The Tale of the Wrong Brush

This summer, I got stupid... er, I mean brave (such a fine line) and decided that I wanted to bite the bullet and start really making our new house ours.  I've never had the privilege of painting a dwelling any color I want.  After helping Mom paint at her house, and having visited a few times since then, it hit me on the way back... it's time.  So after gathering supplies, gumption, and a game plan to keep the kids happy I hit it.  Mae's room was one of the first.  It's "fresh pink lemonade" and "quaint purple".  The boys' room isn't yet begun, but their only suggestion when I asked what color was "Thomas" and that was from Richie.  "bolt of blue lightning" was the closest.  The bathroom is the shades closest to the ones Mom had that I could find... "morning rain" and "King Neptune blue".  The day I was painting the bathroom, I'd just opened the "morning rain" and was refilling the paint tray when I had to get up and walk away for a second.  After talking to Eric for a minute and taking care of whatever it was, I looked around. 

Where's Maelynn?! 

Eric went to the bathroom and flipped.  She had taken the only brush she could find, dunked it in the paint can *all the way to the bottom* and was about to start slingin' when Daddy arrived!  You could tell she wanted to help.  "Okay, gonna help Mommy paint.  There's the paint, now where's a brush... brush... hmm... there's a brush!"  *dunk*

I laughed till I cried, took a picture with my phone and sent it to my Mom, knowing she'd love it.  And she did.  It wasn't a major cleanup effort.  She didn't even get any on herself!  That's my girl!

That's how it goes, though.  When Ryan starts screaming, hitting himself, won't eat, starts crying, or saying something we can't understand, we try something.  We look around for the nearest thing that looks like it will help, be it favorite toy, movie, or something much bigger like therapy, rethinking the plan, redoing the whole plan, throwing the plan out and staring over, blah blah blah... and we do this all day long.  That looks like it'll work... only to see either no results, some results, or have it backfire and make it all worse. 

Honestly, with trying to guide Ryan lately, I feel like I have no idea.  I'm grasping at straws, groping in the dark with thick gloves on, desperate for something to work.  But what do you do?  We worked so hard on asking for things.  We are so proud that he's better at that!  Once you learn what a few things mean to him, like "pack your swimsuit" means "can we go swimming?" and just he fact that he does have some pronoun trouble, you can figure out what he wants.  Problem, you ask?

 What happens when the answer is no?  What happens when you can't take him swimming?  What happens when he wants to "go to the hotel" or "to the carousel" (his term for Morgan's Wonderland) or to Waco or to see Granny or Grammy and Grampy, and he wants it NOW?  WHAT DO YOU DO?  My child, my dear, precious, sweet baby that I held, nursed, rocked, cared for, and nurtured since the day he was born screams till a vein pops out on his neck and beats his chest and head!  He makes sounds I can't describe... gutteral, screamy-squealy-growley noises that sound like a posessed pig.  I cannot describe the sheer torment on his face.  Sometimes all because I said no... often for no detectable reason. No, we do not just give him what he wants... really.  I just can't describe it.

Just today I was on a chair (don't judge... I know... I have a ladder, and it's in the carport closet) painting in the kitchen.  The littles were asleep, and Ryan was watching "elevator Toy Story" (Toy Story 2).  Out of the silence he makes himself known wordlessly yet unmistakably, with one of his angry sounds.  Nothing that I can tell is wrong.  He sounded like he should be, but he was not bleeding. I want to know how to help.  He had his glasses on, he had his shoes on and they were fine... I went down the list and all was well.  After emphatically asking... pleading... with him to tell me what's wrong, stop screaming, something like that, two minutes later he's at it again.  This time he woke his sister as he entered a meltdown that ended with me face in hands, falling completely apart into tears. 

Then he walked over, stretched out his arms, hugged me... not backed up to me... HUGGED me, laying his head on my shoulder, arms around me, saying, "It's okay.  It's alright."  Over and over, while I cried and apologized for being so bad at this, he told me "It's okay. It's alright."  I think he even said "Mommy" in there too. 

A few days ago I read on another mommy blog a song I'd been listening to over and over, and hadn't thought of applying it to our situation.  When I read it, I thought about it as she used it... they are waiting on her little girl to learn to speak.  I thought of it that way, too, as applied to us.  But tonight, as I consider the paintbrush story and Ryan's comfort, I realize I was wrong.  I was thinking it's Eric and I who are waiting on Ryan to "work it out"... when in reality, he's being patient with us.
 

Oh love wash over a multitude of things
Love wash over a multitude of things
Love wash over a multitude of things
Make us whole

There is a love that never fails
There is a healing that always prevails
There is a hope that whispers a vow
A promise to stay while we're working it out
So come with your love and wash over us
(When it was Over by Sara Groves)

Thank you, Ryan, for being Jesus with skin on to mommy today.  Thank you for always loving me no matter how clueless and frustrated I am.  Just like I promised tonight, I will always keep trying to be a better mommy for you.  Thank you, Lord, for new mercies, Your grace, and its sufficiency for my utter inadequacies... and for making me whole.  Thank you, thank you, again and again... You are amazing!

(in case you want to hear the song...)

Richie-roo, Birthday Dude!

Three years ago, shortly after 8:00 AM, Richard Allen Senzig made his debut in an operating room in Waco.  It was fun!  I was giggling, Eric was nervously giggling, and the doctor and the anesthesiologist were cracking little one-liners back and forth... perfect setting for our little entertainer to enter the world.  His birth was so easy and no-biggie that as they wheeled me into recovery I was talking about names for the next one!  Richie loves Shaun the Sheep, Thomas and Friends, Elmo, and is caaa-razy about his big brother.  He does just about everything he can to be just like big bro, right down to stimming!  I've seen him take the same toy Ryan plays with, put it in the same place and attempt to play with it the same way.  It always ends up with the same result... doesn't last long, and Richie winds up with this "what in the world does he see in this" look on his face. 

I'll never forget the first time Richie attempted to be like Ryan.  A couple of years ago, Ryan was super-into banging his head when he was upset.  We lived in a duplex then, and it had hardwood floors (don't get me started on that house... it was just a step or two above camping for a long time).  We had an area rug in the living room, and once when Richie was about 18 months old, he decided to throw a fit and bang his head just like he'd seen brother do.  He started with that angry toddler look on his face, but after one bang of his head on that just-barely carpeted hardwood floor, he looked at me like "holy cow!  That HURT!" 

That was the beginning of my realization that we have a lot of work to do in making sure Richie is Richie, Ryan is Ryan, and to do the best we can making sure we parent to both in a meaningful, appropriate way.  There are things that Ryan can't handle at six that Richie could handle at two.  Not understanding this can get us in trouble. 

The Christmas I was pregnant with Maelynn, my sister got Ryan the coolest little train.  He was black, came with a coal tender, and his name was Hiro.  Ryan was so thrilled with his new train that he wanted to sleep with it that night.  Well, Richie gets to sleep with toys... why not?  So that night at Nanny's, I tucked Ryan into bed, all warm and fuzzy that my son finally attached to something that wasn't a drumstick.  He wanted to snuggle Hiro, I thought, and how sweet!  He's four.  Good grief, let him sleep with the toy.

It wasn't sweet for long.  The obsession with Hiro started quickly, but died hard.  He was so attached to that train that he wouldn't go to the bathroom, eat, sleep, anything without Hiro in his hand.  The stickers wore off.  He didn't play with Hiro much, mostly he just held him and twisted his wrist, clicking the rods on Hiro's wheels.  At night, he'd begun to click Hiro to keep himself awake.  The only time he'd put Hiro down was to get on the school bus, and that was a fight.  Oh, and if Richie touched, looked at, or even walked in the room, Ryan screamed bloody murder.  It was all about Hiro.  "Wantcha Hiro?!"  I can still hear his desperate pleadings when we finally had to wean him from his beloved train. 

The process was long and there were many, many screamy nights and days over that stinkin' black train, but we finally got Ryan off Hiro.  Lesson learned.  Now we're careful to set boundaries about how and where Ryan can play with favorite toys.  Drumsticks are only allowed in the living room, and can only be played on the practice pad, not on the furniture, the TV, or people (yes, he tried).  Ipad is only two or three times a day, sitting down, for 15 minutes.  If he starts stimming profusely, he has to change apps.  We've even deleted apps because all he did was stim on them!  Sounds mean, huh.  Not really if you know Ryan. 

Take your average alcoholic.  Need to keep him busy for a while?  Tell you what... I need to keep you out of my hair, so here's a fifth of Jack.  Stay busy for a while, please. 

WHAAA?!?! 

Really, that's about as caring as handing Ryan the ipad and saying "here you go. I need to get some housework done, so knock yourself out."  At the end of even thirty minutes, he'll be screaming at the ipad, at you, at his siblings, slapping his head and ears, and oh, have a great time taking it away. I don't understand why, but I know this is how it is.  I've seen him too many times, confused, shaking and crying, unable to stop fiddling with it. 

We learned these things by trial and error... by fire.  For a long time Ryan's teacher couldn't use their district-provided ipads because Ryan melted down completely as soon as one came out.  They had to take turns, because there were about six kids in a class with two ipads.  We've gradually helped Ryan learn to play for fifteen minutes, then give the ipad to Richie for fifteen minutes, then (unless Mae wants a turn, and she's done it too) it goes back to Mommy and Daddy's room. 

Lots of things are like this at our house.  Richie and even Mae can handle a little more indulgence and a little more change than Ryan at this point.  Kids all still need boundaries, but sometimes in our world the boundaries can be relaxed a bit when brother's not around.  There are things we just can't go and do.  Waiting in line for things can be so stressful.  The standing still is killer for Ryan.  Yes, this means there are things that the whole family just shouldn't participate in for Ryan's safety and sanity.  Yes, this does mean we run the risk of Richie and Mae resenting Ryan for what they can't do.  But if we're careful, if we take care to treat Richie and Mae in ways that are appropriate and help them understand, we think that we also run the risk of our kids being incredibly understanding, caring, loving people.  People who learned at an early age that no, life isn't fair, and we aren't entitled to what we want when we want it.  They were born into this family... into a family with a special needs child... just like we were.  We believe that they, with guidance, will grow into who God made them to be, not resentful but loving and accepting of their brother and other special needs folks. 

