A heartfelt thank-you (and Happy New Year!)

To my followers, hello!  I’ve been off the radar for a little while now.  I could give you a litany of excuses for why I haven’t been writing, but they can all be summed up in the following phrase: I’m a working mom.  I’m forever impressed by those of you who are too and still manage to keep up with all of your wonderfully entertaining and enlightening posts.  My hats off to you, Super Moms!

I couldn’t end the year without saying something though.

Thank you.  

If you’ve been following regularly, you know this has been a tumultuous year.  Having my four year-old son diagnosed with autism last winter changed my life in ways I’m still figuring out.  Much of the year has been full of heartache, frustration, anger, and a new level of stress, but it has also brought unforeseen blessings.

One of the greatest blessings has been you.  Finding an outlet to share my frustrations has been a catharsis I never knew how badly I needed.  Reading your own blogs has helped me see I am far from alone in my struggles.  Reading your blogs has brought me clarity, comfort, and new-found compassion.  Fellow writers, you are all abundantly talented; reading your words brings me real joy (and often so much laughter).  Fellow readers, knowing you are there, reading my words, compels me to keep writing and sharing my story, however inconsequential it may be.

Whatever your New Year’s resolutions may be, I wish you the greatest success.

I resolve to stop being so hard on myself and embrace my own “flaws” as quirks that actually help me understand my son like no one else.

Oh, I also resolve to write more.  It truly is so cathartic!

Happy New Year, everyone!

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“Body Calm, Mommy!”

Photo Cred: visualcues.wikispaces

This picture look familiar to anyone?  It was brand-new to me until last spring when my now four year-old son (Big C) received the diagnosis of ASD and the floodgates opened.  Suddenly, I was inundated with cue cards and visuals designed to help us as parents “manage” our son.

I’m learning very quickly that parents have very mixed emotions about this kind of stuff.  I’ve read blogs where parents are outraged by concepts like “quiet hands” and see techniques such as ABA therapy akin to torture and brainwashing (I’ll admit I’ve had my share of bad experiences).

I’m becoming a quick study and am discovering very quickly that I learn best simply by following the cues of my own kid (crazy concept, huh?)  ABA wasn’t for us, but man, does he dig the visuals!  My husband and I tried a visual schedule this summer, and it was like a magical talisman.  Does it work 100% of the time?  Of course not, but it sure does help.  Just making him aware of what’s coming next alleviates so much stress for him (and his Mommy too!)

An extension of the visual schedule are the use of visual cue cards.  His teachers at preschool and daycare use them often, especially during circle time, when he struggles to sit still and focus.

Imagine. A four-year old boy who doesn’t want to sit still.

All joking aside, while I’m pleased the visual cards are helping him focus, I’m way more concerned with managing his aggression.  He’s an emotional little guy, and if he’s mad (and tired) enough, he will hit, throw, kick, scream – even bite on the rare occasion.

This is where the “Body Calm” technique has proven effective.  Again, for my son.

When he starts to escalate, he’s learning to self-regulate, doing as the picture illustrates and wrapping his arms around his chest and taking deep breaths.  Does he usually need prompting?  Sure.  Does it always work?  Heck no.

But I know he’s getting it. Case in point:

Just a few weeks ago, I was all in a huff because my husband (who usually does morning drop-off with the boys) had to go into work early.  I was stressing trying to pack lunches, book bags, and get my two boys out the door before my own job start time of 7:15 am.

Big C, sensing my distress (he’s highly attune to emotions) very loudly proclaimed to me, “Mommy, you need to get your body calm!”

It totally worked.  I busted out laughing, said, “You’re right,” and we did it together.

I’m happy to report I had a calm rest of the day thanks to my little life coach.

How have your children coached you through life?

Note: this post is part of a blog hop. Click the link below to read more blogs about what it’s like to have a sensory-special kid!

The Sensory Spectrum

A version of this post also appears on The Jenny Evolution.

 

Is this autism or NT kid-stuff?

NT: an abbreviation for neuro-typical, a term often used in the autism community to reference those who are not on the spectrum.

Ever since my four year-old’s diagnosis of ASD over eight months ago, I find myself constantly wondering, “Is this behavior the effects of autism or just a kid being a kid?”

Self-doubt and motherly instinct are in a constant battle of wits these days.

