Let me start off by saying that if one more person says anything to me about dogs, and more specifically, pit bulls, I’m gonna scream. I don’t care. Have as many or as few dogs as you like. Have as many or as few pit bulls as you like, for that matter. I do not care and I am making the executive decision to end the conversation right now. Please do NOT e-mail me about it anymore.

Ahem. Okay. Now that I’ve gotten that off of my chest….

Moving onto other matters.

I know I said I would start posting happier, more upbeat blog posts. And I believed it when I said, I swear. But here’s the thing. I don’t tend to blog when I’m in a good mood. Those are the times that I actually stay away from the computer, unless it is to read someone else’s blog or check on Melodie’s movie progress or talk with one of the great loves of my life, Amy, etc. Those are the times that I eat ice cream or drink hot apple cider (it’s packaged and not the real thing but still so much better than I thought it was going to be and it’s fat free!) or watch TV, read a book, play cars with Julian, talk to my girls about what we are going to make everyone for Christmas, etc. etc.

I get on here and pour my heart out when it’s hurting. I can assure you that my heart is not hurting all the time. Quite the contrary, actually. I’m generally a pretty happy person, however….and this might shock you…I am human. There. I said it.

I am human.

I spend a lot of time sort of pretending that I’m not. That I’m some kind of fucked up superhero, with a bullet proof vest and a mask and a cape (okay…obviously the cape and the mask don’t serve any purpose but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think it would be punk rockin’ cool to have them and wear them for no good reason), fighting judgment and changing the world’s perception of special needs kids every day of year, one child and one parent at a time.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Like I mentioned, I’m actually just human which means that I am going to have my moments.

My last post was one of those moments. Actually, it was a whole bunch of moments all rolled up into one…two weeks worth, really…coupled with exhaustion and the trials of single parenthood and winter at our heels…

Try this…if you are a parent, think of any time when you watched your child struggle. And think about how that felt for you, as their parent, watching them struggle to learn long division or how to tackle a school yard bully or tie their shoes or get their immunization shots. You knew that the math lesson or standing up to the little fucker or tying their own shoes and thereby becoming more independent or certainly being immunized against infectious diseases was for their greater good. But it didn’t feel good, did it? And could you convince your child, in those moments, that it was for their highest good? I doubt it.

The example I use all the time is from a few holiday season’s ago. It was actually my first Christmas without Troy and it felt way too painful to even think about putting up the tree that we had had as a family unit so I went out and bought a little, pink Christmas tree, complete with new decorations and a blinking star instead of the angel my family has always had.

Julian is very, very oral. I believe…and so do many of his workers…that he has limited sensation in and around his mouth. For this reason, he almost always has something in his mouth, usually fingers, but often something else. That Christmas, the something else were pink Christmas balls from the tree. They weren’t made of glass or anything, but somehow he still managed to chew them enough to actually break the unbreakable right out of them.

Of course, I took them away, each and every time. And you know what Julian did…the same thing your one and a half year old would do…he cried. And cried. And cried. Because he wanted those Christmas balls. He wanted to break them and chew them and then have another one for dessert. And while I knew I was doing what was best for him, he didn’t realize it at the time. I took them away for his own safety but he thought I was just being mean.

Get it?

I have my moments with Julian (and for the record, I hate that I implied that Halloween was a disaster…it most certainly wasn’t….it could have been SO much worse and each year and each experience is a learning opportunity not only for myself but for my girls and my family in general and I can’t help but feel sad that Julian has a father who would rather cut wood for his own Dad or laze around his house rather than come trick or treating with him…). I know that what I’m doing…or what his workers are trying to do… is for his highest good. I knew that when we had to teach him how to roll over and I knew it when we had to teach him to sit up. I knew it further when we painstakingly began to help Julian learn to sign and then communicate and then become verbal. I have known it, off and on, for all of Julian’s life.

But sometimes, it doesn’t feel good. It’s not pity. It’s love. Because no parent likes watching their children struggle for any reason. Parents of special needs kids don’t feel any differently just because their child’s life might have more struggles. It does, absolutely, make the milestones a really big fucking deal. But it doesn’t make the pain of watching someone you love fumble and fall before looking to you to help them figure out how to get back up, any less.

I hope that this babbling makes sense.

I deal with the sleep deprivation and the constant sensory issues and the role of single mother of three and the money troubles and the house troubles, pretty well, every day. But throw in a holiday and a shit storm from Troy and six back to back appointments for Julian, one of which required some extensive traveling and I might falter. Have my moment. And pick myself back up.

My girls…

I had a loving e-mail from my separated from birth sister just the other day. The only reason I haven’t answered it yet is because I have been having a lot of trouble getting onto facebook. In fact, I have tried to answer it three times, unsuccessful each and every time so if you’re reading this, Amy…

I know. And I’m proud of my girls each and every day for how well adjusted they are. How awesome they are in their own right and how accepting and accommodating they are of their little brother and his special needs.