So far, Richie is awesome with this.  He adores his brother, and loves hanging out with brother's class at school.  This morning, when Richie had a choice between eating his birthday donuts or being with his brother, he chose to get down and run back to see brother, and on the way I heard the sweetest thing.  In his sweet, newly three-year-old voice, Richie hollered "I love you, Yyan!" as he ran.  Richie has been screamed at countless times, hit over the head with several toys, sat on, shoved down, and for now, every time it's okay... as long as it's Ryan.  I'm sure that's not the end of it. 

We have a long road of balancing act ahead.  But for now, Richie's sweet smile and jabbery conversation makes me smile.  He is a relief, a breath of fresh air, a beautiful, blue-eyed, crazy-golden-blonde haired little angel who dances with Shaun the Sheep, loves to watch and read Thomas, work puzzles, and play ipad games.  He loves his sister, taking her binky out of her mouth to kiss her good-night, then popping it right back in.  He's a great helper, and has learned to get the wipes for his forgetful mommy when she's left them in another room again.  He's painfully shy at times, and tends to get a little dramatic when he's in the mood and doesn't get his way.  He loves to nap once he's already asleep, and (bless him) wakes up like his mommy.  He's smart, loves to count, and loves to have books read to him.  He loves Good Dog, Carl because he can almost read them himself... but could never love another dog more than Jedi.  He's amazed by the birds who have had babies outside our kitchen window, asking mommy to "pick up a Richie" and "Richie look at the birdies".  He loves to feed his sister, too.  He'd rather feed his ice cream to her than eat it himself. 

Richard A, Richie-roo, Richie-rooter baby duder, Dancin' Richie Rooter... you're a dream of a son, little brother and big brother, and we love you so much!  You're an amazing little man and we can't wait to see the man God has for you to be... but don't get in a big hurry to grow up... you're awfully cute and such a big blessing just the way you are.  And you are such a wonderful gift from the Lord!

Poor Elmo...

Courage does not always roar. Sometimes it is a quiet voice at the end of the day, saying, I will try again tomorrow. ~ Mary Anne Radmacher

I needed this. 

Lately, as you know, things have been changing in our lives.  With Ryan getting bigger and older, things must change.  Things we've clung to even without realizing it.  There are things that, although we're typically-abled grownups, it's like pulling teeth to change for Eric and I.  Some things have changed, too, and not for the better.  Here's where I have a confession. 

I'm having difficulties with potty training. 

No, not me... I've been good since before I was two.  No thanks to anyone but my Granny (Nanny's mother, my great-grandmother), who had a fabulous knack for that and a lot of things.  I think she potty trained everyone from Nanny to me, and probably some neighborhood kids in there too!  This difficulty is one of the things people don't always realize is on the ASD menu.  Funny thing about that menu... great selection, but you don't make the choices.  It's a ginormous grab-bag of traits, problems, difficulties and gifts.  Not everyone even gets the same number of them. 

One of our menu items is the potty mess.  I must say that we don't  have it NEARLY to the degree that a lot of people do.  Ryan usually does very well in routine.  We had been doing so very well for a long time, and just in the last few weeks we've seen a bit of regression.  This is one of the things about autism that I have the hardest time dealing with.  We think he stims on the feeling of it... I must emphasize "think".  No idea if that's really what the deal is.  He has a tendency to use this as something to exert control over when things are changing, it seems.  And oh, are we ever tired of it!  Did I mention that I have a nearly 3 year old and a 15 month old, too?!  Maybe that's why I'm not scared of cloth diapers.  I've cleaned so many diaper-used pairs of underoos and pants I'm nearing pro-level on getting smells out of stuff.  Yeah, cloth diapers are totally not a problem... and they save us enough money to make sure Ryan gets to therapy and back, and we still get to eat.

With two in diapers and one prone to accidents at times, you'd think I'd be the first in line to start potty training Richie.  In reality, the thought makes me tired.  The cutesie training pants ads, the neat little videos and stuff... part of me wants to think it's cute and cool and try to get into it, and the other part of me wants to throw myself on the bed and cry.  We have been working on this since right before we left Fairfield.  That would be about three years.  Three years of poopy pull-ups, underwear, pants, bribes, even pleading with Ryan to not poop on Elmo's face, conveniently located on the little booty of his underwear.  Nothing doing.  Oh yes, he was doing famously for as long as we stayed in routine for a long time, but I think... no, I know... Ryan knows there's something afoot.  He can feel the changes if nothing else. 

We really don't know why.  We really don't know if it's something he chooses or if he just doesn't get it, or if there's something about it that he kinda stims on, in an odd way.  It is, however, one of the biggest kicks in the gut of the whole autism thing.  It's this kind of thing that makes us panic.  In that one instant, that one flash of light, you see his whole life flash before you.  It's in that instant that it's tempting to try to wrest control. 

But the more I try to control, the more I get angry when I realize there's no hope of control.  So I have to practice the heart-change of wanting to instead understand, meet Ryan where he is, and try to go from there.  I have to be okay with the prospect of potty training being an ongoing thing for a long, long time. 

I also have to be okay with... even find joy with... the fact that there are so many things that I have to face by myself.  When I say "by myself" or "alone", I mean time with no other adults with skin on in the house.  No one to say, "you go sit down, I'll take this one".  No one to play with the littles... or at least keep them out of trouble... while I go through the whole "where do we put our poop, Ryan?" think for the bajillionth time.  Yes, my Eric and I are here together, but there are times when he is not (although Jesus always is... and without that, oh my...). 

Tonight I was listening to my husband read "Oh, The Places You'll Go" by Dr. Seuss to the boys before bed, and these words floated over the laptop screen and into my ears,

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something you'll be quite a lot.
And when you're there, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants. 
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that scare you so much you won't want to go on.

Yep, there are days that I'm scared so much I'm not sure I can go on.  That something has to give.  Something simply must change or improve, even if that something is me.  There are moments like this, for sure.  And in these moments, these days of dread and not being sure what to do next, there is always something.  Something like this poetic little book, a song, or a verse that helps me just go ahead and cry.  Get it out there, admit that I'm not able, without His help, to keep pedaling.  Sometimes it's something cool, like Ryan at bedtime last night, wriggling his arm out of the covers of the top bunk and pulling my arm over so that he could lay his head on it, then whispering in his sweet, robotic way, "I love you mommy."  Or maybe it's Richie shoving one of his stuffed animals at me, insisting that I sleep with it tonight.  Other times the something comes in the form of encouragement from someone, or from my bible study time.  But it is always there, just when I need it. 

This morning, my bible study happened to be in Joshua, right at the time when it's time for the now-nation of Israel to cross the Jordan river on their way to Jericho. God told Joshua to tell the priests who bore the ark of the covenant, "When you come to the brink of the waters of the Jordan, you shall stand still in the Jordan."  I grew up in eastern Oklahoma, and one of my favorite memories of childhood is swimming and fishing in the rivers.  I cannot imagine someone telling me to just climb in and stand still.  It'll stand still with you, I promise.  Oh, I can imagine them telling me that all right.  I can also imagine laughing in their faces!

But they did, and God held the waters back for the whole nation of Israel to pass through.

Sometimes, being "strong and courageous" as Joshua was commanded so very many times has very little to do with action.  Sometimes standing still and being obedient in being still is the best thing we can do.  Clinging tight to what we know to be true, even when it may not look like even we thought it should look, and carrying on in His name and for His sake in the face of the unknown is the not so popular side of courage.  Believing hard on the hope we profess in Christ is at its most powerful when the world knows they don't want to play the hand you've been dealt.  When it's three o'clock in the morning and you've been up and down over and over with the sick one, or the one who can't sleep (never will I forget that many ASD kids can't... mine can and I am forever grateful), or you're heating up that same pizza, cleaning up that same mess, scrubbing out that same underwear, watching that same video, remember that although no one with skin on sees, they also cannot do what you do the way you do it.  No one can.  No one can be Mama but Mama. 

Because on some level, they know.  They know and their siblings know.  They know you have seen them at their absolute worst, and they see the grace, mercy, and love, and the faithfullness that your actions show.  And since they see these things, it makes it so much more powerful when they hear you whisper, every night, with a hug and a prayer...

God has big plans for you, baby.  God's gonna use you, and I can't wait to watch. 

Because He does, and He is.  And I can't wait to watch.  So I will try again tomorrow.

We have new peepers!

I am so stinkin' proud of my son... and I am so grateful to be a beneficiary of God's providence!

Yes, I know you knew that.  But today, in a time when I've had to hang on so tight to the hope we profess just to keep a smile on my face, I have had a heaping pile of wonderful dropped from heaven. 

Ryan had the best day at school... maybe the best day ever. 

Okay, I have to back up a bit.  If you don't know about our history with Ryan and pediatric glaucoma, you should go here and read Ryan's Story. 

Well, didja? 

Okay good.  I knew you would!  Y'all are so good to me. 

So you can see that Ryan is not new to the world of vision trouble.  When he was just 9 months old he had glasses for a while, but at some point after he was about 18 months old or so, he quit leaving them on.  After that, they were never quite sure if he really needed them or not, and being the family living on *a* teacher's salary, we chose to wait.  They had been doing exams under anesthesia, and after the last time about two years ago when he came out of anesthesia kicking and screaming, I got a little spooked.  This was also the time we were beginning to talk about autism, and I just wasn't comfortable with Ryan going under general anesthesia to have his eyes checked.  They always came back saying they were sure the glaucoma was well under control.  So with the doctor's blessing, we waited a while. 

Yesterday was Ryan's first appointment in 2 years.  These appointments are not just going down the street to the doctor's office.  These involve a trip to Dallas, sometimes in the middle of the week.  We live about an hour and forty-five minutes from the big D, and if we can get an appointment on a Monday or Friday, we can stay in Richardson (ANY excuse to go see Grammy and Grampy).  Otherwise it's to Children's in Dallas and back... with three kids. 

Sounds tempting, no? 