I don’t just ask myself this question.  I ask my husband, my friends, my parents, my son’s army of teachers and therapists.  Naturally, I get a different response, depending on the person (and the scenario I’m describing).  Let’s see what you think:

Big C is head-butting a group of girls at school.    Autism or NT?

Big C suddenly asks, “What’d you say?” to virtually EVERY demand I place.   Autism or NT?

Big C told his Occupational Therapist very matter-of-factly, “I’m going to kill you.”  Autism or NT?

Big C has a sudden preoccupation with dying and is starting to say, “I’m dead,” though I am very certain he has no idea what this actually means.  Autism or NT?

Big C is having a destructive streak, ripping wall decals, blinds, and picture frames off the walls.  When asked, “why?” (which I’m told is really too advanced of a question for a four year-old in this type of situation) he merely replies, “I don’t like it.”  Autism or NT?

Big C is becoming defiant again, telling me, “No!” and back-talking me constantly.  Autism or NT?

Big C is obsessed with winning.  He has to be the first one up the stairs, the first to open the door, the first at every game.  When he’s not, he has an over-the-top screaming, crying, temper tantrum.  Autism or NT?

Big C is incapable of walking through the grocery store without running his hand along every item on the shelves.  Autism or NT?

While Big C’s 19-month old brother is eager to play catch with him, Big C would rather take the ball and run away, keeping it for himself.  Autism or NT?

While in the urgent care waiting room, our 19-month old son is content to sit and play cars, while Big C is literally trying to climb the walls, settling for my husband’s back, ripping the leaves off the fake plants, and taking the toy cars from his younger brother (now both are wailing), all while the older couple sitting in the waiting room gives us death glares.  Autism or NT?

Essentially, it’s all very muddled and confusing and full of blurred lines, begging the potentially more important question, “Does it matter?”

Certainly, getting at the root of a behavior can help, but in many situations, there’s no “fix” or “quick” solution.  My son is my son, autism label or not.  He’s always going to leave me in wondrous awe (and perpetual frustration).

Any other moms out there wish they had supernatural intuition?

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Why does my Toddler Hate Me?

Jealousy: resentment against a rival (ahem, husband) who enjoys success (ahem, our toddler’s favoriteagainst another’s success (or lack thereof.  The boy always picks his Daddy).

My 18-month old son is starting to give me a complex, people.  A genuine complex.

I’ve been waiting for this whole “Daddy” phase to become just that – a phase – but it’s been months now, with no end in sight.

Don’t misunderstand me.  I love that my husband and youngest son have this amazing bond.  It’s sweet.  It’s adorable.

BUT….

Does the child have to blatantly show his distaste for me?

Think I’m exaggerating?  Allow me to prove myself with a few poignant examples:

Daddy has to leave to run some errands.  Little C is so distraught Daddy has left, he flings himself upon the floor and will not let me console him.  He cries for upwards of 20 minutes.  He is struggling so hard to get away from my clutches, I nearly drop him on more one occasion.

Daddy isn’t home from work yet, so Little C is actually giving me the time of a day with a big ol’ bear hug. Cue Daddy’s entrance.  Little C leaps out of my arms so quickly you’d think I pinched him.  Sayonara Mommy.  Daddy’s home.

The whole family is relaxing on the floor playing with Mega Bloks.  I scooch over beside Little C to help him with the tower he’s building.  He stops what he’s doing.  He makes an angry scowl directed at me, picks up his tower, and promptly plops down beside Daddy.  I swear to God he smirks.

I’m in the kitchen.  Little C is playing with a toy car a few feet away.  Daddy is in the living room, out of sight, out of mind.  Little C suddenly slips and falls, banging his head on the floor.  I immediately drop what I’m doing, rushing to his aid.  As I begin to hold him in my arms, he looks at me – there’s that scowl again – then runs across the house to Daddy’s arms.

I notice Little C perusing the bookshelf.  I sit beside him and ask him if he’d like me to read him a story.  He gives me that telltale scowl, then saunters over to Daddy.  Once he’s in Daddy’s lap, he looks at me, eyebrows narrowed, then hugs Daddy.

Wtf?

