RIP Hamster

If you have been following this blog, or if you actually know me, you also know that the Son of Never Stops Eating loves hamsters.  This love affair with the little rodents started in second grade, when he met his inclusion teacher's hamster, Hercules, and continues to this day.  You may also know that the adorable little creatures can chew through plastic, escape without detection, hide in places you would never imagine, and destroy drywall at a rapid pace.

This week, the Household of No suffered a loss: Squeakers #4 passed on to the Great Hamster Wheel in the Sky. 

Owning a hamster brings up all kinds of issues that are never mentioned in the parenting manual you likely did not receive.  For example, what do you do when the hamster dies? The first time this happened to us, I was on my way with the two kids to visit Grandma and Grandpa when the Dad of No, who had stayed home, called to tell me that the hamster- that we'd owned two weeks- had passed on.

Just go get a new one, I told him, quietly.  We'll just not say anything and hope he doesn't notice.  It's a hamster, not a dog.  They all kind of look alike.

When we returned home, my son ran into his room to reconnect with his beloved rodent.  He immediately came back out and glared at us accusingly.

Son: This is NOT my hamster.
Us:   Of course it is! They change a lot as they get older.
Son: My hamster had black eyes! This hamster has RED eyes!

So we had to 'fess up.  I tell you this so that you can learn from my parenting error.  Do not try to substitute a new hamster for an old one when the old one dies.  It might work for goldfish, but it does not work for hamsters.

The second hamster died after a long life (for a hamster) and a short illness.  This crisis precipitated a debate between the Mom of No and the Dad of No on the subject of "Do you take a $7 hamster to the vet?".  Like other major parenting issues, like discipline, or religion, or at what age teenagers should be allowed to date, this is a question that should probably be settled in advance and not at the actual moment of crisis. On one hand, a hamster is an almost irresistibly adorable ball of fur and drywall-chewing teeth, and on the other hand, it's an easily replaceable rodent with a 2 year lifespan. 

The third hamster's passing, of old age, raised that favorite parenting question: "Mom, do hamsters go to Heaven?" I directed my son to a member of the clergy to have that question answered. Mom Parenting Technique #106: Refer difficult questions to subject matter experts.

The recently passed Squeakers #4 had been presumed dead once before, when it escaped from its cage and remained on the loose for two weeks.  At one point we decided it had somehow gotten outside, because someone who shall remain nameless likes to open the front door and not close it.  Squeakers #4 probably got eaten by a raptor, I told the Son of Never Stops Eating. It's part of the great circle of life. And then, just as we were preparing to purchase a new hamster, he discovered the very much alive Squeakers #4 under his bed, along with about 100 Lego bricks, a bathing suit he'd outgrown, and several empty Capri Suns.

What this hamster ate for two weeks, we have no idea.

Squeakers #4 lived a long and eventful life, if you consider her two weeks going free range in our house, and she passed peacefully into the Great Hamster Afterlife.  The next day, father and son went to the pet store and returned with Squeakers #5, who is settling in nicely to her (or his; we're not sure) new habitat.  May she (or he) have a long life, and not attempt any escapes or chew any drywall.

The Mom Loan

The other night I was sitting at the kitchen table paying bills, and the Son of Never Stops Eating came up to me.  You're my favorite Mom, he told me. You are pretty and beautiful!  They should have a Mom Appreciation Day just for you!

When he starts with the flattery, I know that he wants something. 

Me: What do you want?
Son: A dollar for Oreo cookies.
Me: We have Oreos in the pantry. You can have those for free.
Son: I want to buy some at school.
Me: Why? Are those better in some way?
Son: (rolling eyes) Mom! Can I have a dollar? Yes or no?

I'm not really clear on what the deal was with the Oreos, but I handed over the cash, because compared to the school photos I had just finished paying for, and the yearbook I had just ordered, a dollar was nothing.  He had probably been observing me for hours while I muttered under my breath about how that yearbook better be printed on gold leaf paper, trying to figure out just the right strategic moment to ask me for that dollar.

