most of the pumpkins were already cut and were just sitting there all over the farm field, waiting to be picked. Last year, it was just the three of us - Ed, Will and I (pregnant with Victoria). This year, Victoria was with us, and was very much into the whole experience, trying to touch the pumpkins and hay.
Below are some pictures from 2010 and 2011.. I like to compare them because Will has grown and changed so much. I guess I don't realize it until I look at those pictures side by side. Last year, he was my little boy. This year, he is my little man and a big brother to Victoria. Still, one thing hasn't changed -- he is still the cutest, warmest, handsomest little man in the whole world :-) Enjoy!
October 2010
October 2011
The place is lovely and not crowded, the staff is friendly, the views are great, and it just feels like you are on a real farm, in the middle of nowhere, which, technically, you are. I love picking your own pumpkins and having to cut the stems to get your "own" best pumpkin. Last year, we went a little earlier than this year, so there were a lot of pumpkins to pick from. This year, we were a bit late, so most of the pumpkins were already cut and were just sitting there all over the farm field, waiting to be picked. Last year, it was just the three of us - Ed, Will and I (pregnant with Victoria). This year, Victoria was with us, and was very much into the whole experience, trying to touch the pumpkins and hay.
Below are some pictures from 2010 and 2011.. I like to compare them because Will has grown and changed so much. I guess I don't realize it until I look at those pictures side by side. Last year, he was my little boy. This year, he is my little man and a big brother to Victoria. Still, one thing hasn't changed -- he is still the cutest, warmest, handsomest little man in the whole world :-) Enjoy!
October 2010
October 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The life we live...
The kids have been riding us hard for the last few weeks. Victoria has been teething and whining non-stop, Will is still adjusting to being a big brother, and everyone in general is being overly demanding, including the dog. Weekends have become even tougher because we are all in the family room at the same time... Will is probably trying to figure out where/what we are going/doing next that involves him (and not Victoria), Victoria wants to be held and talked to and made funny faces to or get into something she is too small or young for, Ed wants to watch TV and relax, and I want everyone to get along, have fun, and be laid back and easy-going. I know, what I want is a fantasy.
On top of it all, we haven't gotten much sleep in the last several days. Will and Victoria seem to have teamed up to keep us up all night, taking turns. 2am wake-up calls from Will's room and then Victoria joining in with her crying for three straight nights have taken a toll on Ed and me. We started going to bed at 8:30pm so that we could get some sleep before all hell breaks loose.
Today, I read on my Facebook newsfeed that many parents with Autistic children have been complaining about their children not sleeping the last few nights.. Many older, veteran Autism parents said that it's because of the full moon. Supposedly, children in general are very sensitive when it comes to the lunar calendar, and especially the ones on the Autism spectrum. So there we have it -- we have a potential explanation to the no-sleep mystery at our house, so I guess I have to add lunar calendar to my watch list.
I really wish our families lived closer to us... My side being in Russia and Ed's side being in NY makes things tough as it's just the two of us all the time.
One funny thing is that because Victoria has been whining so much, Will started imitating her whining.. While it's annoying right now, I am hoping that once she starts talking, he will imitate that, too? I can hope.
Well, it's Wednesday, and Ed already asked me what the weather is supposed to be like this weekend. I laughed because I knew he was already planning this weekend in his head. The good news is that it's going to be a sunny, cool weekend. Another good news is that there's a new exhibit at the Newseum in Washington DC - Pictures of the Year. So, if all is well and we make it that far, we will be heading to DC.
...and that's the life we live.
On top of it all, we haven't gotten much sleep in the last several days. Will and Victoria seem to have teamed up to keep us up all night, taking turns. 2am wake-up calls from Will's room and then Victoria joining in with her crying for three straight nights have taken a toll on Ed and me. We started going to bed at 8:30pm so that we could get some sleep before all hell breaks loose.
Today, I read on my Facebook newsfeed that many parents with Autistic children have been complaining about their children not sleeping the last few nights.. Many older, veteran Autism parents said that it's because of the full moon. Supposedly, children in general are very sensitive when it comes to the lunar calendar, and especially the ones on the Autism spectrum. So there we have it -- we have a potential explanation to the no-sleep mystery at our house, so I guess I have to add lunar calendar to my watch list.
I really wish our families lived closer to us... My side being in Russia and Ed's side being in NY makes things tough as it's just the two of us all the time.
One funny thing is that because Victoria has been whining so much, Will started imitating her whining.. While it's annoying right now, I am hoping that once she starts talking, he will imitate that, too? I can hope.
Well, it's Wednesday, and Ed already asked me what the weather is supposed to be like this weekend. I laughed because I knew he was already planning this weekend in his head. The good news is that it's going to be a sunny, cool weekend. Another good news is that there's a new exhibit at the Newseum in Washington DC - Pictures of the Year. So, if all is well and we make it that far, we will be heading to DC.
...and that's the life we live.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
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