Don’t get me wrong.  At times, it’s kind of convenient that the little guy wants Daddy.  Considering we have two attention-seeking boys, this often makes life easier, and even occasionally allows me five minutes of “me time,” (which we all know just means doing the dishes in peace or making lunches without a little munchkin clinging to my legs.  Am I right, ladies?).

If I’m being perfectly honest though, the Mommy pride is a little hurt.  Sometimes, it’s a lot hurt.

Am I the only mother experiencing this?

Don’t leave me hangin,’ Mamas!


Valocity Studios / Foter / CC BY-SA

 

 

“Wanna smell my feet?”

This question is asked daily of me by my four year-old son diagnosed with autism.  Call it hypersensitive.  Call it hyper-curious.  Call it what you will.  He is obsessed with his sense of smell.

His favorite question is not “why?” but rather, “Can I smell?”

He’s no smelling snob.  He wants to smell it all: hair, soap, water, lollipops, flowers, paper, laundry, dirt, chalk, grass, crayons, hands, his little brother’s diaper-clad butt, our cats, his car seat, all meals, his mother’s glass of vino (wine connoisseur may very likely be in his future.  The boy’s got the sniffing part down).

If there’s a scent, he’ll find it.

When he walks into a room, it’s not uncommon to see him, sniffer in the air, commenting that he “smells something.”  This is rarely said with a look of disgust, but rather a look of extreme curiosity, as if he’s trying to decipher a great mystery.  He has yet to properly label a smell; instead, when asked what something smells like, he will usually respond simply with, “it smells!”

The specific obsession with smelling feet is partly to blame on my husband.  Nearly a year ago, he was wrestling with Big C, pinned him, pretended to smell his feet, and then pretended they were super stinky.  Well, Big C thought this was hilarious, and it soon became an ongoing ritual.  This inevitably led to him wanting others to smell his feet, a request he makes upon various members of our family frequently.  Conversely, he enjoys smelling other’s feet and has no qualms about asking to do so.

We’ve had “the talk.”  You know.  The one where you have to explain when it is and is not appropriate to smell other’s feet: “the exchanging of foot smelling should be done in the privacy of one’s home, not in the school or workplace.”

What?  That’s not a “rite of passage” conversation all parents have with their children?

At any rate, this whole “feet thing” is kinda cute and all ‘cuz he’s four.

But when he’s fourteen, it may be a different story.

Because let’s be real; feet are kinda gross.

What is your strongest sense?  


Cín / Foter / CC BY-NC

 

Note: this post is part of a blog hop. Click the link below to read more blogs about what it’s like to have a sensory-special kid!

The Sensory Spectrum

 

A Mother Divided

Most working moms have apprehension and anxiety over sending their children to daycare.  Fortunately, for most, they will eventually discover daycare isn’t so bad and that their children thrive in the environment.

Most moms ain’t me.

I dread daycare. It terrifies me.  All of those feelings of apprehension and anxiety are completely founded on my part.  My oldest son has been kicked out of daycare.  He has been more or less removed from preschool.  He has caused a nanny to quit.

You can see why today, when I took my two boys back to daycare for the first time since June, I was a little freaked out.  In fact, I’ve been agonizing over it for weeks, getting in touch with the school social worker and psychologist, speaking with his new teachers, making social stories, trying to get everything in place to ensure that this day would be a good one.

That’s a lot of pressure.

But guess what?  It was a great day.

As many of you know,  my four year-old Big C has high-functioning autism and a nasty temper, so daycare settings have proven to be a challenge; however, it would appear all of my dedication with him this summer (along with his social skills class, OT,  Speech, and his visual schedule, God love it) has paid off because he was awesome.  He couldn’t wait to go to school: “I’m all set!”  He was all smiles when his classmates greeted him with a hello by name.  The school social worker (who seriously must have wings hiding behind her cute cardigan) stopped in for a visit to check-in and also commented on how great the day was.  When I picked him up, he was sitting with a group of other boys playing cooperatively.  He didn’t come running to me.  In fact, he looked hesitant, but smiled, and asked if he could stay a little longer to play.

Seriously?  Needless to say, I was all smiles and so proud, even a little tearful.

In swoops the Mommy guilt.  I mentioned it was a great day, but I forgot the qualifier.  It was a great day for my oldest son.  For my youngest, not so much.

