New Entry from Jody’s Spectrum Scene Blog:

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New Entry from Jody’s Spectrum Scene Blog:

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New Entry from Jody’s Spectrum Scene Blog:

Rules are all around us. Some are self-imposed (Don’t pick your nose in public.) and others are heavily mandated, (Don’t drive over 55.) but we each make the decision as to how closely we are going to follow any particular set of rules.

There really aren’t any set in stone rules about autism and how to live with it, but there is a widely respected unspoken rule and that is simply to talk. Talk about autism. Sounds pretty easy, right? For the most part it is, but there are times when it isn’t – times like when your spectrum son is the butt of the joke, again; or when he’s having a hard time and other adults are beginning to stare; or when it’s just been a really long, loud, tiring autism day.

Sometimes, talking is absolutely necessary for the safety of the spectrum child; but sometimes, opportunities present themselves for a good conversation which will simply result in better understanding, and that will lead to greater acceptance. At the end of the day, isn’t that what we all want for our kids – for ourselves – simply to be accepted by our peers for who we are?

A few weeks ago, we had an unseasonably warm spell right smack in the middle of February. We’re talking t-shirts, no jackets, and for the bravest of brave, even shorts. My little people and I took advantage of this early spring and played on the playground after school every chance we got. One day, we were joined by other families enjoying the warm reprieve from winter.

Our little bit was running about playing tag with the other kids while Ben was just running around burning off some pent up energy from the day. I ran with him a bit, playing chase, laughing and giggling all the way. One of the other kids, who I’ll refer to as Z, invited Ben to play tag with them and my anxiety level skyrocketed, knowing that Ben doesn’t like to be touched, yet thankful for the invitation. He answered, “YES!” and again, I needed a deep breath to prepare for the spiral that would surely come with the first “Tag – You’re It!”

I was wrong. Z was so gentle with tagging Ben, it didn’t bother him a bit. Z even took the time to stop and show Ben how the game works, explaining that he needed to chase the other kids, touch one of them, say, “Tag – You’re It!” and then run away. The boys laughed and ran off playing together, and I began to breathe again – relieved, overjoyed by the kindness of Z, and disappointed in my own apprehension.

I watched the kids play for a few minutes until Ben was done. He came over to me and we decided to head to the swings. Much to my surprise, Z came as well. We chit-chatted a bit and out of the blue, Z asked, “How did Ben get autism anyway?”

And there it was, the start of an amazing conversation between two people who care about my son. Z wasn’t being nosy or asking dumb questions, as it seems people fear will be the assumption when they ask about autism. He was genuinely interested in learning more about someone to whom he wants to be a friend and wants to get to know better.

That conversation reinforced everything I’d ever read about this unwritten Rule #1 of Autism: Talk about Autism. The more we talk, the more people understand. It is only with understanding that acceptance can be found and true friendships can be formed.

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There was a time we couldn’t go into a gym without headphones because the noise was too much. There was a time we wouldn’t step away from the group of children Ben was a part of because the prospect of being bumped into or touched brought with it the assurance of a meltdown. There was a time we didn’t dare to dream of team sports because smaller children, especially curious smaller children, frightened our boy. It shames me to admit it, but there was a time I didn’t believe. I didn’t hope because the possibility of meltdowns – loud tearful, heartbreaking meltdowns were more a promise than a possibility. I’ve always told our kids to never give up, to always have a couple of goals to work toward and to never stop dreaming, but if I’m honest with myself, the truth is that I have been guilty of all of those to some degree.

Thankfully, I have been proven wrong time and time and time again as our boy continues to blow our minds. A few years ago, he wanted to play baseball, so we signed him up for t-ball and set off on a new adventure. That first year was rough, as in I had to chase him around the bases and stand by him in the outfield. (Read: Hold him up in the outfield because the sun was too hot and it took too long – yes, I felt his pain. It was t-ball after all.) But he was out there playing baseball. Despite the setbacks, it was progress.