I once tried telling my kids that once they turned 18 they had to start reimbursing the Dad of No and I for all the money that we'd spent on their childhood.  Since the day they were born, I'd been keeping records of all the money I had spent on diapers, toys, clothing, preschool tuition, dance lessons, tap shoes, softball fees, field trips, yearbooks, cookie dough fundraisers, food, electricity, water, all the gas I spent driving them places, wear and tear on our vehicles, water park season passes- all of it.  That was how it worked. 

Because I am a gracious and benevolent parent, I would not actually charge them for Christmas gifts, Easter candy, their share of the family health insurance premiums, or family vacations.

However, I am definitely getting reimbursed for that clarinet.

For a minute, they looked a little stricken. I was going to get away with it! This was exciting! I could finally think about retiring before I turned 90! Never mind that I actually have no idea just how much I've spent on my little darlings, although I know it's a lot.  Just the other day I spent over $100 at the grocery store, and that was only buying stuff that "we just ran out of", not the regular weekly food shopping.

Then one of them said, Mom, you're making that up, and the other one said, Mom, that's not fair! We didn't ask to be born! Darn teenagers, too smart for their own good.

It would be interesting if it actually worked that way.  Then when the offspring hit you up for something, like a $149.99 Lego City Police Station, and it had to be bought that very minute because it was on sale at Amazon and there were only three left, and who knows when they might get more, then you could say, "Are you sure you really want that? Because I'm putting that on your account.  With interest, when you turn 18, you'll have to pay me back $201.98. Still want me to place the order?"

Actually, he'd probably still say yes, because he's a fanatic about his Legos.  I should probably just stick to the just as effective parental deflection tactic called "Put that on your Christmas wish list and maybe you'll get it".

Just for the record, I have no intention of sending my kids a bill on their 18th birthday.  I just like to mess with their minds a little bit from time to time.  Given all the money I've spent on shoes that were outgrown in two months and gas spent driving to softball tournaments an hour away, I think my kids are getting off cheap.

Smarter than Me

Sometimes I get the sinking feeling that my kids might actually be smarter, or at least more talented, than I am. at least at certain things.  I had this sense the other night when the Family of No went to the Band Family Night at the high school. 

Because I am now a veteran Band Mom, I knew what was going to happen: as part of Band Family Night, the band director has the kids teach the parents a small part of the marching show.  This probably sounds like fun, and it is, except for some small problems that have surfaced in the last three years:

1.  I have no sense of rhythm.  Or really, any idea which of my feet is my left, and which is the right. Also,  I evidently have no idea what the phrase "take small steps" means in relationship to marching band.

2.  The Teenager has a calling as a Marine Corps drill sergeant.

Therefore, this activity led to some shenanigans, which mostly involved the Teenager saying things to me like "MOM! Don't hold my clarinet like that! MOM! You're doing it all wrong! It's a good thing this isn't real practice because you would be getting called out because you are stepping all over the place and you are supposed to be standing in a STRAIGHT LINE! and you took FIFTEEN steps and you were only supposed to take FOURTEEN!".

In my defense, I only took fourteen steps.  The Teenager completely miscounted how many steps I took.  I don't count the tiny little one I took so that I could end up where I thought I was supposed to end up, which actually turned out to be where I was not supposed to end up- I was supposed to end up six inches off to the left, or maybe it was the right.  In my opinion, correction steps don't count, just like broken cookies don't count if you're adding up calories, but the Teenager didn't seem to share that philosophy.

I would also like to point out here that the clarinet is actually MY clarinet, since I am the one who paid for it. If I want to hold my clarinet the wrong way, I will hold my clarinet the wrong way- except that I kept getting reprimanded by the Teenager, who kept glaring at me every time I even thought about not holding the clarinet the right way.