Since Big C’s diagnosis last February, I have put so much of my time and energy into ensuring Big C’s success that, on some level, I’ve just been assuming 16 month-old Little C will be “just fine.”  He really is an easygoing kid.

But not today.  He had a rough one.  He wanted to be held most of the day (which is so not like him), he didn’t nap at all (also not like him), he hardly ate (are you sure this is my kid you’re talking about?) and he bit another child (okay, that sounds a little like him).  As soon as I picked him up from the teacher holding him, he clung to me like a little koala and made that sporadic sound of breath that comes after a long cry.  He didn’t babble.  He didn’t smile.  He just held tight.  He did perk up once we got home, but I cannot forget that lost look on his face right before I held him.

I end this post feeling conflicted.  I feel like I have a great success story here with Big C. He has been my main muse for much of this blog thus far, and since its inception, he’s made some amazing leaps and bounds.

But what about Little C?  When is it his turn for a little attention?

Tomorrow is always a new day, little buddy.  Let’s tackle this biting bit, shall we?


funky fat girl / Foter / CC BY

 

 

Why NOT throwing your child a birthday party is okay

Bounce houses, rambunctious party games, sugary candy, caffeinated soda, cheap party favors, food left out on banquet tables for children to grab, spill, and lick, large pinatas inevitably leading to kids blindfolded with bats…

If these images send chills down your spine, you’re like me and, likely, you have a kid like mine who gets overwhelmed and overstimulated in a party setting.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love parties.  But now that I have a four year-old with ASD and a one year-old in tow, parties mean work, and lots of it.  I spend my time at parties running around like a maniac, trying to ensure my children don’t create too much havoc and, if they do, at least other parents will see me attempting to stop it versus sitting in a lawn chair enjoying an adult beverage (man, that sounds nice).   The relaxing for me comes at home, hours later when the kids are finally in bed, with my feet up and a glass of wine in hand.

Let’s face it though. It’s become a societal expectation to throw outlandish parties for our children.  Every year around this time, I get catalogs in the mail for kid-party theme kits running upwards of two hundred dollars for decorations alone.

Don’t tell me I’m alone in thinking it’s a little overkill.

So this year, we decided to forego conventions.  For Big C’s fourth birthday this past Friday, my husband and I decided not to throw a party.

Don’t get me wrong.  Big C still had lots to look forward to as we carefully listened to his comments about what he was expecting.  A new episode of Astroblast was in our DVR queue, a paper crown was set delicately upon a couch cushion, and we were sure to say, “Surprise!” when he walked down the stairs to his banner and balloons.  Certainly, we sang “Happy Birthday!” and he blew out four candles.

But…

I didn’t make the cake.  Big C helped me pick it out at Meijer.

I didn’t cook.  Big C got his favorite: Jet’s cheese bread with Ranch dipping sauce.

I didn’t buy party favors or play party games.  Big C spent much of his day playing in the new sandbox his Daddy made him.

I didn’t have a bunch of kids over.  His grandma, grandpa, and great-grandma were the only guests in attendance.

Big C was completely clueless he “missed out” on a big ‘ol party.  In his mind, his every birthday wish was fulfilled.  In fact, he told us repeatedly that it was a “Great day!” and “Thank you very much!”

Big C went to bed happy.

And I went to bed with a happy heart.

And a clean house.

Bonus.

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A version of this post also appears on Sammiches and Psych Meds.

 

“Oh, he’s just stimming.”

Stimming: Everybody’s doin’ it.

Even you.

I have a confession.  I stim.  Every night.  It calms me.

Before I go to bed, I count off on my fingers how many hours of sleep I will get.  Sometimes, I have to count half a dozen times just to get that sense of peace.

Sound odd?  Maybe a little.  I remember doing this as early as third grade.  I have no idea why I have to do it, just that I have to.

I don’t just stim before bed.  During the day, I find myself chewing on pencil caps, pulling apart paper clips, tapping my foot, organizing items on my desk into straight, perfect lines, all with little to no awareness I’m doing it.

You’ve probably figured out by now what “stimming” is if you didn’t already know.  Short for “self-stimulation,” it’s a type of repetitive movement we do, often to ease tension or anxiety.  Often, it’s subconsciously done.  I’ve discovered the term to be co-existent with neurological disorders such as autism, though it’s certainly not exclusive.  I’ve never been diagnosed with autism, but I certainly can appreciate, and practice, some of its attributes.