He wanted to play again the next year and the next and the next. He’s the tallest kid on the t-ball team, but he also smiles the biggest and stops at home plate after each run to take a bow and say, “Thank you!” to those cheering for him. It’s t-ball and it’s a safe place for him to grow.

About this time last year, we happened to be in the middles school one evening for a meeting regarding one of our middles and the upcoming baseball season. I thought the meeting was in the gym, so imagine my surprise when we walked in to find it also happened to be the night all the Mini Tornado basketball teams were practicing.

Our boy stopped dead in his tracks and I braced myself for the worst. The situation presented all the trademarks for a meltdown: loud noises, lots of small children running around, jackets and bags thrown on the floor – chaos to the nth degree. Much to my surprise there was no meltdown. There was no covering his ears and cowering next to me. There was no screaming, no crying, no opposition at all. What there was was just as amazing as what there was not.

He watched in silent awe, raised his hand, and pointed a finger towards all the activity before us and whispered, “I want to do that.”

Unsure I’d heard him correctly, I asked him what he’d said. This time he laid his hand on my arm, looked me in the eye, pointed back to the kids, and said, “Mommy, I want to do that.”

Time all but stood still in that moment of chaos in the gym, but I knew the task ahead of us would not be easily accomplished as once our boy gets an idea in mind, his resolve is solid in making it happen. Signups done, teams assigned and the season already underway, basketball was not happening in 2016.

I managed to distract him enough to get out of the gym and on to the meeting we were there to attend, but a new passion was brewing in our boy. Whenever we were outside last summer, he always ended up with a ball in hand – didn’t matter if we were in the pool, out back or in the house. If there was a ball around, he grabbed it and began to toss it around, most generally flanked by his ever faithful little sister sidekick. Very few balls went through the hoop last summer, especially early on, but he kept trying. By the end of the summer, he would usually make a basket at least once each time we were out. So when the opportunity came to sign up for basketball, I checked made sure he and his sister could play on the same team and paid the fee, hoping for the best.

The early spring we have enjoyed this month has allowed for more basketball than I ever would have thought possible in February. The cheering out back is getting louder and coming more frequently as the ball is going in the hoop more and more often, but I still wasn’t sure it would be enough to endure all the noise and chaos of actually being in a gym with multiple people, many of them smaller than him, and all the noise that involves. Headphones don’t really seem to be much of an option either as we want him to be able to hear the coach. And the coach? What if the coach isn’t familiar with autism? What if he or she is a yeller or a screamer, or one who physically redirects kids? How was this going to work? My anxiety level was rising beyond compare by the time their first practice came around.

I have learned many lessons over the years as a spectrum mom, but one of the most important to date has to be to learn to trust people, expect the best, and never say never. It would have been so easy for me to say no, the chaos would be too much and we don’t know the coach, so we better just sit it out, but how unfair would that have been to our son?  You see, that first practice was nothing short of a miracle in my eyes as I got to stand on the sidelines of the gym and watch my boy shoot and score and celebrate with his coach and his team – HIS TEAM, of which I am no part. There was a time I wasn’t sure this would ever happen, but especially not at such a young age. I’m not one of his coaches this time, and I have never been happier in my life to not be needed.

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New Entry from Jody’s Spectrum Scene Blog:

Catching up and sharing from the files of my ramblings. This particular set is from January 31, 2017.

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Living life on the autism spectrum presents several different challenges. One of which for many individuals is that of varying gastric woes. Our spectrum son has battled his share of these over the years, but fortunately, and thankfully so, this doesn’t seem to be much of an issue much any more as he continues to grow and develop.

However, there are times his gastric system revolts causing stomach upset and in the worst case scenario, vomiting to expel anything currently in his stomach. This typically only happens after he has either rushed through a meal or has simply eaten too much. Both of these situations are near completely cured once he has cleared his tummy. Completely – as in so much has come up that his stomach certainly must be empty, and completely in that he returns to smiling, laughing and playing as active as ever.

