Positively (Im)perfect

Around here, Autism Spectrum Disorder, Level 1—also called Asperger’s Syndrome—is a person. Here, Autism awareness is simply a part of everyday life. It’s the gift of someone who reflects the brilliance & creativity of the Creator—with his own intricate thoughts & experiences, joys & disappointments, dreams & imaginings, strengths, & weaknesses—just like every other person. It’s learning how to think in a new way, communicate in a new way. It’s learning how to empathize, understand, react, & see in new ways. It’s big marvels & little worries. It’s little marvels & big worries. It’s once-overwhelming unseens that are now just our daily normal, like the trek back & forth to ABA therapy that became a surprising time of family bonding. It’s the usual meetings & phone calls. It’s the pivotal moments of mama bear advocacy, where—despite the fire in my belly—I wonder if I’ll ever be strong enough, equipped enough, educated enough, effective

One year ago I wrote a post on the reality of wrinkles. Fast forward 1 year, when life has heaped on more joy, stress, suffering, learning, more freckles-turned-age-spots, and of course, more wrinkles. I’d be lying if I said wasn’t still tempted by sparkly, smoothing filters, products & treatments touting age-defying magic, the pressure to hit the pause button on this gradual process of aging. But I also know that this is temptation over truth. Illusion over reality. Superficiality and pride over authenticity & wisdom enough to consider the long view. So I’m reminding myself of truth today: my life-lines are the visible manifestation of the sometimes invisible crucible of life experience — a lifetime of moments layered upon years of building character, strength, faith, & wisdom. It’s hard to withstand the world’s pressure to conform & compete in the pageantry of physical “flawlessness” as a prerequisite for acceptance; but peeling back the layers reveals

Choosing Hope. When I found this article in one of my Endometriosis Facebook groups last week, I intended only to hit "share." But as I started writing words that I hoped would help others listen -- so that God willing, other women may be saved the same length and depth and breadth of unnecessary suffering as me--it was as if a dam broke open. 18 years of suffering poured forth into possibly the longest Facebook "status" I've ever shared. But for good reason. The more I learn along this journey, the more I understand that some information bears repeating. So I've copied both my words and the linked article here in hopes that it will more quickly ripple out to the women who so desperately need it. " Hear me loud and clear. Hear me through the 18 years—more than half my life—of suffering in pain so intense that even morphine barely took the edge off. Hear me as I echo every single word the woman who wrote this article has bravely shared . 

It's strange sometimes how what's meant to be an inspirational snippet can become your complete undoing. One late summer day, I innocently watched a preview for a groundbreaking new show whose main character has autism. I was prepared to be touched and uplifted--but suddenly found myself shrinking inward as the reality of the subject matter landed a little too close to home. And there I sat, powerless, as an unwelcome emotional dam broke open to flood the depths of my soul -- a flood I thought I'd successfully ignored into dormancy, but whose currents apparently ran far deeper and stronger than I'd acknowledged. This particular dam goes by the name of "The ASD Mom Keeping it Together." ASD being Autism Spectrum Disorder, of course. And it's not a dam I pay much heed to or a subject I broach very often, here or otherwise — mostly to protect my son’s privacy, somewhat because I've learned over the years how to keep the dam mostly inta

Three weeks ago, as I bent down to tuck in my daughter and give her a good night kiss, she whispered, "I don't want you to go. You won't be here to sing my song at night." I sighed and scooted on to the bed next to her, thinking about the two weeks of training that lay ahead of me. "I'll tell you a secret. I don't really want to go either," I whispered, watching a tear slip down her cheek. "But remember when Daddy was gone for the same reason this summer and the two weeks went so fast?"  She looked me in the eye quizzically and tearfully stated the obvious: "It matters more when you're gone."  I sighed again as a tear slipped down my own cheek. "I know. I agree that in a lot of ways it matters more. But I know we'll both do the best we can, won't we? And Daddy will play your song that I recorded, or if we Skype at bedtime I'll sing it to you myself. Okay?" She nodded woefully and whi

The words in this post are my heart's response to stories that are not my own to tell...and therefore, it will be intentionally vague. Because my kids' lives are not my own. But, in the same breath, I must acknowledge that my kids are my life. Like it or not, their worlds collectively define mine. Which means that I cannot help but cradle their hopes and dreams and struggles and fears in my heart in a way that fuses them with my own. Many days, my heart has (and will) try to leap out of me and attempt to run after them, aching, breaking, with the desire to rescue them from their anxieties or fix their fears or find a way to make the big wide world a more gentle place for them to tred. My brain knows that they must (and will), find their own unique way to navigate this inflexible and unforgiving world, but my heart...my heart will always hate the parts of this world that demand an arbitrary standard of "normalcy" from my brilliant loves who a