Now, if you don't know Ryan or you don't have an ASD child, you may be thinking "Trip to the opthalmologist?  It's not like the dentist, for goodness sake!  What's the big deal?"  The big deal is that Ryan doesn't process verbal instruction just real well.  Add to that a new environment, lack of communication skill other than screaming and kicking, and here we go!  All you ASD parents know where I am with this.  You might as well be pulling teeth without anesthesia.  The assisting resident came in, a pretty twentysomething with brown hair and a precious smile.  Ryan walked right up to her and pointed, saying "it's a woman!" Thankfully, she thought it was cute.  After she thanked him for not thinking she was a man, we had to let the sweet resident shine a couple of lights at him... still not sure what she was doing, but Ryan wasn't impressed.  Then came the fun part. 

Ever had your pressures checked?  Ever had your eyes dilated? 

Yep, had to do both while the nurse and I held Ryan while she did both.  I tried to tell Ryan that the doctor was going to give his eye a high five real quick, and he had to hold real still.  This little exam is the difference between having to spend a day in day surgery and being able to have this be our only visit.  And oh, did he scream and kick.  She did manage to get the pressures, which she said were slightly elevated but probably just due to his screaming.  I'm good with that.  And I must say, this doctor was very pleasant. 

Next we see the big doc, Dr. Weekley.  This is the opthalmologist that made me want to go all redneck mama bear on him the first time we sat in the clinic at Children's on the emergency visit as scared, horse-in-a-fire first time parents who had just been sent on a flying trip to see what was up with our 3 month old baby.  This dude blew in right out of surgery, I guess, in his scrubs, complete with hat, spouting "I want to see the baby with the cloudy eyes!"  with an irreverence that, well, made me angry.  But I digress...

Enter Dr. Weekley.  Ryan walks up to him, points, and says "it's a woman!"  again.  I know!  Should have known at that point we needed glasses.  I held Ryan in my lap... and by "held" I mean "held down his arms and legs so he wouldn't kick the fire out of this dude"... while he refracted Ryan's dilated eyes.  He gave us a script for glasses and sent us on our way, suggesting that we see Dr. Whitson (the surgeon who rebuilt Ryan's tearducts) to determine how he thinks the glaucoma thing is going. 

Ok, now we're on our way to the closest Lens Crafters (they have one in Waco, and we wanted to get his glasses ASAP).  After a call to Eric's Mom, we find that the nearest Lens Crafters is in Northpark Mall. 

Goodie. 

I used to like going places like that.... and if you don't know what I mean by that, here you go... the Lens Crafters is located in between Neiman Marcus and Barney's.  Just across the way is the Gucci store.  There is valet parking for these places!  And while you shop, for a fee, they'll detail your car.  I cannot imagine being able to just toss money around like that!  So we felt a wee bit out of place, being the Target, Ross, and Marshall's-loving folk we are.  By now Ryan is thouroughly disgusted with not being able to see.  After a few times of persuading Ryan to take off his sunglasses and put on frames, most of which he promptly yanked off, we found them.  I placed a pair of dark blue plastic frames on his face, he looked in the mirror, and exclaimed "yes!"  Whew!  Then was the whole measuring for the distance between his eyes thing... yeesh.  Yes, everything is a challenge.  Every. Little. Thing.

Fast forward to home a few hours later, and we make the rule that if he wants to play ipad, he must wear his glasses.  So after saying "no glasses, no ipad" about fifty times, he got the idea.  Then we noticed that he wasn't tilting his head to focus the right eye.  His eyes are very opposite, one being farsighted and the other near.  He still wasn't too thrilled with the idea of keeping them on, but as the evening wore on, we noticed Ryan pulling at them less and doing things on the ipad that, we assume, he hadn't been able to see to do before.  After bedtime, we decided we'd wait and see in the morning how things went before we decided to send them to school. 

Morning came, and at breakfast, Ryan fussed until he realized he didn't have his glasses.  "Want your glasses?" he said, and we handed him his glasses.  Well, guess we'll send them to school. 

About 9:45, my phone rang and it was Ryan's teacher.  UGH.  Immediately, I thought it was going to be one of the standard three or four.  Either he had messed his pants, was screaming and banging his head, or had a fever.  Or worse, maybe his glasses were already broken or missing.  GREAT. 

"Just wanted to let you know, " she said, "that Ryan is having an awesome day.  He hasn't taken off his glasses.  He hasn't fussed at all." 

I about fell over!  I haven't been this thrilled with sudden progress since Ryan's first day of summer school in '08.  He came home that day trying to communicate more than he ever had all of a sudden.  Since he's been home today, he's not offered to take them off, either. 

Back up now to that day I took Ryan in for that cold.  If Dr. Orms hadn't caught the fact that the eye was a critical problem, Ryan would eventually have gone blind.  Blind!  Can you imagine everything we face on a daily basis PLUS blindness and horrible pain that comes with glaucoma? 

Still thankful for that cold.  Still thankful for that doctor in Fairfield who knew. 

Whatever we're going through now, whatever trials we're facing, we have to remind ourselves that not only do we serve a God of 11:59 whose timing is perfect, but His plan is to prosper and not to harm us!  (Jeremiah 29:11)  We cannot always see how things are going to work, or why... and there are times we may never know the answer to "to what end". 

But today, dear friends, I know.  I know to what end, and therefore I will rejoice!!!  I have been given one of the keys to unlocking my son's mind, and I am more than grateful!  Believe, o weary one!  Place your trust in Him, and have patience.  Just as we're told in Hebrews 10:23,  "Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised us is faithful!"  I stand here today, promising with all confidence that God will not leave you hanging on for dear life without help!  It may come in the form of a person, a word, a song, or His word, but hang in there... He will make a way!!!  And when there's no way out, He will give you the encouragement you so desperately need to hang on. 

How do I know? 

MY SON CAN SEE!!!  

Will you rejoice with me? 


Come. People of the Risen King

Keith & Kristyn Getty & Stuart Townend

Come, people of the Risen King,
Who delight to bring Him praise;
Come all and tune your hearts to sing
To the Morning Star of grace.

From the shifting shadows of the earth
We will lift our eyes to Him,
Where steady arms of mercy reach
To gather children in.

REFRAIN

Rejoice, Rejoice! Let every tongue rejoice!
One heart, one voice; O Church of Christ, rejoice!


Come, those whose joy is morning sun,
And those weeping through the night;
Come, those who tell of battles won,
And those struggling in the fight.

For His perfect love will never change,
And His mercies never cease,
But follow us through all our days
With the certain hope of peace.

Come, young and old from every land -
Men and women of the faith;
Come, those with full or empty hands -
Find the riches of His grace.

Over all the world, His people sing -
Shore to shore we hear them call
The Truth that cries through every age:
“Our God is all in all”!

Severe.

It's quiet in my living room.  I can hear Richie and Maelynn breathing in their sleep (yes, I let them sleep in the living room today).  I can hear the rain and occasional thunder from the glorious storm outside.  Oddly enough, it matches the storm on the inside.

Yesterday The Weather Channel kept texting me.  "A Severe Thunderstorm Warning has been issued for Groesbeck, TX" it said, over and over.  After watching the hopeful green and yellow on the weather map fade around Groesbeck all spring, I can't help but think, "Sure.  I'll believe it when I see it."  This time, it really rained!  It stormed all night last night, and all day today, pretty much.  I prayed hard yesterday for rain, but no tornadoes, please.  We just went down that road, and I wasn't impressed.  Rather I was impressed, but not in a positive way!

After picking up Ryan from school, we four made it back into the house to get ready for the evening.  I attempted to be interested in things I needed to get done, but my attention completely lie in Ryan's Toy Story 3 backpack.  Once I got everyone somewhat settled, this time on "Potty Elmo", still one of Ryan's faves, I sat down at the kitchen table with my coffee and got the plastic folder out of Ryan's backpack.  Just as the diagnostician promised, there was a large manilla envelope inside.  Fumbling with the metal brads, I reach the contents and begin to read.  The report from the psychologist was very thorough, going back to Ryan's gestation, birth, and milestones.  This was the culmination of the scads of paperwork involving hundreds of questions I answered with so many desperate words.  Desperate to communicate that we LOVE Ryan.  He is a great little guy!  So loveable, so smart.  We want what is best for him!  We want God's best for him!  We believe in what God made Ryan to be! Never had my no. 2 pencil flown with such urgency.  Such desire to say the honest thing, no matter how embarrassing it is or how much it hurts.  Every time I fill these things out, I get so worried that I'll answer wrongly, or accidentally be too harsh or easy on him.  Imagine my surprise when I flip to the part that tells me that my answers were in a believeable pattern.  Alrighty then!  Looks like they had something in place all along to make sure the results were accurate. Silly girl; just answer the questions.

I read through all this mess, then got to the part where it says very plainly that the tests show that Ryan is severely autistic.

Severely autistic.

These words still hang in my mind the same way the word "autism" hung in the air when it was suggested by the first psychologist in 2008.  But "severe"? 

Yeah, 'fraid so.

I realize that this diagnosis does not change who Ryan is.  Yes, I was honestly hoping for something a little lower on the ASD totem pole (though they're all challenging), and this was a bit of a blow.  But that's all.  Just a bit.  I've already been living with this feeling of things changing... things getting more serious.  I told Eric one day about a month ago, when we began realizing that our church involvement was about to diminish a bunch for at least a while, that I had a sinking feeling that we did not yet know the meaning of "sacrifice". 

Hate it when I'm right.

As I read on in the 12-page report, I didn't cry.  Didn't flinch.  Didn't fall apart.  I was able to read, comprehend, and remember that this is still Ryan.  He may be a Mac in a PC world, but he's still Ryan.  It was honestly a little freeing.  Kind of justifying.  Making that feeling that things are just different for our family real; giving me more concrete proof that yes, Ryan has to be cared for more and differently than typical children.  That yes, my shaking my fist and crying out "But I wanted to be on the SUPPLY end of ministry... not the DEMAND end!"  I wanted to be just like so many cool Christian families I watched as I grew up. 

But God had other plans, and still does.

