Back to where it all began...

I’ve shared this story a few times now—the story of where our journey with autism began. I’ve re-written it several ways across different platforms on social media. I don’t know that I have it in me to write yet another variation of the same tale the same ol’ way, so I thought I’d try something different. These “letters to: ____” are not uncommon in internet-land (and are arguably a touch cheesy), but I started writing one as a writing exercise and I thought I’d share.

A Letter To Myself Before My Son’s Autism Diagnosis:

Dear Marie-Danielle,

You look at your son and your heart beats faster. When he was a baby, I know you struggled—struggled with the life-changing adjustment from zero kids to one, struggled with the loud, inexplicable, and often constant crying, struggled in silence with what was likely undiagnosed postpartum depression—but you arose from the ashes of what your life once was and found the most incredible love you could have imagined.

As he grows, I see that war being waged between your brain and your heart. I see the search history: “24 month milestones”, “red flags autism, “hand flapping normal.” You don’t know it yet, but that feeling in the pit of your stomach, it’s there because you’re right. It’s scary now, and the thought of exploring it is even more frightening, but boy will you come to embrace it and you will run with it and eventually even fly. I saw your earnest attempts at addressing your concerns. Your doctor said what you wanted to hear, which was also what you so truly wanted to believe. It’s okay that you accepted it despite the little voice telling you he was wrong. You weren’t yet ready to hear more. Later, that same pediatrician will apologize to you for “dropping the ball”; he will learn, and he will be more vigilant in the future.

Your child is getting bigger now and I see the concern creeping back in: he still doesn’t talk much, at least not words or sentences that aren’t quotes from a movie, song, or book. He is having lots of trouble potty training and refuses to do more than urinate at all. I see your tears as you beg and plead with him to go the bathroom after 10 days of withholding. But I’m going to let you in on a secret, one day he will speak—he will say things that will make you laugh, others that will make you proud, and a few unfiltered ones that will make you cringe. One day, he’s going to make a habit of talking to every single person he passes on the street and he’ll bring smiles to each and every one of their faces. Talking will become his superpower. And, in one of your most proud parenting wins, he will begin to regularly use toilets and will not start kindergarten in diapers (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

I know you’re still nervous. He’s in school now and his preschool teacher is concerned about his lack of socializing, difficulty with transitions, his “low muscle tone” and his fine motor skills (or lack thereof). She calls in for reinforcements through a local agency and has you fill out some paperwork. I see you crying on the walk back home from that meeting when you finally come to terms with it: you were right all along.

The process didn’t stop there though, and I watch the trial-and-error as you attempt to figure out who does what in the medical and educational worlds. I see you anxiously waiting for months on end for inquiries to turn into referrals, for referrals to turn into authorizations, and authorizations to turn into appointments. It feels lonesome and confusing now, but I promise you you’re paving the way. The experience you’re gaining will help you down this road again (and again), and you’ll help lead others too!

I want you to know that it’s not your fault you didn’t get help sooner—you did try, and honestly, the help you do get him and when you get it—it is sending you down a path that will set that little guy (and his two little brothers to come) up for so much success. You will meet incredible therapists, educators, liaisons, specialists, and parents who will make your journey joyous and full. You’ll find your family’s community and you’ll watch your son do things you weren’t sure he’d ever do: make friends, learn to read, and THRIVE in a general education classroom. The little boy once completely paralyzed by others crying will begin proactively asking what is wrong and learn to embrace those big emotions. I know it’s hard to see it now, but your child—the same one currently struggling to hold a pencil, throw a ball, or open a door—he’ll learn to write, climb rock walls and even possess the dexterity and coordination to play the piano. He’ll still prefer being alone, but you’ll come to know that’s his choice, not his deficit.

When the time comes, and it is coming soon, and you get that official diagnosis “F84.0” aka “Autistic Disorder”…I want you to smile and sigh with relief. You championed with your incredible son through a confusing system and this diagnosis, it’s just a number—a code—not a life sentence. I want you to look at it as a magical key that is going to open the door to a room full of people who will genuinely care about your son and celebrate his progress with you every step of the way. You may not believe me now, but YOU’VE GOT THIS—HE has got this…we’ve got this.

- Sincerely,

You :)

Dusting Off the Ol' Keyboard: A Blog Begins

Well, hello there! It’s been about a decade since I’ve blogged (and back then it was all wedding dresses and table numbers for me), so please bear with me as I dust off my keyboard and clear the cobwebs upstairs. Sometimes I think I’ve actually gotten progressively less eloquent with my words as time has passed, but you can bet your bottom dollar that’s not going to stop me from trying.

A family photo from shortly after Abrian’s birth. Photo courtesy of Sweetness and Light Photography.

Since Shaun and I got married (nearly EIGHT years ago now), our lives have certainly gotten more robust. It didn’t take long for us to get pregnant, and then pregnant again a couple of years later, and then again, and again. Three of my four pregnancies resulted in babies—each one of them a BOY. Our home is loud and chaotic, but it’s just about as controlled as I can get it. All of our boys do well with structure, so I do what I can to maintain some semblance of that.

Writing is my therapy. Whether it’s a long-winded post on Facebook, or a private note to myself on my phone—I’ve turned to formulating my thoughts into words as a source of solace time and time again. So really that’s what I’m hoping for here. In our family’s world of behavioral therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy…this mama is hoping for some treatment of her own via some good ol’ fashioned journaling.

When our eldest was born, and then later diagnosed with autism, I shut that outlet down for a little while. Not because writing lost its value, but rather because I barely knew WHAT I was thinking, let alone possessive of the ability to organize any thoughts into coherent paragraphs. Now that we’ve gotten into a bit more of a groove when it comes to our three kiddos and their varying needs, I realize that my voice can also serve a purpose, even if that purpose is to make at least ONE parent feel less alone.

Special needs parenting can be isolating and confusing. There is power in unity and comfort in kinship, and I hope to facilitate some strength and warmth around here via community—one post at a time.

So why “The Square Peg Project”? All three of my boys don’t quite fit the mold. Julian has autism, Elias has a speech delay and behavioral challenges, and Abrian will start early intervention in just a couple of days. They are three square pegs that don’t fit into the very round holes society has carved out for them—and while we work hard to help strengthen each of them in the areas they struggle, we are also doing our best to make the world a more inclusive and understanding place—a place where being a square peg doesn’t mean exclusion.

Thanks for joining me!

-MD