Jul 11 2012

Untitled.

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So, it’s taken me three whole months to get back on board with the blog since I’ve launched and it’s been tugging and pulling at me every single solitary day. The constant blog posts that run through my head plague me.  The funny and sometimes heartbreaking, but almost always monumental stories I want to share run amuck upstairs while my ADD says……I’ve got other things to do!  My thoughts and commentary from the proverbial autism amusement park, that could hopefully shed some light on to the complicated roller coaster ride of our every day lives.  The not knowing exactly how much of our lives to expose or the direction that this will go and what it might mean for my kids.  It’s all so much. Yet I feel like I need to be doing SOMETHING. It’s a delicate mental tight rope to walk, living in a small town, and having to use a whole lot of discretion (i like saying WTF too much.) when it comes to just what exactly I can or should say that will make a difference, open some eyes, and do some good….without offending someone. Or everyone, for that matter.  Other people’s lives are players in this story, from our community, to my family, to his therapist and teachers, and to my sweet circle of friends ….all whose privacy I don’t ever want to compromise. It’s hard to to tell the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me GOD.

Apparently, I struggle with the delicate balance between candor and restraint, which you know,  can sometimes be described as “lack of filter.”  Hmm…..I’m starting to come around to the idea that maybe my little apples didn’t fall far from the trees from which they fell. We just like to call a spade a spade around here, people, what can I say?

see Lack of Restraint at doctor’s office exhibit below————->

(Exhibit A:  in a Loud-ish tone: “I’m NOT here for a visit. Please DON’T touch me. You destroy everything!”, says my little angel from heaven to the nurse yesterday as she walked into the room. WTF??!!) 

I don’t however, struggle with humor, if that’s not abundantly obvious already or if you haven’t known me for more than 7 minutes. There’s really just no way I can write this story without it, or else it wouldn’t be ME. Or US. And the fact that my boy has his own unique, clueless, but subtle “in your face” hilarity about him is not lost on me.  For not being anything CLOSE to a writer, he sure does make it easy to write about a life with autism, all colorful and messy.  The clever stuff he comes up with and that incredible memory and the way he can use his scripts from books and movies in a contextually correct way…..and his crazy beautiful smile and the way he loves his big sister and overcomes so much while fighting his pervasive, debilitating anxiety…gives this grateful mama a whole lot to work with.

 

So I pondered if I should move forward and I watch and read and laugh and read and wholeheartedley RELATE (I could link to at least a dozen more right here right now ) to the stories of other autism parents who write and who blow me away on a daily basis with their clarity and humor. Not to mention, their sheer will to educate and advocate and just be awesome, while actually still having to be an autism parent. And I am inspired to be better. To do better. To advocate and educate and share with the world (but even more significantly, with our community) what autism can and does look like. And believe me, it’s a wild ride of a roller coaster my friends.  The pull to do this is way too strong and I’m realizing that I can’t really fight it much more. This is where I need be.  Telling stories about autism through writing and taking photographs.  Connecting with other parents of children like Laws, because I’ll be damned if I don’t find a tribe where we he can share a common language with others who, much like himself,  just want to feel connected, accepted, and appreciated.  Don’t we all want that? Doesn’t everyone deserve love and acceptance? Even though he’s only 8, the isolation of our children starts early,  and my biggest fear is that he will always feel alone on the inside as he grows and matures and wants to connect and have relationships. This disability makes it a monumental feat just to learn what nonverbal gestures are (hint: EVERYTHING!) and being able to read even the nonverbal social cues that a typical 3 year old already knows doesn’t come easy, or at all in some cases. I would be like a pig in sh*t to spend the rest of my days with his sunshine-ness,  and heck….maybe that’ what he’ll want to. But I doubt it.  Having independence and success and happiness is just as important for autistic adults as it is for the rest of us. We have to prepare him for the days when we are no longer here to care for him, and in so doing, we have to reach out and feel our way through this maze of madness and a whole lot of AWESOME. We must stretch ourselves to limits that we had no clue we could surpass.  I don’t want my little boy to feel all alone, or to be treated differently, or for people to lower their expectations just because autism is a part of who he is.