I started praying a long time ago that my will and His will would become the same thing, that I would have a heart like His...  and although I know I will never be perfect, and His ways will always, no matter what be higher than mine, that does not excuse me from doing my best.  Neither do the lives of people around me!  Horizontal comparison of one's life and abilities can't lead to good things.  There will always be someone better than you at what you do, and there will always be someone worse.  Be it money, ability, posessions... whatever it is, "it" will never be enough.  Not as long as I continue to compare to those around me.  Material things aren't my temptation in this vein, and the same goes for money.  The Lord provides and always has. But I just can't seem to shake the "what it looks like" feeling.  What it looks like if we can't attend church get togethers, and some things that just don't work for us.  What people are thinking when Ryan starts his screaming and slapping his head thing in the fat middle of a concert, church, or in a store. 

What I'm learning right now is that I don't have to live by what others have thought, or what others are thinking or saying.  While it is my responsibility to be respectful and kind, it is not my responsibility to make others think I'm doing all I can.  Having been raised in a small community, I know how people talk.  Believe me.  I know the pain that causes.  And here I am, living in fear of what might happen if I do what I feel is best for my family.  HOW SILLY!  I know better, and yet here I sit.  Here I sit, afraid of making anyone angry or uncomfortable, no matter how uncomfortable I am or my family is. 

And I'm done.

No, I'm not done with the church.  Quite the opposite!  I believe in the importance of the body of Christ in the life of each and every Christian.  I am, however, done with attempting to fit the mold.  Or even trying to figure out what the mold is, for cryin' out loud!  Now that I'm the proud mother of three, one of whom is severely autistic, I can see why I didn't fit in in high school.  I can see why my husband didn't, either.  We know what it's like, and we were being prepared to be who God wanted us to be as parents and adults.  I could go on and on whining about the pain of not being the same and how lonely and sad I was in high school, and a lot in college, too.  But as a 32 year old mom who needs to understand that her boy is just different... not bad, but different... it is of the utmost importance that I recognize that as God's hand!  NO I'm not condoning cliquish behavior, bullying, mean-girl brattiness or flat out discrimination.  Those things are terrible and I'm against every one, and wish they would all just go away.  But the truth is that we live in a fallen, sinful world and those things will not go away. 

So what do we do?  If I am confident that God has made me and my children with a plan and a purpose in mind, well,  those things tend to sting less.  If I live with my vision for my life being to fit in with everyone else, to always be smiled at, to always be the best, to always be the most loved, to never hurt anyone's feelings, to be a chameleon at all cost, I will surely live in misery.  That is not at all who I am designed to be, and it is definitely not what Ryan will be.  It is my hope and prayer that it isn't what my Richie and Maelynn will be, either.  So I want God's best to be my vision.  My vision for Ryan, Richie, and Maelynn; my vision for my marriage, my home, and my ministry (yes, we all have one... whether it's recognized or not) is to live as close to God's vision for me as I can possibly get. 

So as I keep feeling my way through this autism thing, and as I figure out what role I can play in ministering to other parents and children in the ASD community and as I continute to minister to my family first and foremost, this is my prayer and I pray that it will be that of my children, also(so sorry I couldn't find a recording that wasn't obnoxious):

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
Be ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle Shield, Sword for the fight;
Be Thou my Dignity, Thou my Delight;
Thou my soul’s Shelter, Thou my high Tower:
Raise Thou me heavenward, O Power of my power.

Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven’s joys, O bright Heaven’s Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

Words: At­trib­ut­ed to Dal­lan For­gaill, 8th Cen­tu­ry (Rob tu mo bhoile, a Com­di cri­de); trans­lat­ed from an­cient Ir­ish to Eng­lish by Ma­ry E. Byrne, in “Eriú,” Jour­nal of the School of Ir­ish Learn­ing, 1905, and versed by El­ea­nor H. Hull, 1912, alt.

Mother's Day Cards

Wow... what a fabulous Mother's Day weekend was had by all in this family!  I feel completely spoiled rotten.  To cap off a wonderful weekend, Eric and the other guy in our small group (it really is a "small" group... tee-hee) made dinner last night AND did all the dishes from the weekend.  Yep, I dropped that ball bigtime this weekend... we had a great time running around and enjoying each other and I didn't log much time in front of the sink.  Due to a generous gift from a fabulous couple, we took the kids to the Mayborn Museum in Waco and had a blast... there will be a post and pictures from that later.

But the best parts of my Mother's Day were the encouragement that overflowed from my dear family and friends.  Especially from my dear Eric and my Mama.  All of you who commented, hugged, or hit the "like" button, or shared the page so that the news that we're not alone might reach one more person, thank you from the depths of my soul. 

Can't lie... Mother's Day is important to me, but the most important part is getting to be with my kids in church.  Looking in the rearview mirror (the kid one... you know, the kind that hangs below the actual rearview mirror, revealing who's poking who in the backseat) as we crossed the railroad tracks during the three minute drive to church, my heart was struck with amazement at the kids.  "Look at my babies!" I said to Eric.  One of the few delicious moments of normalcy in our lives.  All three kids, dressed for church.  Ryan, with his striped blue dress shirt and khakis and huge blue eyes; Richie, in his plaid blue, green and white shirt and khakis with golden curls swept to the back of his head; Maelynn, in her brown and pink dress with little brown fountain pigtails spouting from her sweet head. Many times I'm shocked for a moment that I have it all... the house on the corner with a giant tree in the front yard, two boys and a girl, not to mention the best husband ever to stand at the altar.  Yep, folks... even with the challenges, it's a fairy tale. After all, we all know that every fairy tale has a villain of a sort.  There's a great challenge for some mama or daddy who can draw... a cartoon representation of the villain of autism.  If only there were magic words.   But I digress.

Once we were at church, we did the usual divide and conquer.  Eric took Ryan to Sunday school through the south door so we could avoid walking by the nursery and room with a train table.  Ryan knows he doesn't want to go to the nursery, and can at times decide to pitch a fit when we walk by and stop to take the littles.  That or he'll run on by himself.  Either way, not the best option.  I take the littles to the door halway to the other end of the building.  We always meet back at the van, where I get my precious coffee from the cupholder, and grab our bibles and my purse, then head to Sunday school for us.  This is the one time during the week we can walk hand-in-hand, not concerned with playing "whack a mole" (my affectionate term for trying to herd the kids) and we love it. 

A little over halfway through class, one of our teacher's/friend's kids came in, having been let out early himself.  No biggie, he's a sweetie and just wanted to check in to go to the playground.  Cool.  Not five minutes later, here he comes, same little guy, this time with a message.  "Mrs. Senzig, Ryan's stuck in a swing."  He reported just as sweetly and calmly as one could... actually, the media could use some guys like him.  So I hop up and go to the rescue. 

Ryan has a thing about the baby swings.  They're comfortable, and they're routine.  One of those things, like Elmo and the Baby Einstein "Meet the Orchestra" video, we can't seem to outgrow.  He'd managed to get into a swing, and from what I heard, didn't want to get out, not that I'm sure he could if he'd tried.  So I lifted my nearly six-year-old boy, and his sweet teacher wrested his feet from the leg-holes.  He was throwing a pretty good fit, too, so I just decided to take him with me.  After a little yelling from his perch on my hip, Ryan chilled out as much as Ryan chills out, and we made our way to Mommy and Daddy's class.  He sat on my lap and snuggled, and since there wasn't much to check out in the room, he was pretty calm.  We finished our lesson and made it to church, talking outside the Sunday school room a lot less than usual to keep him moving and calm.  Being a southern mama, I want my kids to be polite, thank you ma'am... so I encourage him to say "hi" to the people we meet and especially those who say hi to him. 

Guess I asked him to say "hi" just once too much, because as we entered the sanctuary and I asked him to say "Hi" again, Ryan began to scream, "SAY HIIII!!!! SAY HIIII!!!"  over and over.  Really loud.  Our poor interim pastor had to address the congregation a couple of times, I think... can't say for sure, because like I said, I had Mr. Don't-make-me-say-hi-one-more-time at the end of my arm.  I ducked my head down, tried to smile at the people who made eye contact (whether or not they smiled back) and made my way to our seat.  Once seated, the fit continued for a minute, but if I can stay calm there's a much better chance he'll regain his composure.  This time it worked.  I asked if he'd like to snuggle mommy, and he replied "snuggle mommy", so he laid his head on my lap.  He was minimally noisy, and as long as I remained seated while everyone else stood for singing, etc., he was pretty great.  I was able to worship, stroking his little buzz-cut head all the way through the song part of the service.  I was internally doing cartwheels!  Maybe the change in routine wouldn't hurt that much!  Maybe the fits due to the change wouldn't tank us today!  Take that, autism! 

For the special music, a lady in the church sang a song I'd never heard, and it was obviously themed for Mother's Day.  It was too perfect, and I had to google it so I could share it with you.

You Cannot Lose My Love
-Sara Groves


You will lose your baby teeth.
At times, you'll lose your faith in me.
You will lose a lot of things,

But you cannot lose my love.

You may lose your appetite,
Your guiding sense of wrong and right.
You may lose your will to fight,

But you cannot lose my love.

You will lose your confidence.
In times of trial, your common sense.
You may lose your innocence,

But you cannot lose my love.

Many things can be misplaced;
Your very memories be erased.
No matter what the time or space,
You cannot lose my love.

You cannot lose,

You cannot lose,

You cannot lose my love.

To Ryan, Richie, and Maelynn... I tell you now what I told your aunt Bree when she was little... you can't do anything that could make me stop loving you. 

That's not an uncommon theme among mothers.  I think all of us would agree with every word!  But as I listened, with my special Ryan in my lap, the tears poured.  Parents with special needs kids, I think we can all agree that...

They may not be potty trained,
Not much we say may be retained,
Though meltdowns our strength, they drain...

They'll never lose our love. 

Though they may not fit the mold,
Others, our parenting, they'll question and scold,
Though they can't tell us if they're hungry, scared, or cold,

They'll never lose our love.

Though they may stim and hum,
They might scream till our ears are numb,
We may have to argue that they're not "dumb",

They'll never lose our love.

We may live in total lockdown,
Our stomachs may churn as we drive to town,
They might pound their heads on the ground,

But they'll never lose our love. 

