My Beautiful Boy

The moment I laid eyes on you,

I knew what I’d been told was true.

Mommy’s chin,

Daddy’s nose.

I made sure,

You had all your toes.

Love swelled inside my heart,

Couldn’t imagine being,

One second apart.

I loved watching you grow,

Wondering how much you’d know.

Hearing you cry always hurts,

Trying my best,

To describe it in words.

One day,

You stopped seeing me,

Invisible, a ghost.

My heart was ripped apart,

When you were diagnosed.

I thought that’s it,

It’s over.

You and I,

Would never be closer.

Your daddy told me

They were wrong,

You would make it,

You were strong.

All I could do was pray,

Things wouldn’t turn out that way.

Now here we are,

You laugh and you play.

Daddy was right,

Everything is okay.

Today you look me in the eyes,

You’ve truly made me realize,

Miracles do come true,

Now you say I love you.

You are so friendly,

A bit crazy,

Yet, a little messy.

Those toy cars,

Always lined up perfect.

Don’t mess with them,

There’d be pay hell for it.

Repeating everything I say,

You even mock me when I laugh.

Have to stop my giggling

With everything I have.

Your hugs,

There is nothing,

They can’t cure.

You always remind me,

There’s nothing I can’t endure.

So, my beautiful boy

You’ve brought me so much joy.

My cheekie, Mi cochito

Que orgullosa estoy.

Every bit of my being,

Knows this to be true.

I have never been more proud,

I will always love you.

To The Sanctimonious, The Judgmental, The Holier Than Thou Parent: Fuck You

I am a parent.

I am the parent of a 14 year old genius smart ass, a 7 year old autistic child who resembles Tarzan, and 3 year old pain in the ass pug.

I am not afraid to admit that there are moments where it f*#%!@$ sucks. I am not ashamed to admit there are sometimes I wish I wasn’t a mom and that I’m tired of living this life. That I wish I was free again to do whatever I want, whenever the fuck I want. I am not afraid to admit that I’ve sometimes felt my kids are a$@!?*%$!

I’m not embarrassed by the fact that sometimes my ass has wished I lived on a fucking island.

Wanna know why? Because I’m fucking HUMAN. The thoughts I just expressed are HUMAN. I’m not a goddamn robot. I have feelings, and not all of them will always be pleasant. Parenting is not EASY. It makes you want to pull your hairs out!

If you say otherwise and are a parent, you’re a part of the problem. You’re either fake or pay other people to do your parenting for you. I don’t care who you are, if you can sit there and say none of what I just said has ever crossed your mind, you’re lying.

You’re straight up full of shit.

If you aren’t a parent and are reading my words, think I’m a demon because of them, you can’t speak on an experience you know nothing about.

I dont give a fuck if you’re a baby sitter, you have a degree in whatever has to do with children, if you’ve been working with disabled children for whatever amount of years. Do what I do 24/7 (I am poor and literally never vacation), then come talk to me about how pleasant, peachy keen and easy it is, how it’s been nothing but a dream. Kiss my ass.

There is nothing wrong with admitting how hard and frustrating parenting fucking is. How it will drive you to the point of tears from time to time.

Sanctimonious parents make me ill. Sanctimonious people make me ill. If you think I’m sanctimonious, your ass knows nothing about me and clearly does not read my blog.

Sanctimonious people don’t admit to defeat and fault. Holier than thou people don’t own their fuckups.

They are all about maintaining this fake ass image to look perfect. The people who try the hardest to look perfect are the people who are usually the worst parents.

You don’t realize the damage you cause when you make a parent feel like shit about being straight up regarding how hard it is. Being a parent is one of the most difficult jobs in the world, and if a person is opening up to you about that, they are looking for support. They are looking for validation. They are looking for compassion, for empathy.

You think parents already don’t feel like they don’t do enough? You think parents aren’t already hard on themselves, feeling like shit about themselves? Feeling guilty for finding it difficult and for having those thoughts?

The LAST thing a parent needs is to be SHAMED for having a moment of weakness. You are literally CONTRIBUTING to how badly they feel, and more than likely making them feel WORSE. How is that helpful in any way?

You create isolation. Making people feel like they have no one.