At some point I looked up in the stands, and I could swear that the Son of Never Stops Eating and the Dad of No were snickering at me.  I'm sure they weren't, because I personally thought that I was doing really well at this marching thing, considering that I've never really done it before, and that while I've been told by well-meaning friends and family members who are looking out for me that I should consider not singing or dancing in public, those things are not marching. Besides, it's all in the attitude, right?  And I thought I had a really great attitude! I wasn't complaining or anything, even though I was constantly being corrected by my drill-sergeant teenager.

Based on the final critique, however, I'm not very good at marching either.

This is why I don't offer criticism after watching a marching band performance.  I am way out of my area of expertise and I know it.  It's really better just to say something like "I'm always proud of you for working so hard", or "I missed it because I was making nachos in the concession stand".  If I offered up something like "you looked like you were a bit out of formation there", or "was that your clarinet sounding kind of screechy?", we'd both know I was just making it up, because after my marching performance it's clear I would have literally no clue what I was actually talking about.

Pre-Election Fatigue

After some serious thought and consideration, I have decided that I am suffering from Pre-Election Fatigue, also known as PEF.  I almost considered calling it Pre-Election Exhaustion, and then I realized that the initials would be PEE, and I have an adolescent boy in my household, so I get enough jokes about bodily functions already.  I don't need to add to my misery.

I realized this was happening when I was in Winco stocking up on food for the fourth time this week.  I was trying to grocery shop and follow a rather contentious thread on some Facebook page about the election at the same time, and all of a sudden I stopped in the middle of the bulk bin section and it was like a neon sign went on in my head: here I was standing in bulk bin nirvana (I have an ongoing love affair with the Winco bulk bin section) and instead of gazing lovingly at the candy and the grains and the pasta by the pound, I was obsessed with reading other peoples' opinions about the candidates.  Then I realized that I already know who I am voting for, and reading all that stuff written by people I don't even know was causing unnecessary angst. It was also wasting valuable time that could be better spent doing productive work, like hiking or cleaning the bathroom.

Here is how you alleviate the symptoms of PEF:  log off of Facebook. Put the phone back in your purse.  Go purchase two pounds of your favorite snack.

Seriously, this election is wearing me out.  I want to escape to some deserted island or mountaintop cabin and live there until the morning of  November 9, 2016.  At that time, I will come out from my deserted hiding spot to see what has transpired.   This is an unrealistic plan for many reasons, but a voter can dream. 

Even after the election, however, I don't think things will go back to rainbows and butterflies; we will all still have to live with each other no matter what the results are, which is something I think we are forgetting.  Since I've seen some pretty bitter fighting, even among people who used to actually like each other until they realized that they have different political preferences, that might be a tough challenge.

You have to tread carefully these days.  If someone asks the question, "So, what do you think about the election?" this question could be a trap, unless you actually know the person well and have an idea as to how your response will go over.  The most popular reply seems to be "Well, I don't really like any of them", or "I'm thinking about writing in SpongeBob SquarePants", or "Hey, did you see the last episode of Dancing with the Stars?", or if you are me, "Check out this cool snake I found at the nature preserve!".

A good snake picture can usually divert the conversation fairly quickly and easily.

If you mess up and answer that question honestly, you might find yourself de-friended on Facebook. It's happened to me twice.  Since I have an innate strong need to tell people what I actually think when they ask me for my opinion (this characteristic has gotten me in trouble since I learned how to talk), this line of questioning only adds to my pre-election fatigue.

I don't even want to watch the news anymore.  When I go to the gym to walk on the treadmill, I have started watching HGTV instead.  It's not that I don't want to be an informed voter; it's that I think I've reached my tolerance for people screaming at each other on TV.  Besides, I'm thinking about new flooring in my house.  I'm wondering what the Property Brothers would recommend. Laminate? Tile? Carpet? Hardwood flooring?

I'm waiting for some pharmaceutical company to come out with medication for PEF, advertise it on TV and the radio, and sell it for exorbitant amounts of money.  If they do, they by golly better give me a share of the profits for coming up with this in the first place.