See, no matter where he fits or doesn't, no matter how many things I choose to stay home from to avoid trauma to all of us, no matter whether he makes it in Kindergarten next year, no matter where he's accepted or where he's not, he is accepted here.  He is accepted in our home and our hearts.  Just like I speak to all the kids every night, Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that God has a plan and purpose for our lives!  Not "just typically-abled kids" or "kids who look like everyone else".  Not just the people who strive to fit in and lose themselves in the pursuit of acceptance on this earth... EVERYONE. 

Special needs parents... we don't always realize *ourselves* what we do.  How different and hard it can be.  I've fought against letting myself believe this, but I think it's because I was scared to think about it... as in, if I think about it, I'll start feeling sorry, then what's going to happen?  So in the pursuit of not feeling sorry, I took it a step too far and began to run a wee bit too far in the other direction.  I'm normal!  See?  I'm normal! 

Psscht. 

No, I'm not, and my life isn't, either.  I have to realize that, and deal with it. 

Deal with it? 

Yep, play the cards.  Not just hide them.  From what I remember about playing "Pitch" with Nanny, Grandad, and Pop, Nanny's dad, it doesn't do you any good toward winning the game if you just keep everyone from seeing your cards.  You have cards in your hand, and to have even a chance at winning, you have to PLAY THEM.  Not just throw them on the table in a huff.  Think through it, paying attention to what's played and what your partner has played.  To use them to your advantage, you must take a good look at what you have and make a plan.  And that plan only lasts as long as the hand lasts, then you get another one.  You may have to change strategies, looking at the changes in what you're dealt with every hand.  Which reminds me of Nanny and Grandad... when they got a hand they didn't like, they'd often say "Who dealt this mess?!"   But often, the next hand would be perfect.  But to get to the next hand, you have to play through the "mess". 

And when you look at the "mess" versus the perfect hands... or even the ones that just work out... it's going to be better than alright.  It's going to be God's best.  As long as I look to him for the next step, the next card to play and how to play it, it's going to be God's best.  Hang in there with me, y'all.  We have to keep praying for each other and our kids, and waking up every day asking desperately for the wisdom, patience, and faith to live our lives today, not let them live us.  There may be only one hand dealt in the day, but too often there are several. 

That church service I was talking about?  Yeah, Ryan got into the floor, then hit his head a couple of times, causing him to fuss... so we wound up walking out to the foyer to wait out the sermon.  But after it was over, we had the rare treat of going to Mother's Day lunch with a couple of friends and their kids that we never get to see.  And the rest of the day was just wonderful.  If I'd tossed my cards on the table and told it all where to go when Ryan walked in screaming, I'd have missed that song.  If I'd let embarrassment get the best of me and left in a huff when the fussing started, I'd have missed the two girls just a touch older than Ryan coming out of the balcony and doing their best to visit with him, begging me to let them entertain him till the end.

Yep, the great hands I'm dealt far outweigh the cruddy ones. But if I choose to forget that, I'll forfeit my turn, and lose.

And for my babies, that's simply not acceptable.

Keep playing. 

Just Like the Butter Queen

This evening, as I was making dinner, Ryan was playing the cake maker app on the ipad.  I'm still in amazement that God gave us one of those amazing little inventions... thanks again for the raffle Chops Percussion!  Once the tamale-like concoction I served tonight was in the oven, releasing me from the kitchen I went to check the ol' Facebook and email, and after playing with Richie and Maelynn and talking to Eric for a bit, I turned to Ryan, who was standing next to me. To my utter astonishment, Ryan had found the "add text" part of the app and was using it to TYPE WORDS!  Not coying them, not misspelling... typing words from his own memory.  Holy cow.  So I sat there urging him to type more... anything more... and he came up with his first word again, which was "van".  Then he typed "value" and "red".  I about fell over.  About the time he finished "red", the timer on the oven went off, but I vowed to return to our little session. 

So I dropped a ball... again.  Dinner for the rest of the family was ready, but Ryan's beloved pepperoni pizza was still frozen solid and the oven was at the wrong temperature.  *sigh*  Eric asks from under a pile of giggling children, "What's ETA on dinner?"  "About fifteen, dear."  Thankfully, Ryan's favorite pizza is only about a dollar apiece, and they cook in ten minutes.  Which is good, because when I say "favorite" I mean the only thing he will consistently eat, and sometimes he won't touch that (hence my amazement the other day when he ate THREE PLATES of nachoey-stuff.  I'm still reeling!).  To the table, everyone... finally!  Richie comes tearing in the kitchen bubbling over with "Oh boy, FOOD!"  Everyone sits down, and Richie looks and sees that brother has pizza, and he has tamale whatever.  I'll spare you the details, but let's just say some whining and attitude-adjusting later, Richie was eating, but after everyone had left the table.  Usually he doesn't care a button for what Ryan has, but tonight it was all-out war.  Things were rather circusey, but on a normal level of strange for us as I cleaned the kitchen, then went in the living room.  No sooner had I logged on to- I thought- start this entry, when I realize how quiet it is.  The quiet had been masked by my Eric playing the piano, but when I get up and turn around, I see the picture above.  My little butter queen.  I had a soft stick of butter out on the table where I thought she couldn't get it, but she proved me wrong!  Butter all over the place.  My table is rather old, and now, it's rather moisturized.  So I laughed, grabbed the camera, snapped a few shots, and began to clean her up.  Once she was clean and down, a few minutes later, she came running through the living room in her diaper with red on her back!  Eric said, "what happened to you.... wait, that looks like pizza sauce!"  Richie, who had been told that he could not have pizza because he threw such a fit over eating at least half his dinner before he could have what he wanted, had nabbed a piece of pizza while I was cleaning Mae and had been chasing his sister with it... and pushing her with it.  WHEE! 

Best part of all this?  We laughed it all off!  I know!!! 

Sometimes, as we all know, you just have to grab the camera.  The mess is made, the carpet is ruined, the paint is spilled, the kids are a mess... the deed is done.  You've been given a moment.  What's left is what you choose to do with it.  Yes, the butter is wasted.  Yes, there's more work to do.  And control?  What's control? 

An illusion, that's what.  You want control?  Not me.  I am the queen of forgetting, messing up, and generally making messes.  It seems that in the past nine months or so if it wasn't life or death or at least at the very tippy-top of the priority list, I messed it up.  Who wants someone with a batting average like that in control?  Not me, for sure. I'm too weak and wretched to be in control.  Yep.  Wimpy.  Tired.  Exhaused.  Confused.  On the other end, too silly, selfish, and distractable as a human to be in control without messing up the whole enchilada.  Therefore, I am one of those people who really, truly believes with all her heart that God is in ultimate control.  There is one, and He's on His side, which happens to be our side.  So you hear me talk constantly on and on about praying for this, that and the other.  I pray for our kids, I pray for Eric.  I pray for my friends, my church, and my family. I pray when I'm sad, scared, happy, nervous, and overjoyed.  I pray for things to happen all the time, or to not happen... and ultimately for God's will... and for my will to become like His.

So everything happens just like I ask for it to happen, right?

Nope.

Why?

Because, as Isaiah 55:8-9 tells us, I don't get it.  I can't see what's ahead.  I can't see what God has in store.  I look at Ryan's new-found typing ability and celebrate, desperate for anything that looks like it may be a key that unlocks something in his mind and heart.  But I can't see ahead to know what, if anything, will come of it!  I have prayed for Ryan so long and hard... and for us as we care for him, and for his teachers, and for everyone and everything I can think of that comes in contact with him or might.  But I have to trust that God will orchestrate the steps and lead all of us in the right directions. 

Now don't get the wrong idea.  When I say "trust" I do not mean "sit on my rear and do nothing".  I cannot just live the way I want, ignoring my responsibilities as a parent, wife, believer, and even my moral responsibilities as a human being and expect to have God's best fall at my feet.  I cannot eat everything I want, sit around and do nothing, and pray that my jeans will continue to fit.  Oh sure, I can do that... but I can promise you that my clothes will not continue to fit.  Nor do I believe in a works-based, put some in and take some out type of faith.  My God, my Father, is not a Santa Claus-type fairy who recieves our requests, processes, and delivers.  But there's this pesky little bugger called "stewardship".

To me, and you can pick apart my theology if you like, this means that I have to try.  God made us and He knows what our bodies, minds, and hearts can do better than we do.  At this point, I'm doing my best to fully embrace the life I have.  Not the life I dreamed of, or the things I thought I'd be, or even the things I worked to be... but the things I HAVE.  And I have a LOT.  Yes, things aren't just the easiest they could be right now.  Three small kids, one with special needs, two in diapers, on a teacher's salary, a husband still recovering from back surgery who can't bend, lift, or twist (including kids)... the list goes on, as I'm sure yours does.  Most of these I've embraced with no problem.  Seriously.  Back surgery?  Psscht.  Small kids?  Cute as lil' bugs!  Tight budget?  Cloth diapers don't scare me.  It's the Autism part that, up to this point, has paralyzed me.  Scared to death to do the wrong thing, no idea what the right thing is, no idea even what questions to ask, tired of explaining and making excuses for the seemingly-odd decisions we make, and sick to my stomach at the thought that I'm not doing everything I should.  Yep, that about covers it.

Step by step, doctor by doctor, specialist by specialist, therapist by therapist, website by website, blog by blog, book by book we wade into the spectrum.  At the beginning it's so hard.  It seems like every step you take into the waters of understanding and education burn with the sting of reality.  But the more you work through that burn... the more you reach out and take the information offered, even if you don't use it or it isn't right for you, the more you allow yourself to log onto that blog and read the differing opinions... eventually it's comforting.  As I pour over autism websites searching for something that will help us, as I pray and listen and read and talk to others, the biggest thing I'm learning right now is that "trying" to me may not look like "trying" to you.  As many of you know, we're working hard right now to strip down and redo ourselves in many ways, only adding back the things that make us who God wants us to be for the best of our family, which is to say, for His glory.  Not all of it makes sense, not all of it is cutting-edge, and I bet very little of it will look like anyone else's sense of "best" or "normal".  But it's my best, and who said I wanted to be normal?  Certainly not me.  I'm the crazy mama who ran to take a picture of the butter queen. 

So do your thing.  Do your best.  Smile.  Laugh.  And above all, know that God is looking down at you doing your best, smiling and grabbing His camera... because you're doing your best and he's proud of you.  Not because you're doing it all just right, but because you're His.  And just as I cleaned up Maelynn's mess, forgave Richie the pizza, and celebrated with Ryan, He will meet you where you are... you just have to sincerely TRY.