For my soon-to-be four year-old son who has high-functioning autism, his stimming is often a survival tactic.  If he can’t do it, he “explodes,” if you will.  I’ve watched him “stim” for years without realizing it had a name and a function.  With his recent diagnosis of ASD, I have been thrown into a world of jargon and acronyms, stimming among them.  Thankfully, with this new vocabulary, I am becoming better equipped to understand and help him.

I’ll never forget a recent visit to the park with my husband, our two young boys, sister-in-law, her husband, and their two young children.  We were on a nature trail with a long, winding wooden fence.  Naturally, Big C (my son with ASD) ran his hand along the railing.  While I knew the possibility of splinters was imminent, I also knew there was no chance of stopping him.  Big C needed to touch that railing.  He needed to run his hand along its splintery edge to better understand his surroundings.  As a sensory-seeking child, he needs to touch his surroundings, to smell them, even lick them (often to his mother’s chagrin) all in order to understand them.

My sister-in-law, a bit perplexed by my son’s behavior, asked why Big C was slowly running his hand along the railing, head down, humming to himself.

My husband merely replied,  “Oh, he’s just stimming.”

The twinkle of pride in my husband’s eye – true understanding and trust between father and son – was simply magical.

While it may have a stigma to it, stimming really isn’t so bad.  In fact, it can be quite therapeutic.

How do you “stim”?

Note: this post is part of a blog hop. Click the link below to read more about what it’s like to have a sensory-special kid!

SensoryBlogHop

“I do not like that hat. Good-bye!”

Autism: “self + -ism”  (from the Greek prefix, auto = self)

Autism is….complicated.

I’ve been learning a lot of new words since the advent of my son’s diagnosis of ASD.  One of them is scripting.  As a teacher of the arts, I immediately liked the sound of this new vocab term.  It sounds so theatrical!  Essentially, it’s often linked with the term echolalia, both of which refer to when someone repeats something (like an echo: makes sense).  The term scripting is more often used to reference the recitation of lines from movies and books, but it can be the repetition of any chunk of dialogue in the person’s memory.  A lot of us recite or ‘script’ favorite lines and quotes (my husband throws out obscure 90’s R and B lyrics with reckless abandon); the key difference is why people with autism script.   There’s no exact science (which is why autism is so complicated), but scripting can indicate feelings of extreme stress, excitement, or function as a cryptic means of communication.

Which brings us to our anecdote.

Two days ago, Big C (my three year-old with ASD) and I were having fun with Play-doh.  I was also using our “play time” as a teaching moment.  We were working on colors, turn-taking, and verbalizing what we were thinking (I say we, but it was mostly me).  At one point, he tired of sharing and asked me to work with my own Play-doh so he could do his own thing.

Fair enough.

Once I had made a little sculpture by myself, I asked Big C if he liked it.  He looked over and said, “I do not like that hat.  Good-bye!”

Fascinating.

To the innocent bystander, it would appear Big C completely misunderstood me.  But he didn’t.  He was scripting from a book by P.D. Eastman called Go, Dog, Go! that I read to him roughly six months ago.  In the book, a female dog repeatedly asks a male dog if he “likes her hat” and the male dog says, “I do not like that hat.  Good-bye!”

Big C totally understood me.  He just had an unusual way of showing it.

This moment was so important for me and Big C.  It was a solid reminder of why my son is hard for others to understand.  Yes, he does struggle with articulation, but more often, it’s not how he says things, but what he says.  He appears to be speaking out of context, but instead, he is making amazing connections between what he is ‘reading’ with what he is experiencing. He’s taking the reading concept of “talking to the text” to a whole new level.  When the time comes for Big C to write literary analyses and cite examples from the text, he is going to be a pro!

BUT, I recognize more clearly now why this is a social impairment for him.  Much as I’d like to, I cannot follow Big C around and translate for him, citing to others how clever he is with his literary quips.

What I CAN do though is teach him how to explain to others his seemingly obscure connections.