At least PEF is a time-limited problem.  After November 2016, I can relax knowing that my bout of PEF is over and I have returned to solid good health.  Until the 2020 election comes around, that is.  Hopefully by then I'll have figured out how to go hide in Fiji for six months. I have four years to get a plan worked out, or at least a fantastic supply of snake photographs.

Denial of Service

Several days ago, I became aware of an article in the Houston Chronicle about special education in Texas.  In summary, what happened was that the Texas Education Agency (TEA) had set an arbitrary benchmark for the number of students who should be admitted to special education programs in Texas: 8.5%.  Never mind that the actual number of children and youth with disabilities in Texas is actually higher. Schools were required to bring the number of students in their special ed programs down to 8.5% by whatever means they saw fit.

The number of children who were denied the services that they are legally entitled to is, according to the Houston Chronicle article, 250,000 students. 

When I read it the first time, I was angry. When I read it the second time, I was angry, but not surprised.  The third time, I read some comments.  Most were expressing how appalled they were. But some said this:  Why are we even bothering to educate these kids?  Educating disabled kids is a waste of time and money.  Those resources should be spent on students who can actually achieve something more than sacking groceries at Kroger. 

I wasn't surprised at either the original article, and I wasn't surprised at the harsh comments.  I wasn't even surprised that, aside from other parents of kids with disabilities, the article didn't seem to get as much attention as you might think bureaucratic shenanigans would.  I wasn't surprised to see that other parents weren't surprised.  The general reaction seemed to be anger and a resigned "yeah, something had to be up".  Stories of children being denied services are a recurring theme among special needs parents.

I get it; this information is competing with a contentious election and Colin Kaepernick.  But for those of us with a special-needs student, fighting for our kids becomes ingrained in our daily life.  For some, it becomes more than a full-time job. It becomes instinctual.  After I thought about it some more, I was angry because I wasn't surprised.  This is what we come to expect, as special needs parents.  If something has to be sacrificed to save money, it will be our kids.

I'm tired of hearing about "family values" from politicians who won't provide the services that a disabled child needs to attend school and live a meaningful life.  I'm tired of hearing that I should keep praying, or that God will provide, when what parents of children with disabilities need is for a state agency to do what they are supposed to do and provide the education that special needs students are legally entitled to.  I'm tired of society paying lip service to helping special needs individuals but refusing to allocate any real resources to the cause.  I'm tired of not being surprised when I hear stories about discrimination against people with disabilities of all ages. 

I will also say this: The Son of Never Stops Eating was expelled from private preschool because he "had issues".  He was placed in Public Preschool for Children with Disabilities (PPCD) on his third birthday. He received therapy and the attention of  wonderful, talented teachers.  He went from not speaking to having quite the expressive vocabulary.  He is a library aide and a swimmer for Special Olympics. He can tell the difference between a heron and an egret.  He is an artist. He can make a cheese sandwich and walk the family mutt.  Some of this is because he has awesome parents and a great sister. Some of this is because he has support in the community.  Some of this -much of this-is because of his teachers and aides in the schools he has attended.  I expect that as an adult, he will be employable and will have a place in the world. 

The 250,000 kids being denied services?  Those are 250,000 human beings.  250,000 individuals with unrealized potential.  250,000 future adults who need the services a public school education can provide so that once they are grown, they can take their place in society as contributing members. 

Yes, I was so angry when I read that article.  But sadly, I was not surprised.  And if nothing comes of this story, as I half expect will happen, that will not surprise me either. 

Class Rings

Last week, the Teenager brought home the paperwork to order her class ring.  My first thought was "Oh, wow, now it begins; one of the very first steps towards that cap and gown in May of 2018".  My second thought was "Holy cow, these are expensive!".  Actually there might have been some bad language tossed in there, as in "****, these ******* things are ******* expensive!". The Son of Never Stops Eating might have said something like, "MOM! Don't use bad words in front of your children!".  I had heard rumors about the cost of these milestones, but the truth revealed was still quite shocking.