Such was the case at his sister’s basketball game earlier this week. We had joined his dad for dinner that night and he had eaten rather quickly, much faster than the rest of us. We tried to slow him down, but apparently, we had waited too long. It wasn’t far into the game that I heard his muffled, “I’m sorry, Mommy.” and turned to see the classic gastro-troubles-look: pale, glassy eyes, lips slightly parted and labored breathing. The first few times I saw this look, I was frightened as it seems he can’t get the oxygen he needs, but in time, I’ve become accustomed to this precursor and even thankful for the warning it provides.

Quick as ever he moved at my command and we made it to the trash can in time to overt any real crisis such as getting sick in front of or on anyone near us.

I didn’t think much of it as this has become somewhat routine when he eats too fast or too much. It’s one of those things that as a parent, you don’t necessarily like, you just come to accept it as part of the package. You deal with it and move on. And this is exactly what I did that night.

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We have long been fans of motivational quotes, stories, speakers, anything which gets our minds and hearts focused on what we want to accomplish. I think this may have started back in our FFA days, perhaps even earlier for me as I watched my older brother pursue his FFA dreams while I was in elementary and junior high.

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Inauguration day has come and gone and President Trump has begun naming his advisers. As with any changing of the helm, there are those who are excited about the future, and those who are less than pleased. I’ve even heard a few die-hard anti-Trumpsters proclaim, “I hope he fails!”

This is beyond the realm of comprehension for me. Why on Earth would any American actually hope our President fails? Why can’t people seem to understand that if he fails, we as a nation fail?

True, we have many issues as a nation: corrupt government, debt, poverty, homelessness, only to name a few, but how would any of that be solved by a President who fails?

I recently read another opinion on this matter, which supports my position: Wishing failure upon our President is the same as hoping the pilot of our flight will crash; we will all burn in the aftermath.

Can any American truly say they wish for the demise of our country as a whole? I certainly hope not. If that is the case, I would think a reality check in terms of where they call home is in order.

Regardless of whether we completely agree or support the choices of our President, the time is now to come together for the good our nation. Our future is riding on it. Our children’s future is riding on it.

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New Entry from Jody’s Spectrum Scene Blog:

Catching up and sharing from the files of my ramblings. This particular set is from August 24, 2015.

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I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been asked why our kids show livestock. There are many lessons to be learned while working with an animal which will grow to be ten times your own body weight, along with many memories which will be carried well into adulthood. Clyde was my little buddy, raised as a bottle and then bucket calf after being orphaned by his momma. We played chase; he tried to eat my hair; we walked together in the show ring; and then, I loaded him on the trailer to head to market. Memories made, lessons learned and never forgotten.

The annual Avon Fat Steer Show has long served as our end of summer bash. It’s a weekend we can come together with our friends and neighbors to enjoy and celebrate our community’s roots in agriculture while encouraging and celebrating the accomplishments of our young people as they work to exhibit their livestock.

Once the steer show is done, animals are no longer needing to be washed, groomed and walked daily so there is a relief in responsibility for our children. But after all the months of preparation and shows throughout the summer, a bond is formed between animal and owner, so even though the kids don’t necessarily have to go out and spend time with their cattle, I noticed each one of them venturing out to the barn off and on yesterday.

Part of me wonders why now that the kids don’t have to go out, they do, but when it was a necessity for working, prepping, and practicing, they often needed a nudge or two to get them moving. I don’t wonder long. I remember the days of walking my own cattle and the laughter of playing chase with bucket calves. I remember feeling a full heart when my little buddy tossed his head on my lap while we relaxed under a shade tree after an hour or two of grooming and walking. And I remember the lump in my throat as I loaded that same little buddy, then more than 1,000 pounds, onto the trailer for the last time. It’s the circle of life – a lesson well learned early on in a show kid’s career.

While we eagerly anticipate this fair weekend all summer long, simply for the joy of being there, enjoying our community and so many of the aspects which truly make it home for us, there is also somewhat of a let-down when it is done. Perhaps it’s the sheer exhaustion, particularly this year with the first week of school inconveniently falling on the same week as Steer Show.