A few weeks ago I was sitting in my two-year-old’s room, a clean diaper in one hand and a…well, let’s skip that part. One of the older kids came running down the hall to the bedroom door, urgently calling “Mommy!” and proceeding to detail something Very Important that needed my immediate attention (like a hitting offense or lack of clean underwear or that blue and green make this crazy blue-green color called teal or something). But instead of hearing the Very Important Declaration, I got stuck in this Twilight Zone-esque moment where I found myself in a daze thinking, “They’re calling me 'Mommy'. I'm the mom! When did that happen?! Who decided I should be in charge?” The moment ended as quickly as it began, and I went back to diapering a fresh backside while attending to the big kid crisis of the moment (I still can’t remember what it was). But in my nanosecond of bizarre altered-reality state, I came to grips with the fact that I’ve spent a whole lot of life going, doi

I'm happy to share that my most recent publication has hit the shelves! It's called "Joining the Family Business," which is part of the newest edition of the Chicken Soup for the Soul collection--the Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition, to be exact. (It can be purchased here ). I'm even happier to share how much meaning there is behind this particular contribution. About fifteen years ago, my mom wrote a story for Chicken Soup for the Mother and Daughter Soul called "Résumé of the Heart." She wrote about her choice to leave the workforce in order to stay home with us kids, and how little value the world seemed to place on her line of work. She shared her epiphany that even though she wasn't exactly racking up credentials on her résumé by staying at home, the blessings of being around for the most important moments of our lives were being recorded on the résumé of her heart. This past year, I had the rare opportunity to reflect on her s

Life has felt challenging lately. There are, of course, the everyday tasks that never quite get done. The laundry and dishes and cleaning and upkeep, the balancing of school schedules and volunteer events. But the most draining (for all parties involved) are the late nights twice a week when my husband goes straight from work to grad school, the 20-day "weeks" that blur together when he has a drill weekend, my own health issues that suddenly require so much extra time and effort, and our new mission to become our daughter's greatest advocate. It feels like like I've been trying to run from the avalanche for so long, but it's finally caught up with me. I know I'm not buried yet--I know I'm still at the surface, and I know I can dig out of it. But digging out is tough. It seems like a never-ending process. And I am tired. So very, very tired. But you know what? It's okay to feel tired.  It's okay to feel stressed. It's okay to sit t

It doesn't often come up in conversation. It's not something we advertise. But there are lots of other women out there who--like me--have experienced some degree of child loss. In 2010 I lost one child to miscarriage and one to ectopic pregnancy. Since then, I've run in to more women than I can count who never met their child due to miscarriage. And far too many, like my amazing friend Caroline , know the unbelievable grief of saying goodbye to a son or daughter who they can see, touch, or hold. Caroline's son, Cale, died from an umbilical cord accident a few hours before he was born. Looking at the statistics, it's absolutely staggering to realize how very common child loss is, and to realize how many women we might walk by each day who are missing a part of themselves. Last year I learned through Caroline that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month . There are a lot of causes with louder voices out there calling for support, but this is one caus

Have you seen this yet? Three beautiful minutes of "Preach ON!"

Originally published on February 14, 2012 They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Well I submit that true love beholds true beauty. And I have never been more in love—nor have I beheld anything more beautiful—than the blessings in my life today. The concept really hit me the other day when I was hanging out and playing with the kids. I’m not sure what we were playing, or what Marie was chattering about incessantly at that moment; all I knew was that all of a sudden, just like in the movies, the background noises faded, time seemed to stand still, and all I could think while staring at my little girl’s moving lips and little face was, WOW. She is SO pretty. I swear she gets more beautiful every day! She quickly shook me from my reverie as she walked toward me, took my face in her hands and demanded, “Mommy! MOMMY! I’m talking to you! Did you hear me?” All I could say was “Umm…no, Sweetie. Sorry. But do you know that you’re beautiful?” And in that moment I had a

Originally published on June 27, 2011 I wish I could say that our potty training adventures bring out the best in me; that I approach each saga channeling my inner   June Cleaver   with a happy sing-song voice and dazzling smile, full of encouragement and enthusiasm that assumes nothing less than success as my darling girl beams up at me with proud little eyes. Not so. I think I more closely resemble this gal: Oh I can encourage, alright. I can coax, prod, and reason, offer up m&ms till I’m blue in the face, beg and plead...and eventually threaten and count to three while giving The Look. But at this stage of the game I’m about out of tactics.

Originally published on May 6, 2011 4 generations! The cartoon on my day calendar a few years ago summed it up pretty well. A new mother stood in front of the CEO's desk at “Motherhood, Inc.” listening to her job description. The employer stated, “You will work a 24-hour shift daily, to include weekends. No breaks allowed. You get one vacation day a year…it’s called Mother’s Day, but you still have to work.” There’s nothing like the honest truth to give you a good laugh. I’ve learned a lot about motherhood in the past 3+ years (exponentially more than I had in the 20+ years prior!), and while I'm no expert, I know there's still a lot more to it than is contained in that simple cartoon. I’ve learned that you are a mother long before you hold your child in your arms. From the moment you see that plus sign (or the actual word ‘pregnant’ if you don’t believe that the plus sign is dark enough and you make your husband go get the expensive kind), you’re a mom. From