I'm beginning to suspect that having a member of the graduating class of 2018 in the house is going to be like planning a wedding- everything will be overpriced and half of it will be stuff no one will care about two days after graduation is over.

I don't even know where my own class ring is.  I remember ordering one; I recall that I was told if I wanted one, I'd have to pay for it myself, so I ordered the cheapest one I could find. I've noticed that is how it works with kids and money; when it's your money, the sky is the limit, but when it's their money, they start channeling Ebenezer Scrooge prior to his Christmas Eve redemption.  I'm not sure why I wanted a class ring so badly that I was willing to fork over my own hard earned cash, but it was probably for that most adolescent of logic- I needed one since everyone else was getting one, too. 

If I'd saved that $80, or whatever I paid back in 1986, I wonder how much that money would be worth now.  I didn't even like high school that much.

After dinner, I opened up the class ring order booklet and started perusing the options.  I hate things that are overly complicated, so what I was looking for was the page that was highlighted with rainbows and neon print and that said "Dear Frugal Parents, here is the Cheapskate Option!".  This page did not exist, probably because there is no cheapskate option.  There were pages upon pages of different styles of rings, with all sorts of options and graphics and gemstones and I started getting a sensory overload headache so I put it aside for another day.

Various friends gave me class ring advice: offer her money instead of the ring, and let her decide what to do; don't buy one, no one wears their class ring after high school; buy a birthstone ring instead; it's less expensive and it's something she can wear for a long time.  This advice was all valid and good.  I decided that the Teenager would have to put some skin in the game by making a financial contribution of her own.  This news was not met with overwhelming enthusiasm, but rather stoic acceptance.

It is hard to say no to stuff like this.  I know from personal experience that once the Teenager graduates, much of this will becomes far less important to her.  Once you set foot on a college campus, no one cares that much about where you graduated or what you did.  But when you're experiencing it, it's important, exciting stuff. 

I'm now waiting with bated breath and my checkbook open to see what other surprises are in store for me.  I already know of one: I was informed during the class ring conversation that this might also be band letter jacket year.  I'm sure there won't be a Frugal Parent option for that, either.

Time Capsule

When the Teenager was in utero and preparations were underway for her arrival, I was given a baby book at one of my showers.  Because she was my first child, and because I was completely enraptured with this tiny being I'd been entrusted with, I did my best to keep it up.  As most parents of two or more kids know, after the second one is born, good intentions often go unrealized.  As a result, the record stops being so detailed in this particular baby book starting in early 2003, and eventually I put both baby books up and moved on to other things. 

Some time ago, I took her baby book out of the cabinet it was stored in while looking for something else. I started thumbing through it, and realized that I'd created a mini time capsule.  I had saved several cards that her maternal grandmother, not yet affected by Alzheimer's, had sent.  Her signature, "Love, Grandma" was always written in her lovely, flowing penmanship. On the advice of a parenting magazine,  I'd sent away to the White House for a congratulatory note and had received, in return, a card signed by President Bill Clinton.  I made a note that during the 2000 Summer Olympic Games in Sydney, Australia (which I watched a lot of, since I was nursing an infant at that time) North and South Korea had marched in together during the opening ceremonies.

And then, in the back, a note that I'd written right after 9-11.  I don't even remember writing this; it was an exhausting and stressful time.  It's my handwriting, though, so I did write it.

Sept. 11, 2001: You were 13 months old- the worst tragedy on American soil, the bombing of the World Trade Center in NY and the Pentagon in D.C. I think often of the world you will know and I pray and hope it is a peaceful one.  That day the only thing different as far as you knew was that Daddy picked you up (from daycare) because Mommy was working late. But everything changed that day.  October 2001

It is hard to explain the impact of 9/11 to people who were not yet born, or who were so young that they don't remember it.  To me, it was the national version of thinking that catastrophe is something that happens to other people until it happens to you and then suddenly it's real in a way that it wasn't before.  I had work to do, so I mostly recall listening to talk radio shows speculate wildly on what had actually happened, what would happen next and when it would occur. 

