I had plans for this week, my friends, big plans. I had a well-rounded program for Hope involving games, motor activities, hands-on science experiments and fun art projects (Shrinky Dinks!) I had the work boxes for each day of the week divvied up and ready to go.
But then. Then, at 3:30 on Monday morning, Hope woke up. It might be more accurate to say that she bounded out of sleep. Full of bounce and energy and just wanting to play. But not by herself. Sleep disturbances go hand in hand with autism. It’s honestly rare that we go through a night without being awakened at least once by Hope. Gray has his challenges with sleep also, but has learned to read, think or pray himself back. But Hope needs a more hands-on approach. Rarely, Hope sleeps through the night. And when she does, Brad and I wake in a panic because we’re so unused to it we’re worried that something is terribly wrong. Continue reading Just Another Manic Monday
On a crisp, cool morning almost 16 years ago, Brad and I left our home as a couple. When we returned, we were a family of three. Gray made me a mommy, and while I know it’s cliché, my heart and life have never been the same. And I wouldn’t want them to be.
He was 8 pounds, 9 ounces of quiet, contemplative baby. He liked to be held, and just look around with his big blue eyes. The hospital staff referred to him as the sweet baby. There was one nurse who called him the Poop Master. But that’s a different story. Continue reading Gray
My sweet Hope is now 13 years old. She’s a funny, loving girl who constantly wants tickles and loves to hear stories. She adores her daddy, her mom and her brother. It’s not at all unusual for her to approach with a twinkle in her eye and yell, “Tickle me!” And then she runs in the other direction, hoping to be chased, while her giggles fill the air. Hope is a gift from heaven, and I see so much potential in her.
But when she was almost 2, I was terrified for her future. Hope had no words, zero. Her only communication was through crying. She didn’t respond to her name and she would not interact with us. I could walk up behind her, clap my hands and shout her name, and she would have no response. Nothing. Not a cry, not a laugh, not even a startle. Continue reading The View From Now