 

By talking and writing and LISTENING, not only can I promote tolerance and spread awareness to my little corner of the world,   I can start to find places where Laws will want to be and will feel loved and PROTECTED.  Being complicit and NOT talking, talking, talking about this struggle, I’ve come to believe is irresponsible. It’s irresponsible because the big wide world are the ones who need to know and understand just how to protect and to relate to, in some way,  these amazing little bodies, who won’t remain little for very much longer. They will grow and that whole “1 in 88″ number because a tad bit overwhelming, wouldn’t you say?

So….here is where I started and is where I found the most clarity when deciding if I should do this or not. I promise to be hear more. I promise to photograph more. I promise to advocate and spread awareness in my conversations and make no apologies when doing so. Because our kids deserve it and so does our community.

 

 

“I came here, to this writing place, to spread a message with my art and with my words.  This place, this blog, these images, were all waiting for a voice and apparently they found me.  They just had to wait a while because you know, among other things I’m the epitome of stubborn. (and I’m no writer, that’s for sure) I had to find a place to come up for air and I think I may have found it. Right here in the late spring of 2012.  Stubborn, stoic  me. Or maybe, it’s just the heat.

It’s been well over 51/2 years since the word Autism grabbed a hold of the life that I thought was going to be mine and shredded, ripped, twisted, scattered, and smeared it with it’s gargantuan hands of steel, to look exactly like nothing I could had ever imagined. This project of mine, I hope, can be brought to life not only through the humorous, self deprecating, raw, and curious chronicles of our life with the disorder , but also through the powerful and engaging imagery that will help to connect the tribe of parents who have the blessing and the curse of raising a child of such mystery. I hope to tell the most powerful of these stories through my art of the photographic image.  I want to give back to the community who makes it easier to live with the challenges of autism every single day. The therapist, the teachers, the friends, the other warrior moms……this if for you too. I hope to engage those who want to learn more, to embrace and to accept what autism means for many different people and to find a tribe for my son who will, no doubt have a hard time doing so for himself. I also hope to engage the opinions of those who disagree about autism. I want to question those who are in a positioned to be questioned on all sides of the autism debate, and to learn from all who are on the turbulent yet joyful journey of raising a child with autism with a message of acceptance, hope, awareness and a little bit of humor for good measure.

The Little Boy Blu chronicles will start here by going backwards. Catching up to where we are now, while simultaneously sharing updated stories, images, mishaps, hurdles, and accomplishments of Hutson Laws Savage, his sister Lily, and the restless mom who thought this would be a good idea.

Come on in, bare with me through the beginning stages, and for God’s sake…….if you get offended easily, cry at the drop of a hat, or generally don’t get dry, sarcastic humor you’re in luck.  You see, I learned a while ago that everyone will have an opinion depending on their life circumstances and as luck would have it there are likely 45276  OTHER  blogs that you will enjoy a whole lot more than this one.  I am a MOM first, and if you don’t know what THAT can sometimes mean in the written, spoken, or unspoken word, then I’m not entirely sure I can help.   I will not always be right in my commentary or story telling. I am not an editor or a writer. I run lunches and sometimes interference to two different schools, I take cool photographs, and in case you haven’t noticed……I’m swamped.”

I wanted to say publicly that I’m so thankful for all of the comments here and email and on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, whether public or private messages…affirming when I started this a few months ago that this is ALL GOOD. I had the pleasure of sitting with a medical student yesterday to just TALK about autism and what is has meant for our family.  It felt really good to sit with a future medical professional without being judged or patronized about my views on autism and was another opportunity to do my part for this community.  He seemed genuinely interested, which gave me hope that our young doctors’ education might be radically changing (it better be. for everyone’s sake. can i say 1 IN 88 my friend? we need to move past a lot of the old ways of thinking about this disorder. in case no one has noticed.)  and will begin to embrace a range of therapies and education modalities, and medical and biomedical treatments, depending on the child.  It was another affirmation that I should be promoting and shouting from the mountaintops (or levees and hills, as it stands now)  about understanding and awareness in whatever way I can. I hope that he learned just a little from my voice, one that I’ve had to find and find and find again, but one that I hope will begin to feel like it’s doing some good. I’m anxious to be able to share with others what autism looks like in OUR lives, knowing that it’s different for every single family who knows what it means to live with and love someone with autism.