It's Going to Be Alright

Today Richie, Maelynn and I had a pretty regular day.  We had our breakfast, then the kids played while I got my shopping list together.  Eventually I was ready enough to walk through our local grocery store without making anyone too frightened or winding up on one of those joke websites of people with the newer age equivalent of toilet paper on their shoes.  Diapers washed, kids in clean clothes and with clean faces, and I even had a clean travel coffee mug in the cabinet which was quickly filled with that wonderful stuff that I drink for the protection of those around me.  The store had everything I needed, and even some on sale.  Mae didn't lose her binky.  The kids were sibling-fussy but overall not bad.  Gas was less than it is in town, and after (what should have been as much as it cost) a fill up, I was on my way back to Groesbeck.  Back in town before naptime, kids took their naps and I started laundry, dishes, and wading through the grocery put-away process.  Stuck the kids in the van when 2:40 came and picked up Ryan, who fussed his usual fuss when we didn't turn to go to Waco to see Miss Staci, but nothing major. 

The rest of the evening went much as this... and it was fabulous.  It was like a day off.  Ryan was so great, and only minimal fussing but no meltdowns!  He had a better day at school too.  Richie is talking more and more and is taking more care of his big brother, which is so sweet.  When Ryan fusses in the van, Richie says "Shh, Wyan... it's okay."  When he won't eat, Richie says, "eatcha food, Wyan" in the most gentle yet concerned way an almost three year-old could.  But the latter wasn't needed... Ryan ate THREE PLATES of taco salad!  Okay, it's meat, beans, chips and cheese but he ATE and it wasn't pizza.  Much celebration ensued!  Ryan was allowed a brownie and received much fanfare for his performance at the dinner table!  Richie wasn't left out... he had two plates and got to have some sliced "pomato" for dinner.  I know, right?  One who won't eat anything and one who just wants tomatoes for dessert.  God knew I needed a break in that area!  After dinner, we went outside and played until it got too close to bedtime.  Mae had a blast playing in poor Jedi's water (yes, I got him more) and Richie ran around the yard and slid down the slide.  The next part was too cool.

Eric and I sat on the porch swing on the patio that overlooks the yard, and Ryan climbed up and laid across our laps.  He was content to be there with us... no fussing, no beating his ears, no banging his head, no asking for Miss Staci.

He felt like my precious baby boy again.

He snuggled in our laps in a way that reminded me somehow of the night of the day he was born.  I remember less of that day than I wish I did (thanks, demerol).  But I do remember sitting up at about three in the morning in the hospital bed, holding this perfect little person.  I remember the amazement that I was finally a mother.  I was the mommy.  It was surreal that this tiny little guy was now my responsibility.  It was raining that night in Denton, and I remember looking out the window, watching it rain, praying for Ryan.  Praying for us.  As the rain slapped the window, by the light of the cracked bathroom door and the sound of my husband sleeping on a cot at the foot of the bed, I sat praying for Eric Ryan Senzig's whole life... his relationship with Christ, his future wife, even.  That moment was unforgettable.  The peace was amazing.  We were a family!  I'd wanted to be wife and mommy my whole life, and there you go.  We went in that morning to have him turned (he was breech), and we decided to go ahead and have him that day.  So it was go in surgery, come out with a baby.  Yes, the nine months before I knew it was coming, but you can never know what it's really like until you're living it. 

In the same way, I can't know what you're going through.  You can tell me, and I will listen.  I will do my best to encourage you, and try to empathize as best I can.  Even if I walked your days right by your side, I can still never know exactly how you feel.  Those of you who have an ASD child come closest, and that understanding is such a relief.  Those of you who have worked with autistic kids have a good idea, too.  But the best?  The best thing ever is when people simply listen, admit they can't understand, maybe even ask a few questions... but admit they can't understand.  Not necessarily feel sorry for us... Ryan is an amazing child!  He is smarter than I am.  I'm sure of that.  And what an incredible gift to be the mother of three children!  I am blessed beyond measure every day of my life whether I feel like it or not.  But showing that you believe Eric and I are doing the best we can... trusting that we are doing the best we can... is the best way to offer human comfort.

It's just that some days, the differences seem to jump out and taunt you.  Like I said before, I understand that getting my feelings hurt is going to be part of the growing pains of life for us, and I'm all for dealing with that and accepting it.  But when those things jump out and smack me, my first instinct is to want to protect.  Right now the act of leaving the house with all three kids ensures me an interesting time.  One 15 month old, one 2 3/4 year old, and one nearly six year old who is on a 2 year old emotional and social level, plus one mother... versus the grocery store.  Versus anywhere.  I look at these things and pray with all my heart to "just please God let me be able to stay calm!"  "Please God let me be able to keep them safe!"  "Please God help me learn to handle this!  Give me the strength, peace and energy!  I SO can't do this without You, Lord!"  That's what most of my prayers for the day look like.  Until yesterday. 

Yesterday, I ran across Psalm 139 and realized how, although I pray every day for my kids, I believe in my kids, I still looked at autism as something inflicted upon Ryan... as something that, I don't know, maybe some outside source caused.  Not a believer in the conspiracy theories of what causes autism, one would wonder why this never occurred to me before.  Psalm 139 applies to Ryan.  I know, I know... we knew that.  I tell my kids all the time that they are "fearfully and wonderfully made" and that God made them special and loves them very much (thank you, Bob and Larry). 

So now, instead of praying that I can simply handle the fits, the meltdowns (and there is a difference), the fears, the impulses, the triggers... I promise you that I am praying that God will help me get to know Ryan... to ENJOY him, not survive him.  Help me go back to that precious, peaceful first night of his life outside his mommy.  God knows Ryan.  He knows when Ryan "sits down and rises up," and He "discerns his thoughts from afar".  He knows what Ryan is thinking!  All this time I've been whining and crying and broken hearted over no one knowing what he's thinking... but God does!  God does, and I want to.  Hmm.  What to do? 

ASK, for cryin' in a bucket!  ASK!  I've said before in other times that one of the biggest lessons I've learned from my son about God is that He, as our Father, just wants to visit with us.  To know what we think, feel, and desire... to hear it from US.  To hear our voices cry out to Him in excitement and in fear, in joy and in hopelessness, in desperation and in times of plenty.  Instead of praying to survive, I'm going to start praying for God to help me know and enjoy my children... especially the one who doesn't communicate so much.  So if you'll allow me a little poetic liscence...

Psalm 139:1-10 (ESV... with Mama paraphrasing)
1O LORD, you have searched Ryan and know him!
2You know when he sits down and when he rises up;
you discern his thoughts from afar.
3You search out Ryan's path and his lying down
and are acquainted with all his ways.
4Even before a word is on Ryan's tongue,
behold, O LORD, you know it altogether.
5You hem Ryan in, behind and before,
and lay your hand upon him.
6Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
it is high; I cannot attain it.
7Where shall Ryan go from your Spirit?
Or where shall he flee from your presence?
8 If Ryan ascends to heaven, you are there!
 If he makes his bed in Sheol, you are there!
9If Ryan takes the wings of the morning
and dwells in the uttermost parts of the sea,
10even there your hand shall lead him,
and your right hand shall hold him.

God made Ryan and knows him far better than I do.  He was there that rainy night in Denton, and he's here with us every day.  He's with Ryan at school, on the playground, and in Sunday school.  In ways I cannot, He can comfort Ryan, Richie, Maelynn... and me.  Last night as I was surfing around on the various sites I visit, I found a link to this song.  It's by Sara Groves, and I looked it up on Grooveshark (click and you can listen free) and sat and listened over and over as the tears fell because it hits home so accurately.  It's Going to Be Alright... and it really is.  Maybe it won't always feel that way.  I can assure you it won't feel that way.  There will be rough times, but I'll keep doing my best, seeking the Lord's help, and it's going to be alright.  Not just for me... but for you, too, in whatever it is that I can't understand. 

"It's Going to Be Alright"


By Sara Groves and Gordon Kennedy
It's going to be alright
It's going to be alright

I can tell by your eyes that you're not getting any sleep
And you try to rise above it, but feel you're sinking in too deep
Oh, oh I believe, I believe that

It's going to be alright
It's going to be alright

I believe you'll outlive this pain in you heart
And you'll gain such a strength from what is tearing you apart
Oh, oh I believe I believe that

It's going to be alright
It's going to be alright

When some time has past us, and the story if retold
It will mirror the strength and the courage in your soul

Oh, oh, I believe I believe,
I believe
I believe

I did not come here to offer you cliché's
I will not pretend to know of all your pain
Just when you cannot, then I will hold out faith, for you

It's going to be alright
It's going to be alright

Different

I actually wrote this in September of 2009... still applies.  The older Ryan gets the more different he becomes, for now anyway.  The differences begin to sting a little more often these days.  Just remember... for everyone, not just special needs kids... that difference is a call to understanding and growth, not a call to separate and hide.

This morning was Ryan's second day of school. His first day went great. He loves his teacher and he made it through the day with no fits and only one fussy time, and that was when he had to wake up from naptime- and I can't blame him there. As I stood outside the door of the music room waiting to see his teacher so I could let him go, I couldn't help noticing how many kids were still crying for mommy the second day. There were still parents trying to peel their kids off their bodies and send them off with the reassurance that mommy and daddy love them, while the kids clung for dear life. Wasn't long before Ryan joined them. His protest of choice is to yank my arm in the direction opposite the offending area, adding screams for effect. I quickly squatted down, held him close (as close as you can when you're pregnant and holding a 14 month old who outweighs a lot of 2 year olds) and tried to reassure him. Usually we stick out like a sore thumb when he starts this, and I have to admit it was nice to blend in with the scenery for once. For a minute, anyway.