Y’all are the probably the same fuckers contributing to mental illness, making people feel like shit about that too. No one wants to be upfront, because they are afraid of what YOU, the JUDGMENTAL , the SANTIMONIOUS, the TRUE HOLIER THAN THOU will say and think about them.

Meanwhile, you ain’t shit. You’re one of us, struggling just as much as us.

If your ass got off your high horse, we could support you as well, because we all know that the most judgmental people are the most miserable people with the lowest self esteem.

Those who feel the need to critique everything and everyone, those are the ones who feel like garbage about themselves.

People who are happy look to support others, to show others love. They inspire and look to show others the silver lining in life. They don’t go around, pointing out all the flaws with the intent of making you feel bad and guilty.

If you cut the shit out and humbled yourself, you could receive love and heal too.

However, you can lead a horse but you can’t force them to drink.

You wanna know why I dont feel bad about the thoughts I’ve listed? Because I have nothing to prove. Because my children KNOW I love them. Why? Because they FEEL it.

They feel it when I sit with them and talk to them about LIFE and LOVE. When we TALK about intimate matters and have heart to heart conversations.

When they KNOW they can make themselves vulnerable with me. They know I am not going to judge them, that I accept them for who they are, that I support them and want them to do, look and wear what makes them happy and feel good about who THEY are, regardless of what ANYONE thinks.

They can tell me what they feel because they know I’m a safe space. They know that I respect them, because they are human beings.

They know I encourage them to speak their minds, their hearts and to stand by their truths because I remind them that they matter.

My son may not be able to speak to the fullest capacity, but he feels me intuitively with him when I’m hanging in his room, when we are working on potty training, when we listen to music, when we sing and dance together. Those moments are priceless.

I’m there at every school meeting. I’m right there with those teachers as they teach me how to dress him, brush his teeth, how to read into his body language and needs, the latest advances he’s made. He knows I love him when I clap for him, hug him and tell him how proud I am of him.

I dont NEED to PROVE what I feel for my kids to anyone with my WORDS.

MY BOND with my kids, the TRUST my children have for me, my PRESENCE and SUPPORT during the hard times… that shit speaks for itself.

Parenting is more than providing the physical. One day, they will become adults and they will be able to provide for themselves.

Kids don’t look back and feel connected with you because you put a roof over their head. You’re not special to them because of that. That’s not what makes you memorable. Anyone with money can do that.

Why do you think so many rich kids hate their parents and bonded more with their nannies? A lot of those kids treat their parents like shit, but are entitled and will ask for money with the same mouth they disrespected them with. Because the parent has always felt money was the answer to everything, they hand it over. You can’t buy your child’s love and trust. Money isn’t the answer. It’s not enough.

Parenting is about BONDING and making your kids feel you are PRESENT. Making sure they FEEL you LOVE them.

That they can come to you with ANYTHING, with no judgement. They know that if I’m telling them something, if I’m reprimanding them, I am not demeaning them. I come from a place of true, pure LOVE.

That right there is what matters. THAT IS LOVE. Not what the fuck I feel, think or express in moments of frustration. Any parent or person in general could kiss my ass if they think otherwise. I probably wouldn’t like your fake ass anyways.

To my daughter, if you’re reading this (your ass doesn’t even need me to say this, because you’re blunt as f$!@ as it is)

Never be afraid to be you. Never be afraid to be true to yourself. Never be ashamed of your thoughts.

“Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes”

⁃ Robin Sharma

I thank every person who has ever judged, shamed, angered, hurt or betrayed me. I got everything off my chest and my ass actually feels better. You give me so much writing material and inspiration than you probably wish to. You’re the ones who keep this blog interesting. Love you 😘

Thank you for reading ❤️

Fighting The Good Fight

So, I’ve been silent for a bit. I mentioned that in my last blog post. There has been a lot going on here at home. Things have been a struggle, I have been struggling.

Being the mother of an autistic child is difficult beyond anyone’s understanding, besides a person in the same boat. That’s that all children on the spectrum are different from one another.

We started potty training Ethan. Me and two of his teachers camped out in the bathroom for three days. It was exhausting. Days after, he had a week off. Whole days with Ethan are tough. They are intense.

He requires a lot of attention. I am still changing diapers, still dressing him from head to toe. He has many needs. He needs to be watched vigilantly. I’ve seen him move our 50 inch television by himself. Let’s keep in mind, he’s only six years old. He’s broken his dresser which was nailed to the wall in his room, causing for the tv to come crashing down to the floor. I’ve found nails randomly in his mouth.