Please come and join (and Like it, if you will!) me on A LITTLE BOY BLU’S FACEBOOK PAGE and TWITTER FEED, where I post about our daily laughs and struggles and link to interesting articles and blog posts from other parents…and lots of photos of my little boy blu and his hero sister too! Eventually, you will ALL know, work with, or love someone with autism and I would love for you to feel confident in knowing that it only takes a little bit to make a real big difference in the life of someone on the spectrum.

E.

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Apr 21 2012

Famine ridden wasteland

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I find myself trying so hard to write the next post, knowing that a huge chunk of that time after I was jolted head first into echolalia, evaluations, and erratic emotions as best, was such a confusing, dark, and sometimes hopeless chapter of our story. It’s painful to go back and relive it, even though my memories fail me (i have super duper defense mechanisms. yo.) and 5+ years later, the written words cannot possibly do the pain or heartache much justice. AT ALL.  Those first few years were so complicated and raw and I was doing EVERYTHING in my power just to understand. To continue mothering. To somehow stay afloat. Thankfully, I’ve built an arsenal of rafts, and can ride on the air of little tiny accomplishments, some much bigger ones, and the support from other autism parents whom I’ve gotten to know on my journey. They have all been a literal lifeline to me. They’ve offered me hope and encouragement. They’ve taught me how to fight, how to accept, and how to be really, really loud when it comes to Autism.

I’ve found my voice through my son’s inability to fully find his.

And you know what?  Life really did get better after a while.  I’ve had some of the happiest days of my life with autism in it. I never imagined a day that I would actually write down those words.Through the years (and many thousands of dollars later that insurance wouldn’t cover. eff insurance.) of ABA therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, fears of everything (it seemed like), sensory overloads, and nonstop “life therapy” from us,  we’ve managed to make it through some VERY tough circumstances. But I stand as a testament to sometimes kicking autism in the ass and sometimes letting it kick ours. I’ve learned how to advocate and I’ve learned unconditional love. I’m comfortable with an uncomfortable silence, if it means I’m helping my baby. I’ve lived through the sneers and ugly comments and taking him to the dentist. And overcame the desire to sit on the sidelines of T-ball. I’ve let go of the unimportant. I’ve taken a hike when I’ve most needed to and am thankful I have friends who will house my broken, bruised self. I’ve gotten to rejoice in seemingly tiny little obstacles that were really big ‘ol miracles….because he had to FIGHT SO HARD for those little accomplishments. And through it all, every single day, I’ve had the privilage of being there to see the smiles that he puts on the face OF EVERY SINGLE PERSON he meets.  The kid is pure sunshine. Out of the treacherous, loud, and  life changing storms comes some pretty brilliant golden light.  And with that golden light comes the most vivid rainbows I’ve ever seen.  And my life, our life,  is so different than I ever thought it would be.

But there were times, back then, when I just wanted to scream and tantrum and writhe my body on the floor right along with my tormented little boy and figure out what the hell to do with all of the pieces of my broken, wilted heart….while he would stand there (or writhe, as it were), in his little boy cuteness, and recite words to movies over and over and over again. And I hoped with everything inside of me that he would ask me just ONE question. That he wouldn’t seem so trapped and alone.