For me, there was a "before 9/11" and an "after 9/11"- before 9/11, you could meet people at the boarding gate when they got off the plane, or just go and watch planes land and take off,  I remember telling my kids once (I'm not sure I was believed).   But during those weeks right after, somewhere in that fuzzy haze I realized that for my daughter there would really only be "after", and that she would only know of "before" in stories, books and photos. I remember being so worried and fearful over what "after" was going to be.

I still think often of the world my teenagers will know as they enter adulthood. Some of my thoughts are unsettling; these days, constant conflict and no resolution seems to be the road we are walking down.  However, I am still hoping and praying for the peaceful world I wished that my 13 month old might come to know, back in a very uncertain October of 2001.  We should never forget; let the work of peace be our remembrance.

Fundraising

Labor Day is now past and summer is closed, as the Son of Never Stops Eating might say.  The kids are all back at school, football games have started, the grocery store is stocking Halloween candy and soon the local malls will be putting up their Christmas decorations and advertising visits with Santa Claus, if they haven't started already.  This can mean only one thing for those of us with offspring still at home: It is now fundraiser season!

I have a intense dislike/hate relationship with fundraisers.  I get why fundraisers are necessary; I just don't like doing them.  I suspect I am not alone. Part of my dislike comes from the fact that I am horrible at asking people for money, and part of my dislike comes from the expectations of the fundraiser organizers as to who, exactly, I can hit up to buy rolls of wrapping paper, cookie dough, discount cards, or any of the myriad other fundraisers my kids have presented to me.

For example, the paperwork will often say something to the effect of "Sell to your relatives! Your neighbors! Your parents' co-workers! Your friends! People at church!" An entire network of people you know, just waiting for you to approach them about buying some candy or a magazine subscription!  In practice, it isn't that easy, at least not for our family, because we don't actually have that many relatives who are willing to fork over $15 for a box of greeting cards.

Sometimes, I would have the Teenager call the Grandpa and Grandma of No to present her sales pitch.  The Grandma of No has Alzheimer's and probably wouldn't be interested in wrapping paper, but Grandpa...it never hurts to ask, right?

Kid (calling grandparents...phone ringing...ringing...ringing)
Grandma: Hello, who is this?
Kid: It's your favorite granddaughter. Can I talk to Grandpa?
Grandma: Who?
(In the background you can hear Grandpa telling Grandma to give him the phone)
Kid: Hey, Grandpa, do you want to buy something from my school fundraiser?
Grandpa: What? Why would I want to do that? Isn't that why I pay taxes?
Kid: I dunno....Mom said to call you.
Grandpa:  Tell your mother I already contributed to enough fundraisers when she was in school!

Selling to the relatives doesn't always work out well.  The workplace has a no-solicitation policy, so scratch that potential pool of customers.  All of our friends also have kids that are selling the same exact things.  Eventually, what I am left with is one extremely small group of individuals who are willing to buy something: the people in my immediate household- meaning me.

The other problem with fundraisers, at least from the Mom of No point of view, is that we all know who is doing all the fundraising work and that person is Mom! I didn't really understand this until my daughter joined Girl Scouts.  People actually want Girl Scout cookies, so everything went smoothly until the order was picked up from the Cookie Mom.  All of a sudden, I had a room filled with boxes of Girl Scout cookies that had to be sorted and delivered.  The family mutt was eyeballing the cookie boxes with that look that said, "Yum! Delicious! Doggie treats!" It was imperative to get those cookies out of my sunroom and into the hands of eager cookie eaters.

First, though, I had to sort them, and figure out who ordered what, and how I could hunt them down to deliver their cookies, and then there was the one neighbor that would never answer the door, and the panic (always unrealized) that somehow the order had been recorded wrong and the customer would say "I didn't want these Samoas! I wanted Thin Mints! Where are my Thin Mints?"  The potential for error was quite unnerving.