Still not seeing his teacher, I notice Ryan seems to be more comfortable away from the crowd of weepiness. So we go over to this little two foot tall brick wall that separates that part of the hall from the cafeteria, which is empty. It's not long before Ryan almost runs into this nice woman who is sitting on the wall, and as we soon learned, was waiting for her grandchild to get settled before she left. Being a grandmother, she immediately starts trying to visit with Ryan. She starts in with the usual when you're talking to little kids. "Oh, you don't want to go to school" and "you'll love it if you try" and things like that. He's doing his usual, no eye contact or responses from him. "He loves school," I reply on his behalf, "but this morning is a little out of his comfort zone." She asks who is his teacher, I tell her. She tells me whose class her grandchild's in, and right then I see Ryan's teacher coming with one of his classmates in tow. Immediately upon seeing his teacher and the classmate, the grandmother says, "Oh, THAT one." I try to degreet, but no reply. She's obviously through talking to me and no longer tried to talk to Ryan. I've just experienced my first... well, I don't want to say discrimination, but that's the only word that comes to mind.

For those who don't know, Ryan was diagnosed last November with Autism. It's a very diverse disorder that affects more children than you'd think. Ryan is in his second year of PPCD (Preschool Program for Children with Disabilities) in public school. His teacher was toting one of his classmates who has more obvious disabilities. It was immediately obvious to the lady we were visiting with, and out of either fear of what to say or how to deal with what Ryan's problem might be, I felt like she was just done. It wasn't an encounter that will change my life or Ryan's, and neither of us will be in therapy because of it. But it did make me a little more aware that He's different.

Oh, I know Ryan's different. Believe me, I live with him! To see him, he looks like a completely developmentally normal four year old boy. To an extent, he is! He loves Thomas the Tank Engine, Elmo, playing with cars and trucks, and firetrucks, police cars and anything else with a siren just fascinates. But Ryan's brain is made a little differently. It's like buying a computer. It has on it either what you pay for or what you put on it. Just imagine if you were made without the program that helped you know not to laugh at those around you who were crying, or how to process "it's time to be quiet now" in church and concert-type settings. Imagine what it would be like! What would it be like to not know how to hug, or have to be taught. To not know how to call for mommy or daddy when you wake up scared. To not understand how to communicate "I'm hot/cold" or "my head hurts" or "I'm hungry/thirsty". Add to that Glaucoma, and bright lights hurt your eyes. Now stick yourself in a setting where you don't know what to expect and surround yourself with people who expect you to automatically know all these things and be able to respond properly in an instant. Instead of "does not compute" we get screams. Or he bangs his head or elbows. Or both.

Now, I didn't start typing this just to complain about how hard Ryan's life must be. And please don't assume that every Autistic child has the same challenges as Ryan. Autism is a spectrum disorder, and there are a myriad of different things that can be challenges to these people. No, they don't all count an entire box of dropped toothpicks at once, nor do they all rock all the time and insist their underwear come from Kmart (for those of you who've seen Rain Man)! But they do all have feelings.

All disabled (or differently-abled, or developmentally behind) people have feelings. They do! They can hear you and see you and notice when they're treated meanly. They know they're different and so do their parents. Trust me, it's hard enough to accept the fact that there might be something wrong. If you've known me or my husband for five minutes you know how very important music and especially band is to us. One of my personal fears is that Ryan, who idolizes the high school drumline (to the point he just HAS to have his mallets with him much of the time), will be too freaked out by the crowd to handle being in band! All parents of children developmentally on target or otherwise have fears and dreams alike for their children. It's just that some of us see problems that are so immediately concerning that you can't help but project themto the future... and though we're told that Ryan could, with proper therapy, pretty much be normal in a few years it's still scary. It's still hard to pick up your child and instead of hearing all about what they did in Sunday school or school you're lucky to get "happy to see you". It's hard to not really be able to visit churches when you're out of town because you just don't want to put him through the ordeal.

I guess I'm asking... or pleading... with all of you out there to remember that these children (and adults) are made in God's image just as we are. They aren't mistakes or to be shoved in the corner and forgotten. They are fearfully and wonderfully made! They and their parents/caregivers need smiles just like you do. So don't be afraid to talk to them! Even though our Ryan won't likely give you eye contact until you've been "programmed" into his world, he needs that interaction. We and so many other parents live to help our children understand the world- how to play along with all the unspoken rules that go along with all relationships, no matter how brief. I know also, for all the teachers reading this, that not all parents are easy to draw in and get involved, and not all parents are willing to help work with you, so I'm not trying to make you feel bad. To all of you who work with/for children with developmental delays, Thank you! People like you are the reason Ryan is learning to hug us good night and tell us what he needs. You're the reason we hear less screams and more words... period!

So next time you hear a child pitching in a fit in a restaurant or at the store, remember the computer that sits in your lap or on your desk, and that he may not be equipped to deal with what he's being put through. And remember that the same God who sent Jesus to save us from our messups and stupid mistakes created this person and loves them just as He loves you... and He does love you just as we love our kids. No matter what.

.

Rising and the Red Button Incident

I almost didn't get out of bed this morning.  Really.  But this time, it was because I had an indescribably beautiful baby girl snuggled up to me in her pink doggie pj's.  As the morning light seeped in through the window sheers and graced her round, porcelain face and made her golden brown hair shine, I watched her rest completely still except for the gentle rise and fall with each breath and the nod of her pink binky every now and then. What an amazing blessing... a gift... our children are.  Can there be a more fabulous sound than the slaps of tiny bare feet on the kitchen floor?  How awe-inspiring and humbling to think that we are chosen to give them a home; to make sure they feel loved and learn to feel and share the love of Christ!  Then I thought about the stark contrast between our two younger and our oldest. 

When Ryan was a baby, he was the only one, and we would sleep all snuggled to each other after Daddy left for school.  The older I get, the more I cherish the things that were normal baby things he did.  Back in the days when we just loved being parents and couldn't wait to see all he'd do!  I had decided our kids would learn to read before they went to pre-k and would learn to read music at the same time.  They'd start piano at an early age, and would basically walk into the school the first day of pre-k with everyone telling them how amazing they were... and of course, everyone would talk about how smart and well-adjusted the Senzig kids were!  Oh, and I was going to be the Martha Stewart of room moms.  Look out.  Equipped with more Tupperware than is ever neccessary, I was gonna rock their little Elmo socks off with my baking skills.  Yep, I'd been waiting my whole life for this!  Ever since I was a little girl "raising" my Cabbage Patch Kid (Annabelle, and yes she DOES live in Mae's room now) I couldn't wait.  It's not a popular thing to say in this day and age, but I wanted to be Betty Crocker, Donna Reed, and June Cleaver all rolled into one and stuck in jeans and a t-shirt. 

But what I didn't know was that the t-shirt would have a giant puzzle piece on it for Autism Awareness.  All that effort I was going to pour into having our children be exceptionally gifted and super-overachieverly prepared was going to go into just getting Ryan to do the basics.  I didn't know I was going to beg him at nearly six years old to just please go to the bathroom without screaming and crying.  Just walk, please.  I expected to train him to sit in church at an early age just like I did my sister Bree, and be able to keep him quiet with the evil eye from the choir loft just like Bree.  And yes, that really did work... she was awesome!  Instead, I'm doing good to keep him semi-quiet and confined to the pew-area we're occupying.  I also had no idea that the job I had done professionally would turn out to be exponentially easier for me than figuring out how to be an autistic child's mother.  Yes, folks... I am far more comfortable with my ability to handle 150 sixth graders with musical instruments than I am in my ability to take my son to the grocery store.  There, I said it.  It's inexplicably difficult to admit it.  I LOVE my son, don't get me wrong.  It's just that walking through the grocery store with a nearly six year old slapping his ears, beating his chest, and now hitting me (that's new, by the way) and screaming like some kind of tribal man off to war hits this people-pleaser where it hurts.

The contrast is amazing.  Richie is now beginning to help his brother.  He leads Ryan back into the house when it's time to come in from the backyard, pleading in his sweet Richie voice, "Come inna howse, Yyan!"  He reminds Ryan of the rules, especially with the piano.  "Fingahs onwey, no feets, Yyan," Richie reminds as he hears (even from the other room) Ryan holding the sustain pedal as he experiments with intervals.  Richie's sweet heart is such an encouragement to me.  Ryan is his hero.  Richie has no precluded ideas about behavior or culture.  He just loves his big brother.  Richie even used to try to stim, or handflap, like Ryan.  So precious, that unadultered love and trust.  We are getting to the point where, when Richie copies some of Ryan's autistic behaviors, we have to explain that brother does that because he doesn't know better, but Richie does.  This is true, and that's just one of the parts that is hard to swallow.

Other than the diagnosis itself, and really more than that, is the death to my preconceived ideas about all of life.  How my house would be kept, how I'd teach my children everything, how we keep our marriage healthy all has to be relearned in a way that fits us. Yes, that sounds familiar to most couples, I bet.  The hardest part for me is realizing that I do have to draw lines, and more often than I wanted, the lines will be drawn in a way that the answer is "no, I can't do that."  

Can't. 

Ugh. 

Now, yes, I physically CAN walk out this door every day and do whatever.  I can force my will and do whatever I think is right... to a point.  I could do a lot of things, but the hard part is listening and hearing the difference in "good" and "best".  Last week I got a lesson in that.  I had been thinking after a few weeks of these sweet neighbor boys watching Richie for me while I take Ryan to therapy with Mae in tow that I really could do this on my own.  They were out on vacation for a while, and I found myself carting all three kids by myself to Baylor.  Everyone got out of the van just fine; we made it into the building just fine.  Richie and Mae let me sit and read books to them the whole time, and we spoke with Miss Stacy, then left.  On the way out, I learned my lesson.  See, there are all these emergency call boxes all over college campuses.  They're equipped with these big, round, bright red, irresistibly pushable buttons- just at Ryan-eye-level.  Usually, I can keep a hand on Ryan and a hand on the stroller.  This time, Ryan led Richie away and as I was getting Richie, he bolted straight for that button and before I knew it, that blue light on the top was flashing and I was telling (while half-running away and trying to not say any unsavory words) the campus cop who calls out loud so loud that half of McClennan county can hear that yes, all is well. As I walked away, once the embarrassment subsided and everyone was safely buckled into the van, it hit me how much I do need those boys, and what a God-send they truly are.

We are at a crossroads (thanks, Kay Arthur) in our lives right now... and really, several times a day.  We can whine, be sad, be angry and resentful and let that grow into bitterness, or we can ask the question God asked Jonah. 