It’s traumatizing. I feel like I cannot keep him out my sight because he might hurt himself. There are nights where he will wake up as early as 3-4am, banging things, jumping on his bed, dropping things on the floor because he enjoys the clattering sound that’s made.

The stress from this has triggered my anxiety, a depressive episode, it’s robbed me of my ability to sleep restfully for an entire night. I wake up and lie in bed thinking about how the morning will go, creating fear and worry. Becoming apprehensive that things will be completely chaotic when it’s time to get ready for school. They usually are, my anxiety comes from not being in complete control over a situation that simply can’t.

There are things that I no longer enjoy that I used to. I used to sing regularly, I used to read tarot, I used to write frequently and now cursed with writer’s block. I always had something to say and here I find myself quiet. Just trying to stay afloat. Just trying to get through each day, day by day. That’s become my new hobby.

It’s hard. I cry a lot. It’s overwhelming. I try to keep in mind that this moment wont last forever yet it’s hard to imagine that when I feel the way I do. It’s easy to feel like a bad parent when parenting makes you break down. I’ve had moments where I feel like a weakling for not being able to handle what’s been given to me as I’m constantly struggling. It’s easy to feel like you’re not doing enough. Like you aren’t enough. Like everything you do is wrong.

So, that’s where I’ve been. I’m still in therapy. I’m still working through these issues and it’s helped immensely. I’m sharing because I know there are moms who feel the same way I do. Know that you’re far from alone. You’re not a bad person, you’re not a bad parent. If you were, you wouldn’t be concerned about being one. Hang in there.

Autism Is A Gift?

Before I start, I need to state how hard this was to write. I cried all through out. I share this because I know I am not alone and I would love to meet others struggling with the same. If this offends you… I can’t help what I feel and I won’t apologize for it. I refuse to suppress anymore.

My husband and I decided to have our child. It was a mutual decision. One that made sense to me at the time. I wanted the experience of motherhood earlier in life. I was with someone who I knew would be an amazing parent. It felt perfect.

When expecting a baby, we tend to wonder what the child will be like. We imagine pigtailed princesses, tomboys, tiny all star athletes and the semblance of yourself somewhere in this little being.

None of us realize that having a child does not guarantee that he or she will be healthy or even disabled. It isn’t in our wildest dreams. Actually, it’s something that’s tucked away somewhere so far beyond your conscience, you might even feel it’s impossible. At least that’s what the experience was like for me.

I gave birth to a son. Ethan. His name brings a smile to my face. I fell in love with everything about him, from head to toe. I loved everything about being his mother. It brought me joy and pride to watch him grow. It created a curiosity in me that resembled a hunger. Who was he? Would he love video games and baseball like his dad? Would he hate small talk and crave discussions of our existence and conspiracy theories like his mom?

Ethan was 6 months old when his pediatrician told me he wasn’t hitting his milestones. She recommended that we contact early intervention to have him evaluated for any sort of delays or disabilities. I declined. I was told by every mother I knew, that all children grew at their own pace. That’s what was happening here. That was all.

Ethan learned to sit and crawl later than was expected. He took his first steps when he was a year and a half. Still, I believed this was normal. What kept me up at night was that he wasn’t talking. No phrases. Nada. I would attempt to play with him at home or I’d take him to the park. He no longer made eye contact with me. He no longer smiled or interacted with me. He didn’t respond to his name, to my voice. I was a ghost. It hurt. God did it hurt.

I told myself I’d contact early intervention if he turned two years old and was not speaking. I found myself making that phone call shortly after his second birthday after seeing no signs of improvement. The process went rather smoothly and Ethan was to be evaluated by a psychologist.

The psychologist was scheduled to visit with us at our home. She turned to me in under five minutes of her visit and told me my son was severely autistic. I felt like I’d received a hard punch to the stomach. Autism. My son? I didn’t know anything about it. It didn’t run in my family. It didn’t run in my husband’s family.

All these thoughts and fears ran through my mind. That’s it, his life is over. He’ll never lead a normal life. He won’t grow to become a man who will get married, go to college, have the ability to support himself.