Perhaps this is why I like the Band Parent Concession Stand Duty much more than the traditional fundraiser.  All I have to do is show up, make nachos or funnel cakes for four hours, and go home. On a slow night, I can even indulge in some band nachos (although if I eat them too late in the evening, I get heartburn; I have to be careful about the nacho eating).  I don't have to actively sell anything to anyone, collect any money from people who forgot that they ordered something, sort anything, deliver anything, or unsuccessfully hide food products from a terrier with an iron stomach and the ability to open doors.  I just have to make sure there's enough cheese on the nachos and keep track of who wanted jalapenos and who didn't.

Now I just need the Teenager to get her driver's license (no pressure) so that she can deliver her own Band Pies later this year, and my Mom Fundraising career will be even easier to manage.

Frayed

The other day, I was out hiking at the nature preserve, and I took a picture of a pretty blue dragonfly which had settled, momentarily, on a branch.  When I got home and could look closer at the photo, I could see that the dragonfly's wings were a little frayed and tattered. I can verify, however, that although the wings weren't perfect, the dragonfly was still able to fly just fine.

I can relate to this dragonfly. I also have days where my wings are feeling a little tattered and frayed.  Sometimes I have the urge to jump in the car and drive until I get to a beach where I will move into a cottage on the dunes. I envision spending my days sketching, writing bad poetry and drinking artisanal coffee while listening to the surf until I either run out of money or the authorities finally find my hideout.  I'm a responsible person and I'd feel guilty if I actually did this; also, I'd probably miss nagging my family after a week or so.  That doesn't mean I'm not tempted.

A friend recently sent me a blog post written by another special needs parent about accepting our other family members (specifically, the special needs one) the way they are.  It was a good article and I enjoyed reading it.  I think I've reached a point of acceptance in my own special needs parenting journey, but that doesn't mean that I'm still not frustrated or angry at times.  Part of acceptance means also accepting that it's okay not to feel angelic and competent 100% of the time, and that it's completely fine to have the occasional (or not so occasional) panic attack about the future, whether that's tomorrow or four years from now.  While we're working on being accepting of others, we can also give ourselves a little acceptance.

If I were talking to a mom new to the special needs journey, or actually any mother- "typical" kids can come with their own sets of challenges- and she wanted some advice, I'd tell her this: sometimes you will get so angry or frustrated about something that you will want to scream until you lose your voice, and that is perfectly normal.  Sometimes nothing will do except sitting in your car in a parking lot and having a good scream, or hiking out into the woods and letting loose on some poor, unsuspecting tree. 

Side note: If you do hike into the woods, make sure there's no one else around.  The last thing you'd want is for some other hiker to think that you're being attacked by a bear, or that you saw a snake, and have them call the rescue squad.  "Oh, no", you'd have to tell them, "I'm totally fine.  I just came out here to scream.  You can leave now".  It could be a little awkward.  Also, after you're done screaming at the tree, give it a hug.   You can never hug too many trees.

When my kids were younger, and the diagnosis was a new thing, people would ask me "how are you doing?"  95% of the time, there was only one socially acceptable answer to that question: "We're doing really well!" However, inside, I was screaming, "Everything sucks! we got kicked out of a restaurant last night because he threw French fries at another diner, our toilet is clogged, the check engine light is on, the dog barfed on the carpet seven times, my other kid keeps forgetting to turn in her homework,  and I stay awake all night wondering what will become of us!"

Once or twice, I actually did give that answer, and the other person stood there, blinked, and said, "Oh my. Well.  I hope you have a better day tomorrow! I'll be praying for you!".  I felt like there was some extremely high bar that I had to meet, and when I wasn't meeting it, I needed to keep that information to myself.  If you're lucky, you find the people who can handle the real answer. Eventually you realize that it's okay to feel frayed and tattered, and it's okay to be frustrated and tired and angry and unsure of yourself.  I'm still working on this myself.

None of us can be perfect. Eventually, most of us get a little tattered and frayed around the wings, but that's okay.  We can still fly.