Our living room was quite the sight yesterday, strewn with bodies young and not-so-young soaking up some much-needed rest. It made me wonder if this is what the hyped “Zombie Apocalypse” may look like, minus the blood and gore. I kind of chuckled as I searched for a spot to sit among the bodies, but my heart was at peace as we were together, tired-but together.

This is our family: we work hard and we play hard. We may not always be physically together because of work demands, but we are always together in spirit. Thanks to such great technology, we can keep in touch up to the minute when one or more is in a different location. We can know what’s going on where, what stops need to be made along the way and who needs to get where and when. We are in this life thing together. And at the end of the day (or the end of the fair as it may be) we can come together and crash together as well.

Special thanks to all the many volunteers who make the fairs happen. None of it would be possible without the hours upon hours of dozens, if not hundreds of individuals who have contributed in planning and executing the many fairs we have attended. Thank you to the sponsors of each and every class. Thank you to the spectators who clap and encourage the exhibitors. Thank you to those “kids” who have come before ours and taken the time to stop and chat with them about their animals, share their insights, and offer a helping hand. Thank you to those who have stopped us personally to tell us something great about our kids, to share a story or two about how they made your day a little brighter. These are the moments I realize that despite the frustrations, yes, this is a very good thing for our kids and for us as a family.

Someone asked me over the weekend why we do this. They had some valid points:  It’s expensive. Aside from the time involved, you have the gas and all the miles driven, you have to feed the animals, you have show equipment and supplies. You have to eat at the fair and most of those fairs have carnivals where I’m sure the younger kids want to ride and ride and ride.

Honestly, it got me thinking. Why do we do this? Because it’s fun? Well yes, it can be, but just ask any of our kids, chasing cattle through a cornfield really isn’t the best of times. Neither is being tossed into the side of a show ring by an animal that has never even so much as swung his head at you. Many mornings, sleep seems like a better idea than heading out to tend to chores and when returning home late at night after school events and play practices, a shower and the couch is much more appealing than heading to the barn.

Teaching responsibility and building confidence and character are among the top of my list as to why we do what we do. We want our children to be confident in whatever they choose to do in life. We want them to believe in themselves enough to take on whatever challenges life can toss at them. If they raise an animal more than 10 times their weight and can lead said animal through a show ring, exhibiting them with confidence, answering questions from judges and spectators alike, not only specifics about their animal, but about the livestock industry in general, they will have the confidence to tackle challenges as they grow into adulthood and raise families of their own. The truth is, any one of those animals could toss it’s owner at any given moment and be gone in a fraction of a second. It happens to everyone at some point that an animal gets spooked and bolts. No one is immune from this. It happens. But that, too, builds character. There is a huge amount of trust and confidence involved in taking this animal by a rope and leading them in front of an arena full of spectators.

Just like any other form of competition, our kids aren’t always finishing at the top of their classes, but this, too, holds important lessons – winning and losing with grace. Acknowledging and congratulating others on their strong performance, even when their hearts are disappointed reinforces grace and strength in character.

Two of our kids were in the champion steer drive this weekend. What this means is that they each won their class and then were judged against other class winners to determine the champion of the show. Our kids’ animals weren’t chosen as grand or reserve champion, but I couldn’t have been more proud of our kids when I saw the smiles on their faces when the winner was announced. They were genuinely excited for the young man whose steer had been named champion as they had seen him struggle in many of the same ways they had struggled throughout the summer, coming close, but never quite coming out on top. And the one who wasn’t in the drive, was right there ringside, watching, silently encouraging his siblings, and proud of the exhibitor who did win.

These are so much more important than any ride at any fair, so much better than even the best funnel cake. Those are all great, too, and were very much enjoyed over the weekend, but these are the moments which have already turned into memories carefully tucked away in my heart.

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New Entry from Jody’s Spectrum Scene Blog:

Catching up and sharing from the files of my ramblings. This particular set is from

December 5, 2016.