"Do you do well to be angry?" 

Well, do you?  How's that workin' for ya?  For me, not so good.  I'm not denying that there is a grieving process for every hard thing that happens in life.  But I am saying that at some point, we have to realize that the time we're spending bemoaning our trials is time SPENT.  Time we could have been stroking those golden-brown curls.  Time spent letting Richie kiss-hug-kiss-hug all over my face till he giggles.  Time spent laughing when Ryan passes the emergency box and says "you LOVE to push buttons" every time since the red button incident.  Yes, I get angry.  At least once a day I look at God and say, "Are You SERIOUS?!"  Yep, I have plenty of fodder for those, as I'm sure you do.  Just last weekend we spent part of a gift to give back and participate in the Waco Walk for Autism.  After walking one lap around the Fountain Mall, we found Ryan's beloved Miss Stacy, who had her iphone out, and yep, that was it for Ryan.  Twenty minutes to get the phone away from him plus forty-five in a meltdown equals the whole of our walk experience.  Ah, well.  Just today, we had to have a new tire on the van.  No one in town had one, so I bit the bullet and took Ryan with me to the Goodyear store in Waco.  Yep, meltdown city.  First I had to keep him from running out of the store and into traffic.  Then spent the rest of the time calming him down, because man, mama... you're mean not letting your child play in traffic. 

Just like anyone else, after all that, I was so tired and really wanted to crawl under a rock, even just to get some sleep.  But instead, I tried to remember in each instance... there is always a reason.  I may never know the reason or reasons behind anything that happens, but I trust that the same God who loves me enough to send His only precious Son to die a horrendous (at best) death so that I could experience His love and peace has nothing but my best interest at heart.  The same God who knew me before the foundations of the earth has a plan for my sweet children!!! 

So I am thankful not for autism, not for frustration and anger, not for tears and emarrassing situations, but for the precious, innocent smiles and snuggles I share with the special children with whom God has gifted me.  I am the most thankful for the Lord who died so that the grace and mercy and love and peace of God can flow through me, that I may glorify Him in every meltdown and every scream and hit, as well as every hug, giggle, and victory!  I am thankful for the discernment and wisdom that the Holy spirit and Word of God give me!  Without the death, burial and resurrection of Christ I would not be able to rise in the morning. 

Instead, I'm unable to rise because I don't want the sweet moment to end. 

CHRIST HAS DIED!
CHRIST HAS RISEN!
CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN! 

Elevator Hatred

Hi.  My name is Crystal, and I have an unhealthy hatred of elevators.  It's nothing personal... well, maybe it is.  Elevators nearly tanked my family's Saturday, and they frustrate attempts to enjoy church with my husband's family. 
Last weekend, the Baylor Autism Resource Center had a fundraiser to support the work they do and, by association, the learning they receive.  It was a parent's day out.  For an entire three and one-half hours these sweet graduate students showed these children and their siblings a movie, fed them lunch, and played with them outside.  We took our Ryan and Richie (who wasn't really old enough, but they just couldn't resist) and left them with these young ladies for some almost child-free time.  Eric, Maelynn and I had a great time having lunch, doing a little shopping, and walking on the Baylor campus for a while.  As we strolled (HOLDING HANDS... omigosh! How novel!) up to the building to pick up the boys, a blood curdling scream pierced our hearts. 

It was Ryan.  I didn't even have to see him.  There are some sounds you just know as a mother, and I knew this better than I know my name... he was positively beside himself.  This is not the scream of "I didn't get my way", it's the completely disturbed, frustrated, angry, unhinged wrath of a child addicted to an object or action.  Once he sees an elevator he has to watch it.  HAS to.  We can use them, but it has to be in a very matter-of-fact manner, and I have to show absolutely no excitement or negative emotion whatsoever.  We use them every Thursday to get Ryan to therapy.  There are stairs, but I'm a firm believer in not avoiding these everyday obstacles but hitting them head-on because that's how life is.  So every week as we get out of the van, Ryan nervously reaches up and says "pick you up?!" Keep in mind, I'm by myself with he and his sister, who's in a stroller.  "Okay, Mommy will pick you up when we get to the building."  The whole way to the Draper Center, I have to either hold his hand (which he hates), hold his arm, or convince him to push the stroller with me.  There's an emergency button that we have to walk by every time, and he's dying to "push the button" and will try every time to sneak away to push it, so I make sure to stay between he and the button.  When we get to the building, Ryan nearly climbs up my legs to "be my backpack", and we hit the button to wait for the elevator as he stims, flopping his hands and humming nervously.  I've had to ask him several times to ease up on my neck... he gets so nervous and clings so tightly that I can feel my throat beginning to close.  We go up one floor (thank you Jesus that it's not any more) and get off, heading straight for Miss Stacy and the BARC.  If he doesn't get to go in immediately, he will try the door, then when he realizes it's locked, will go straight for the elevator every time.  Just to watch, mind you. He stays far enough away that (in his mind) it can't hurt him, but he can still watch the doors open.  The only thing that gets his attention is the glorious fact that he loves his therapist!

So on Saturday, as the sweet graduate students brought the kids back from watching the movie, they passed (unwittingly, poor things) an elevator.  My sweet boy tried the rest of the time to get back to the elevator.  It's not unlike the strongest magnet you can imagine.  Magnets don't forget they're supposed to be attracted to something, they just keep pulling and pulling... and so does Ryan.  When we arrived to pick him up, Ryan was sweaty, shaking and screaming, and the moment when someone relaxed, he took off to find the elevator again.  So picking up the boys turned into Miss Stacy keeping Ryan safe as he desperately tried to get back to the elevator (and I am impressed with her, I must add) while I changed Richie's diaper, then other students played with Richie while I calmed Ryan for about twenty minutes before I could even begin to talk him into going to the van.  He eventually calmed, but after one store with him stimming on everything and trying to keep up with his wiry level of sheer, unbridled energy and interest in everything spinny, shiny, and illuminated, by the time we found my husband some shoes I was ready for a nap.  Or something stronger.

Saturday was not our first encounter with love/hate things for Ryan.  In fact, many of those things color everything we do, right down to when I run certain appliances.  It used to be cute, his love of elevators.  But while we blinked Ryan turned into a nearly six year old boy instead of a baby.  Babies can be corralled in strollers, and they're tiny and cute and chubby and expected to "misbehave" and have a tantrum every now and again.  Six year old boys?  Not so much. 

When we first began learning that Ryan was different than his peers, people (even medical folk) said things like "get him in the right programs and he could grow out of this!"  All-righty!  I can do that!  Sign me up!  Let's get this under control, because I don't like seeing my boy so rocked to his core by something as simple as a fly buzzing around the house.  And yes, it happens.  Just last night Ryan sat at the table at dinner holding his ears and shout/scream/growl/yelling while hitting his elbows together, then he said, in a shaky voice, "it's a shoo-fly!" His poor little face was twisted in fear and annoyance... he really can't stand the buzz and unpredictability of a fly.  My dear husband, righter of wrongs, slayer of shoo-flies, slayed the beast and we thought he might eat.  Nope.  Washer and dryer were running... dangit, I forgot.  They usually run when he's gone.  "Ryan, would you like Mommy to turn off the dryer?" "Mommy turn off the dryer!" he says, and it's off.  Still so upset he can't eat.  The washer happened to be in a spin cycle, so I put him on top of it, and you'd have thought I bought him the coolest toy ever.  Calmed from the motion of the washer, Ryan got right down, went to his place, and finally began to eat.

Whew.

This spring is scaring us.  The more I look back, the more I realize that the reason for that shock and awe that Ryan is so big and still isn't "normal" is due to the fact that we rested in the wrong things.  In the times when he was melting down, I rested in the words of men.  The well meaning words that were meant to encourage us to get him help, I used as false peace.  We did get him help, and so much I have asked God that if it were in His will, please take this cup from Ryan.  Please.  I've begged.  I've pleaded.  And Ryan has improved leaps and bounds!  God has blessed little Ryan and has used him in my life, for certain. 

But the cup... the diagnosis... the challenge... remains. 

As we're learning in "Anointed, Transformed, Redeemed: As Study of David", it is at this point that I can become angry and stay that way.  I can choose to grow in frustration, not understanding why children are born with challenges, illnesses, and issues, or why they die until the frustration grows to bitterness.  The alternative is to cling to Him, to His hope and the knowledge that His ways are higher than ours.  I can choose to rest in "because He said so".  I believe with all my heart that it's best to believe He is in charge... I'm not.  Does this mean it will never hurt again?  No.  Does it mean that if I have faith enough this will all go away?  No.  God is not a vending machine. 

So why? 

Through my life, He's never failed me.  Even when others left, He didn't.   At 2:00 in the morning, when slogging through the daily activities of mothering, housekeeping, serving... even in the pick up line at school... He is there.  His presence gives me peace and strength at those times when no one else's words could touch the pain.  He's also there to tell me to "suck it up, cupcake" and keep moving, even when I don't feel like it.  He has given me and gives me ways to have fun, to serve others, to use my talents, all in ways that I can still put first His responsibilities for me to carry... my loving husband and beautiful family.  Through His word, His spirit, my experiences and others, He's consistently cared for me like no one else could.  He's carried me through times when friends were scarce or non-existent, through times when people who had been friends chose not to be, when I lost those dear to me to heaven, when the calculator and the checkbook were not friends, when I was at my most scared and lonely.  He proved Himself true, and He continues to prove Himself true every day, through every meltdown (Ryan's AND mine).  He forgives, he corrects, he disciplines... but always out of love.

This is where I'm spoiled rotten... advantaged, if you will...

I can't deny His sovreignty.  I need Him every hour.  When answering yet another set of questions, getting another call to pick Ryan up because he's inconsolable, waking up to stick another binky in Mae's sweet face at 3:00 AM, I need Him.  I'm not thankful for autism, don't get me wrong, but I am thankful for how close it keeps me to the Father's side.  I AM thankful for Ryan, Richie, and Maelynn... and for all they teach me every day.  And I am honored to be a mother... and the mother of a special-needs child. 

Yep, I still hate elevators... but I love the God who made my back strong enough to hold my boy and face them... and I love what the frustration they bring is teaching me.