Case in point…

My oldest daughter, Olivia, has a boy in her class named Paul. She came home talking about him just the other week… “Paul this and Paul that”. Paul has Autism. He is lower functioning than Olivia’s brother…I get the feeling that is he is just above the line that would otherwise separate him from a “regular” class. He has a worker who is with him all the time and special accommodations are made for Paul in class and especially in gym.

I asked Olivia if Paul was a new student.

“No,” she replied. “I just didn’t realize he had Autism until the teacher told me.”

I laughed. And I laughed. And then laughed some more.

Olivia has been sitting with this kid in her class for two months, plus a bit now and she never noticed anything different about him until it was pointed out to her….she just thought it was cool to find someone else who could only wear jogging pants and jammie shirts and super soft socks…who covered his ears when the bell rang or the teacher clapped her hands…who only answered Olivia’s morning hello half the time…who needed to be separate from the rest of the class during gym…who took “breaks” during the school day…who signed some words when they failed to appear on his tongue.

This is how accepting she is. This is how little differences in other people affect her. And I was so proud.

She cried a bit about halfway through her “Paul this and Paul that” sharing. I asked her why.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’m the only one who says good morning to Paul every day.”

We talked then, at great length, in kid-friendly terms, about teaching the world around us how to accept one another. That the greatest way to do this is to be accepting ourselves. To show people that a meltdown is just a meltdown and understanding why a meltdown occurred makes it a whole lot easier the next time. That something as simple as saying, “Hi Paul” every morning, regardless of whether or not he can pull himself out of his brain long enough to answer, was the best way to show her classmates…her world around her… that there is nothing to fear.

This is my daughter.

A girl who attended a birthday party last year for a classmate of hers named Tahir.

Tahir is Muslim. He and his twin sister had a joint birthday party. They each invited their entire class.

Only Olivia and one other classmate of hers, Martin (another boy who is picked on and ostracized because of his weight and his love of his Momma and who is one of Olivia’s pals) showed up to Tahir’s party. Out of a class of over thirty students. I remember calling his Mom (whom I already knew from Julian’s nursery school which was attended by Tahir’s twin brothers…lovely woman…very chatty…and those boys are nothing short of Gap ad gorgeous) and remarking on her reaction to my RSVP. She thanked me over and over again. I was confused. Until the day of the party.

I have been standing in line at a Fun Fair with my daughters, chatting with another Mom until Tahir’s mother walks in. And yes, she looks the part. Not a full burka but her head is always covered as is traditional in the Muslim faith, her English is broken, she looks like the pictures we see in the newspaper of the people we are “liberating”. When I say hello to her, the Mom I was chatting to turns away and refuses to talk to me.

This is the world my children are growing up in. It scares me. But I am so proud of them, each and every day, for who they are and what they already know.

And my Erica. Who was best friends with Jacob all through kindergarten. Jacob also has Autism. They were “best buds”. Her other pal was Colin. He has Down’s Syndrome. Erica’s teacher once said to me, “she brings something out of Jacob.” His mother disagreed. She said, instead, “She doesn’t bring anything out of him. She jumps right into his world, accepts him just as he is with no judgement. She is the only one who sits with him in his brain.”

That is my daughter.

Who also came home this week totally jazzed about the song she was learning for the Remembrance Day assembly (Veteran’s Day for you American folk).

Her teacher had handed out copies of the lyrics to John Lennon’s, “Imagine”. Her teacher had sung the song for them and encouraged them to practice. Another teacher will accompany them on piano. Erica is psyched. So am I. I am meeting her teacher tonight for a parent teacher interview (I’ve actually met her many times before…she taught my sister and while I never had her as my own teacher, I remember doing reading buddies with her class at the time…Mel? Are you reading? It’s Mrs. DeRepentigny!) and I think I’m gonna like her.

Erica was delighted to find out that I already had a copy of the song on CD, having been a huge John Lennon fan, thanks to my huge fan of a mother, for years and years. So we have been listening to it, singing it and really listening to it.

What makes Erica’s rendition all the more special, to me anyway, is the fact that she constantly says or sings, “No HELP below us…” instead of Hell.

Erica had never heard of Hell. It is not a concept in this house. We don’t believe in it. She has no idea what it is, what people believe about it or how it pertains to anyone. She sings “help” because the word, “Hell” is jibber jabber to her.

And so maybe…in my little corner of the world…John Lennon’s vision in Imagine is being played out, eh? We’re not perfect. Not by any means. And I do, and will, have my moments. But…

We do…

Imagine there’s no heaven.
It’s easy if you try.
No Hell below us.
Above us, only sky.
Imagine all the people, living for today.

Imagine there’s no countries.
It isn’t hard to do.
Nothing to kill or die for.
And no religion, too.
Imagine all the people, living life in peace.

You may I’m a dreamer.
But I’m not the only one.
I hope some day you’ll join us.
And the world will be as one.

Imagine no possessions.
I wonder if you can.
No need for greed or hunger.
A brotherhood of man.
Imagine all the people, sharing all the world.

You may say I’m a dreamer.
But I’m not the only one.
I hope someday you’ll join us.
And the world will live as one.