So many feelings of complete despair dotted the landscape those early days, when doctor after doctor after therapist after counselor all keep telling us the same damn thing: “We really don’t know what your son’s prognosis is going to be.  There is no way to tell how much of this current behavior will stay with him and how much of these challenges you will be able to mitigate in some way. But, you should plan on a very long and difficult road.” Gee, thanks.  Where to now? I had basically, by the time we had gotten through the myriad of evaluations (read: jump through all of the necessary beuracratic red tape hoops that only make your life harder, not easier. all to have it documented and magnified just how lacking your son’s life is) to the Early Steps program, I had diagnosed him myself. After the metal on flesh ordeal, that biting motherly instinct, and the rest of my waking hours spent on Google, I didn’t need a doctor to tell me he had Autism. He was 2.5 years old about that time of the official diagnosis. We were buried and lost and not one freakin doctor could help us. I remember at some point wishing his diagnosis had been something else. Something where there was a typical trajectory of development, or lackthereof, but dammit at least we would have something to go on. A path. A plan.

I remember somewhere during the time right before the final diagnosis, there was one day where Lily was at school and I realized (or noticed he became more entranced, robot like) that all of the television watching was making it (the echolalia) worse and that every single second was a teachable moment that I was losing.  All my mind could see was hourglass after godforsaken hourglass. Little tiny sand particles that looked like eye contact and “who , what, and why” questions, slipping away, into the abyss of lost time.  I unplugged the tele, trashed the Baby Einstein videos, and in a panic I cried the words, “Oh no baby boy, I will not lose you. You WILL look at me and you will talk to me.  I was here first and you are MINE. Autism cannot have you.”

We were all alone and I remember feeling so helpless and overcome with emotion. But somehow a sense of power and purpose came over me in my weakest moments…..I had an unexplainable feeling that THIS was my purpose and I would spend the rest of my life TRYING TO HELP MY SON.  And then I stood there and called his name. “Laws!” “Lawsy?” “Lawwwwwwssss” “Please, baby….just look at me……please?”

All I got was another look at his beautiful blonde curls on the back of his neck. And the silence was deafening.

Had already gone. He brain was the abductor. The stupid doctors were right. I WAS RIGHT.

And there was not a single God damned thing I could do.

I wanted so badly to pick up the phone and call my mom, and have her tell me those comforting words that I knew she could no longer offer. My time in Italy was really up. All I wanted to hear from her, from someone….ANYONE was  “Oh Ev, he’s going to be just FINE!”  Please mom, just lie to me. Just this once. It’s all I have left. After realizing that not even my own mother (she had four kids! certainly she could comprehend the heartbreak!) could soften the blow, let alone understand what I was going through, I could do nothing but pull up my boot straps, fake being happy for everyone else, and get to finding out how to help him. One of the most difficult realizations of that time was knowing that unless you have a child who struggles this hard just to be a part of our world, you simply cannot know. And dammit, I wanted my parents to know. My brothers or my sister to know. My best friends. Someone to be able to walk beside me and feel the pain with me. I became that painfully shy, incredibly sensitive, unsure little girl again and I needed some reassurance from anyone.

We tried the biomedical doctor, thinking that maybe he was poisoned somehow. That maybe, all of the testimonials I had been reading about folks curing their children through chelation really were true. Maybe the gluten he was eating nonstop was like an opiate and once we rid him of that he would be healed. I was hanging by a gossamer thread, hanging on to anything that I thought MIGHT bring my baby back to me. That experience is so hard to relive I’m not even ready to go there. I will tell you that, $3K and an ass load of vitamins and minerals and oils later (and a VERY traumatized 3 year old and his tired parents) we got nowhere. The doctor told us she didn’t think he had “it” and then had the nerve to send me two typed sentences that said, “I think the heavy metals are a focus for Laws. The gluten free diet is a necessity.” The end.  The heavy metal blood results didn’t even look like he had mercury poisoning and the lab was likely biased anyway.  I managed to pull off the GF diet for 12 months, with zero results. It was only because he ate (and still does) so few things. I felt like I wasn’t just metaphorically starving him because I couldn’t nourish his soul, but I began to feel like I was physically doing it too.