In response to my question, what if he said this instead: “Mom, I know what I should say.  Society says I should tell a white lie, that I like your sculpture.  Instead, I’d like to provide you with a literary anecdote from an antiquated children’s book you read to me that highlights the masochistic society of the 1950’s with the use of male and female dogs.  You see, the female dog keeps looking for the male dog’s approval by seeking a compliment about her hat.  He denies her several times as she continues to change her appearances for his benefit.  At the text’s end, he decides her hat is worthy and they ride off into the sunset.  While I don’t care for the gender biases of the text, I appreciate the display of brutal honesty.  That’s why I need to be brutally honest with you now.  I know you want me to say I like your sculpture, but I don’t.  Maybe you should try again.”

Of course, he could simply say, “Your question reminds me of a book we read once.”

That would certainly suffice.

Call it scripting.  Call it echolalia.  I call it pretty damn clever!

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By Jengod (talk) (Uploads) – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39605122

Overdosing on Therapy (the real cost behind it)

 

It’s been just over a week now since we parted ways with our in-home ABA therapists.

I feel like I can breathe again.

I have my family back.  I didn’t realize just how toxic the situation had gotten until my husband said the other day, “Do you realize how much calmer you are now?  Big C and Little C too.  Everyone just seems…happy.”

He’s so right.

My little guys and I are sponges.  If one is stressed out, the rest are.  Now that the poorly implemented ABA therapy is gone (I have to say poorly implemented because I know there are some amazing ABA therapists out there), I feel normal again, or at least our family’s version of normal.

With a sense of normalcy came an epiphany last week: I need to stop trying to fix my kid.

He doesn’t need fixing.  He just needs my help.  Shame on you medical community for making me think otherwise.

He needs help learning to cope with his sensory overload.  He needs help learning how to express himself more clearly to others to avoid his own feelings of frustration. He needs help learning how to use his words rather than his fists when his emotions overtake him.

I don’t give a shit if he likes to line up his toys and his Cheerios.  I don’t give a shit if he likes to suck on turkey lunch meat to calm himself.  I don’t give a shit he has to run his hands along the surfaces of a new room.  I don’t give a shit he has to smell everything.  I don’t give a shit that he echoes back what people say.  I don’t give a shit he talks about subjects out of context.  I don’t give a shit that he expresses himself through leaping, jumping, and spinning.

I don’t give a shit that he doesn’t meet the doctors’ definition of “normal” or what I’ve come to know as “neuro-typical.”

I think that my son is awesome.  I think that my son’s quirks are adorable (most days).

Why do I need to try and eradicate that behavior?

Shame on you medical community, hell, shame on you society as a whole, for making me think I need to.

What I’ve come to realize is that two separate medical communities gave my son an unhealthy dosage of therapy recommendations.  The doctors that diagnosed Big C spent all of an hour with him, then doled out pages upon pages of therapy recommendations: 40 hours of intensive ABA therapy, social skills training, parent training, speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy, genetics testing, all sandwiched between paragraphs of text about our role as parents and what we should be doing.

As a parent new to this world of autism diagnosis, I was terrified.   These doctors, these professionals, made me feel like if I didn’t get my son access to all of these therapies immediately, I would be failing him as a parent.

And failing is something I do not do.

Where was the counseling, the medical guidance, through all of this?  After a diagnosis and a twenty-plus page report, we were sent on our way with a list of websites and books to check out.  That was it.

There was never any discussion of, “This therapy list is simply that.  A list.  A list of all the possible options you might pursue.  It’s a generic list we provide all children diagnosed with autism.  Your son is on the mild end of the spectrum, so some of this is a little extreme for him.”

Why wasn’t that said to me?  Did anyone ever consider the toll it would take on us as parents?  The emotional burden placed on my family because of a therapy overdose?  To me, it is the highest form of lethargy.   No one took the time to really talk to us.  They gave us their diagnosis, derived rather quickly, then sent us packing.

Shame on you, medical community.

But here’s the good news.

I’m over it.  I’m putting my trust in my own gut and inclination to research and study a subject until I am an expert in it.

So when the social worker finally calls me back from the first medical community we met with, I can happily tell her to piss off.

I just worry about the other parents, like me, who are going to be unnecessarily overwhelmed by a diagnosis that, let’s face it, is explained piss-poor by the professionals.  I’ve learned more from my new community of bloggers than I have from any doctor.

To those parents, remember you know your child best.  It may seem like obvious advice, but you start to doubt yourself when a doctor and a diagnosis tell you otherwise.


ep_jhu / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

 

 

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