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It’s a wonderful thing to feel a part of a community, a family knit not by biology and DNA but by camaraderie, the spirit of friendship within a group, like soldiers at war who keep each other upbeat despite the difficulty of their circumstances. No, thankfully we aren’t in a war, but this is someone who comes to mind when you hear the phrase, “We’re in this together.

I didn’t grow up in Fulton County, but this is where my family has landed and this is where we call home; the only home our children have ever known; the place we find solace and comfort; the place we recharge, refuel, and rest. Yes, this is home.

There are a few events I have found this feeling especially present at over the years: summer baseball, kid productions, livestock shows, and now, the Avon Christmas Walk. Only in its second year, this has become an event looked forward to be all ages – a time for little ones to snack on goodies while their parents visit with friends at local businesses, patient as they can as they also anxiously await visiting with Santa.

I don’t know who is completely in charge of this event, whose idea it was, or how it even began, but I can attest to its success, even the heavens gave us a beautiful blanket of soft white snow to add to the ambiance of the evening. Christmas carols sung by young scouts filled the air as folks walked up and down Main Street sipping hot cocoa greeting friends and neighbors we don’t often take time to stop and visit with beyond the standard, “Hi, how are you?” Yes, for a couple of hours the first Saturday in December, our little Main Street was transformed into a Winter Wonderland.

The highlight of the evening for adults may have simply been the time together with family and friends, catching up, gathering together in the cool winter air, but for kids, it was most assuredly seeing Santa, sitting upon his lap, and making their greatest Christmas wishes known.

As the mother of five children aged 7 through 18, I’ve been witness to more than a few Santa visits. It’s always fun for me to watch the wonder and see that Christmas magic in the eyes of young children. There have also been a couple of times over the years which I have seen the heartbreak of sadness as children share with Santa that a beloved Grandparent has passed on or favorite pet is no longer with them. The heartbreak is real, not only for the child and their parents, but for Santa as well.

My heart was so full as I knelt to pray with my children last night, full of smiles for their happiness over seeing friends, Mrs. Clause and Santa, too, but also full of thankfulness for those who worked so hard to put on such a great event; for those who attended and truly make this such a wonderful place to live and raise our family; for Santa, who comforted a sad little girl ahead of us in line, spoke softly and patiently with our spectrum son who sometimes struggles with conversation, then belly laughed with our youngest daughter. That Santa, he’s another amazing part of our community for which I am so thankful!

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New Entry from Jody’s Spectrum Scene Blog:

Catching up and sharing from the files of my ramblings. This particular set is from
April 26, 2016.

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“There’s a bunch of RETARDS running times today!”

Kicked in the guy and barely catching my breath at the very memory of overhearing this comment at last night’s track meet in Bushnell. Last night. In 2016. Essentially in our own back yard.

Let me clarify, this was not an A-Town or BPC athlete. In fact, his wasn’t a jersey I was familiar with so I can’t say for sure where he was from. What caught me most was his parents never said a thing about his outburst other than to fan the flames of his disgust. Apparently his team’s times weren’t as good as what he thought they should have been and other teams beat his, so of course, he surmised, it was a bunch of “retards” running times.

Rude. Disrespectful. I could go on and on with the adjectives that ran through my mind as I struggled to remain calm. That family moved on to find the rest of their disgruntled team and I breathed a sigh of relief not to have to be around them any longer without leaving our vantage point for our son’s next race.

What broke my heart most was that I didn’t have the fortitude to speak up and share that what was being said was hurtful and actually inaccurate. I doubt it would have made difference, but at least I would have had the peace of knowing I’d done my part in spreading awareness and if not stopping, at least slowing down the hatred.

I just cannot wrap my mind around why so many people find it perfectly acceptable to use the “R” word when referring to someone that has upset them, angered them, or even simply disagreed with them.

I’m ashamed of myself for not speaking up. Despite rationalizing the situation with the reality that I couldn’t catch my breath, how could I speak, I know I should have. I can’t expect others to speak up when I don’t, but I can ask, please, stop and think before you speak. And if you have children, please ask them to do the same.

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