We went to see the neurologist in town, who after reading our verbal report that included we weren’t interested in Prozac for our toddler,  walked in to the room and said, “I understand that you aren’t interested in medication, so what do you want me to do for you?”  SERIOUSLY??? He’s THREE.  I was damned everywhere I turned. And as we moved in to the next few years, the behaviors got worse, the sensory issues got worse, my marriage became unrecognizable, and Lily started to understand, in only the way a 6-7-8 year old can, that autism just plain sucked.

I would lie in bed at night and just STARE at his gorgeous little face. The way he slept so peaceful. The way he looked SO….normal. The way the sleep would dissolve his disabilities in a haze of perfect moonlit sleepiness. I would just stare in AWE at the perfect little body that was somehow, miraculously woven inside my body, and just weep. And pray. And beg. And bargain. That when we woke in the morning, that the autism would be gone. That he would wake up and the words coming out if his mouth would be his own original thoughts. Not some script (that he eventually learned to use functionally) from the Wonder Pets. Or Little Einsteins. Or whatever the hell else his brain would latch on to at the time. If he could just only wake up and tell me what he wanted for breakfast or what he wanted to do that day or if he had had a weird or funny dream. Or even answer yes or no. Even just yes or no. I would done ANYTHING, traded or bartered my LIFE even if it meant the rest of the world would get to know and love my little boy.

I started to feel like he was surrounded by a thin wall of glass. I could see him. I could hear him. He could hear me. But he was starving. Screaming, crying, dying on the inside. And I couldn’t reach him to give him food. I was watching my baby’s brain starve him of the life that he deserved and everywhere I looked for food, was another famine ridden wasteland.

 

 

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Apr 16 2012

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Apr 16 2012

Become Aware. Spread Tolerance. Embrace Understanding.

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Apr 09 2012

An old entry from 2008. Synopsis of his birth. The first year. And The Day All Hell Broke Loose.

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Apologies to readers of my old blog, as this entry is being recycled here, at my new location. I needed a place to start and a place to jog and record my memories, and for new readers and parents of children on the spectrum to know our full story, from the beginning, and how our journey got started. I’ve edited it a bit, but the majority remains the same from the original 2008 post. It would be more fitting to post this on his actual birthday, coming up in a couple of weeks but I need to get a move on with my posts. And for the record,  I know most of you have likely experienced the awe and miracle of birth in some fashion.  No words that I write could EVER be adequate enough. Bear with me as I torment my meager writing abilities. Please and thank you.

*warning: VERY VERBOSE.

 

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The story of the day he was born, up until the day that I knew all hell had broken loose.

After a nearly perfect and uneventful 41 week long pregnancy, Hutson Laws Savage was born a healthy 8 pounds, 11.2 ounces at 10:08pm on April 26. The year, 2004.  After 16 hours of pitocin, and only a partially effective epidural, he came into my arms and our lives so perfectly that the moment, 1642.7 days later, completely takes my breath away.  That one single moment where his physical body and his soaring spirit made themselves known is still a regular thief of my daily thoughts.  The memory of that moment can take me, without warning or heed, to a place of unsuspecting peace. Of oblivious joy. Of unwaivering hope.  It is a place where I never had to wonder or question if these three friends of unsuspecting peace, oblivious joy, and unwaivering hope would ever decide to take a hike. Bail on me. Sneak out in the night.

The world was just made RIGHT the night my beautiful Laws arrived.  He was big and beautiful and mine.  The attending Dr. called my OBGYN at home to say it would be the middle of the night before anything else would happen that night. 15 minutes later, he was born. Laws came on his terms, which ironically, is the way he likes things still today. The nurse, upon getting him cleaned up even announced,  “Oh, he’s too pretty to be a boy!”  (fast forward 6+ years later and the kid is gorgeous. and loves dresses. and occasionally changes his name to Gwen or Isabelle. true story.) The over abundance of love had rendered me silent, and in the peaceful silence I was left feeling nearly drunk from so much blood, sweat, tears, and birthing bodily fluids. His perfect red rosebud lips, his long slender feet,  cotton soft skin, and his every flawless feature culminated into this transcendental moment that I know can only be from something bigger than us all. He was a gift from heaven. Pure and simple.