In that moment, I wanted to die. I’d recently found out I had a life threatening Illness that I didn’t know I’d survive from. Hearing this broke what was left of me. I was doomed. My son, who hadn’t even begun to live his life, was doomed. I cried and cried until I thought my body had run dry. But…I couldn’t allow my emotions to paralyze me. I folded away that pain and put it away. What was the next step? What could we do right NOW to help him?

Ethan went on to receive at home, multiple hour long therapy sessions with ABA therapists, speech therapists, OT specialists, and PT specialists 5 times a week. Any service he qualified for, we made sure he got.

He began attending a center based therapy daycare, where he received all of services. He rode his first school bus at the age of 2. Once Ethan aged out of the first location, we worked closely with a social worker and with her help, got him into the best preschool that provided the services that Ethan required.

Through out this process, I didn’t allow myself to fear. I didn’t allow myself to cry. I didn’t allow myself to be human. I struggle with anxiety, which usually has a lot to do with panicking over the future. I couldn’t even feel that. I couldn’t help the diagnosis, but I could help how much I did to help my son. So I immersed myself in that.

I was sick and Ethan needed me, so I became a stay at home mother. It wasn’t where I ever saw myself in life, but my body needed to heal, and even if it didn’t, my son needed me. I would have never forgiven myself if I hadn’t done everything humanly possible to help my son progress. In my eyes, who my son would become in the future would be a result of the parenting he received. If that meant I needed to be home for him to receive his services and for me to learn teaching/therapeutic tactics to help him as well, that’s where the fuck I was going to be.

So, this is my life. I’m a stay at home mom to an autistic child. He is six years old now. He loves cars, anything Minion related, counts, sings, requests things (food especially). All on his own terms, of course. His room becomes a jungle gym during sleeping hours. He doesn’t eat anything unless it’s crunchy. He is unable to dress himself. He needs help with most basic things, including using the bathroom. I currently change his diapers.

It took me a long time to muster up the courage to talk about this. Why? I didn’t want people looking at my son with pity. I didn’t want people finding out about his diagnosis and automatically viewing him as the poster child for autism, without even getting to know him. I didn’t want unsolicited advice from inexperienced parents who hadn’t even heard of autism. I didn’t want my parenting bashed. I didn’t want to be incriminated by other autism mothers for not pretending this was a breeze or being unhappy. For not using the correct terminology. I didn’t want to hear the asininity that comes from crude people who glamorize having a disabled child, like my strife was invalid and an exaggeration.

Worst of all, I did not want to hear the phrase I loathe the most: Autism is a gift. A gift to whom exactly? When my son is crying out of frustration because he can’t verbalize words he knows and understands, do you think he feels this is a gift? Do you think he feels it’s a gift when I have to change his diaper with cold wipes in the early morning? Don’t you think at this point he feels it’s intrusive? Is it a gift that he has to be held down by five people in order to be examined because he’s scared of being bound down? Is it a gift that we use a high chair and a stroller at the age of 6? Is it a gift when he can’t enjoy a movie at a cinema like the typical child can because this disability doesn’t allow for it? Is it a gift that he has no sense of danger and could kill himself if not consistently monitored?

Saying autism is a gift is dangerous. Its divisive. It doesn’t allow for authenticity. It’s the reason mothers like me isolate themselves from the world. We cannot relate to parents with typical children, and we can’t relate to the hard core, sanctimonious, politically correct autism parents who claim to do it all like it’s effortless. We feel there is no support for us. I don’t want condemnation for not acting and feeling like our world is fantastic. I don’t want criticism for confessing that this isn’t easy and that it’s painful every single day I watch my son struggle.

If we could choose a world where autism did not exist, that’s the world we would pick. That’s the cold honest truth. To hear autism is a gift is like a slap in the face. It undermines the struggle both parent and child experience. It dismisses the agony I STILL hold so heavy in my heart because I am still mourning. I’m in mourning for the child I idealized while I was pregnant. While I love my son, while I would do everything in my power to make sure he’s taken care of, I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone.

What I want the most someday? To sit with my son one day and have a long, in-depth conversation with him. To bond and learn about him. To find out what’s going on in that little head of his. If I never get that, that’s okay as well. I will always love him unconditionally. He’s my breathing, walking and talking heart. I just wish more parents were talking about this. I just wish more parents were honest about how hard this is. We could use the support. I know I could.