To top it all off and to make the love fest even bigger, you bring in the older sibling to witness this new life and the miracle just becomes 60.4 times more miraculous. When Lillian O’Neil, super hero in waiting, walked into the room on the 3rd floor of Sacred Heart Hospital to meet her little brother my heart was filled with so much love I thought it would burst.  Her little round face  LIT UP the entire room and those few seconds of life, that little tiny memory, will always hold such a GIGANTIC place in my heart.  Little did she know, along with the rest of us, she was staring at a mysterious little creature whom she would have to sacrifice so much of her life for. Whom she would always have to protect and worry about. Take the back seat and continually sacrifice for. Be embarrassed by.  But most of all, the child, whom she would love like nothing else and truly become a hero and best friend for.  The weight on her tiny little shoulders, I could have never predicted. And the amount of utter confusion that he would finally shower upon our family would be enough to break me. To break us. And our entire. Damn. World. We were all so grossly unprepared for what was to come, but we soaked up that first year and a half with him, unsuspecting, sleepy, giddy, proud, overwhelmed, immersed in love, and BLISSFULLY UNAWARE. Everything about his development that first 18 months seemed gosh darned dandy.

Fortunately for us, God had planned and had afforded our little family a plush and comfy living space in Unsuspecting peace. At least for that first 18 months. For the sake of getting my point across, I’ll refer to this piece by Emily Perl Kingsley, and call it Italy.  Italy is the destination you arrive at when your lot in life is fairly typical. NORMAL.  Routine.  Average.  We got to live in Italy for while. At least for the first three years of Lily’s life, we were basically given a pass to ride on Easy Street with the rest of the families.  Play dates. Discoveries. Questions. Joyful holiday celebrations. All without consequence or commotion.  As it turns out, we got yet another invitation to that same place when Laws was born.    So, we resided there for more than 18 months before all hell broke loose. I think that was as much of a blessing as it was a curse. We had packed, planned for, and actually arrived safely with him in Italy……….and didn’t realize our life had been scheduled to go to HOLLAND. (©Emily Pearle Kingsley)  Our tickets got switched and somehow we made it through security. Under the Italian radar we went.

After I got the breastfeeding and sleeping thing worked out at about 8 weeks with him, things were smooth.  He was always such a happy baby, aside from the constant ear infections and antibiotic regimens from weeks 9 through 20. After having the tubes put in, usually he went back to being his regular old happy little gorgeous self.  We have photographs to prove it. His eye contact was amazing, he was engaging, and generally a very easy child.  I have a video of him in the swing, laughing hard and loud at Lily, acting silly and making faces at him…… and it compels me to think that somewhere along the way, something went wrong.  Or maybe there WERE little signs that it was always there. I’m not real clear just what it was, but something went amiss. And for the record, I don’t live or dwell in the great divide, or either side, of the vaccine debate.  I struggle with it, yes, and think both sides have merit…..but I’m not interested in blame, conspiracy theories, greed, or any idea that would have me believe that somehow it was my fault. Or my child’s doctor and the medical community at large. I just don’t have the energy and I’m ashamed of the chasm this debate has caused our autism community.  I will gladly touch on this subject in future posts but for now, suffice it to say that, after years of being in and living autism, I don’t think the vaccines interact well with SOME children’s DNA.  The studies that most of you know about or that are “placebo/double blind/blah blah blah…….are the ones done by the very folks who manufacture them.  Honest science not tied to big pharma, I’m pretty sure, DOES NOT exist.  IF I could go back, I probably would have waited and staggered the schedule a bit. But I’m moving forward and know that dwelling on what could have been is fruitless.  Until you have a child who can’t make his eyes meet yours no matter how hard he tries, and whom you might never be able to share the typical, beautiful, awe inspiring discoveries of his development with because of his disability, I don’t think you have the right to comment on what is good for my child. We chose to vaccinate and I will always wonder if it somehow didn’t take a DNA design and alter is just enough to make what was probably already a mild internal car accident and turn it into some proverbial train wreck.   As a parent, we can’t always make the perfect decisions, all the time.  I know of family’s personally, who won MILLIONS of dollars in the now defunct vaccine court, and I know families who’ve children have died as a result of not having their vaccines.We all have to make choices for our children, and hindsight can be a terribly disheartening filter through which we later have to view those choices.

 

Back on track……Somewhere in the 18 month range of Laws’ development, is when I started to notice something was off.  I knew it in my heart.  In my gut. In my soul. It was a sinking, harrowing, wretched instinct that I don’t wish on even the folks I don’t enjoy spending my life with, nor whom I dislike. Not even them.  I think somewhere in my subconscious, I decided to buy a little more time in that happy place. I just wanted to enjoy life before the scarlet letter slapped me in the face.  A.  AUTISM. And in one ordinary fall October day, a few short years ago,  it did. With a big metal, barbed wire hand, it whacked me in the face and will forever feel the sting of it. Metal on flesh.

Family and very well meaning friends helped me to buy a little more time in Italy…. as everyone said,  “My child did not speak a word until they were 3″ or “He’s the 2nd child, AND a boy” they would emphasize. Most of the time, because he knew his letters and corresponding sounds, as well as all of his planets, shapes, colors, and numbers (also in spanish) at a measly 18 months old, I would get, “He’s a genius…there’s nothing wrong with him!” It was all with good intention and it’s what people do to bring temporary relief. It’s hard to  know the right thing to say. Especially to a mother who is facing what could potentially alter the course  of her life in ways that neither one of you can possibly comprehend during that uncomfortable moment you happen to be sharing.

But alas, the place we call denial (or what I now refer to as my BA-Before Autism. My Happy Place) was bombed to smithereens one early afternoon  in an upscale children’s boutique.  Metal on flesh. Italy never looked so bleak as it did that humdrum afternoon in Pensacola, Florida. I did not spring into action immediately though.  I still wanted more time traveling to Italy with all of my new mommy friends who will never understand that they are in such a gorgeous and effortless place as Italy. They would get to remain there, in pleasant though sometimes mildly inconvenient Italy,  where trivial details of life….whining kids and canceled babysitters and social obligations and their child not getting picked for the team…. get in the way of them seeing just how lucky they are to ONLY have to deal with, however relative, the little things. In Italy.

It was the woman who owns the store that was working one random day in the fall of 2005. Laws was about 19 months. While needing to run in and pick up a last minute birthday gift , I set my little bundle of gorgeous down to walk around and explore the tiny shop. I was in sort of rush, knowing Lily would need to be picked up shortly.  He, being a 19 month old little boy, was touching, moving, and playing with the toys. I was trying to be calm and assured the woman that I would clean up his mess and she was nice enough and said not to worry.  I stepped away from him for a minute to go into the next room and I could hear her trying to get his attention by showing him some different toys that she thought he might like. I came back into the room and apologetically said something like, “Oh, he’s so focused on all of these new fancy toys!  Sometimes he’s just in his own little place!”  (his “own little place” was a phrase that had started to creep up. but i kept shoving it down, down, down….into the place I never wanted to visit. hindsight is good like that. see?)

And then she said IT.  And IT remains burned, engraved, emblazoned in my mind and my heart. And I will carry her words to my grave…….

“Yes, I was going to ask you….IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH HIM? He doesn’t look at you when you talk to him?”

Those were her exact words. And that is when I KNEW. Metal on flesh.

Her words truly felt like metal, ripping my skin, gauging my eyes, and stabbing her them right into my heart.  I do not even remember my response.  I don’t think I could speak.  I left.  Without the birthday gift. But my ticket to Holland, that had been switched, was waiting for me that day inside her little boutique.  And things were never the same.

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