Monday, July 22, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
It's Not Holland
A realistic and honest analogy about the world of special need parenting.
It's Not Holland
-by my uber-awesome friend Rhy
Imagine planning a trip to Paris for you and your partner. You get your guidebooks, your luggage, your wardrobe and your plane tickets. You research everything about Paris so you'll be ready when you arrive. You make make reservations. You talk with friends and family about their wonderful trips to Paris and how much fun they had. The two of you talk everyday about how much you want to go to Paris and how amazing it's going to be when you get there.
You get on the plane and take off. Suddenly, without explanation, the plane is diverted. Then at 5000 ft you and your partner are yanked out of your seats, strapped into parachutes you only vaguely understand, and tossed out the door.
Some how you manage to make it to the ground.
At first, you just sit, clinging to one another, checking to see if you have any broken bones. Once you're done thanking god that you're still alive, you dust yourselves off and look at the terrain. You look at each other and reassure one another that you're going to get out of this place.
Your first few days in the desert are exhausting. Just getting your basic needs met feels overwhelming. You feel alone, terrified and honestly- You're not sure if you're going to make it. Sometimes you fight, not because either of you is doing anything wrong- but because you're both tired and frustrated, there is sand everywhere, not enough water and there is no one else to yell at.
After many days of struggle, you finally make it to a village. The first thing you find out when you arrive, is that this settlement is made up of people who also got dumped out of a plane. This is what they tell you:
We are on the moon!
No, this is Arizona.
No, we're in the Australian Outback!
It's the airlines fault.
No. It's the flight attendant who pushed us out.
Oh! Another passenger pushed me out. How did that crazy person get past TSA?
There is no hope of rescue.
Wait! There is a rescue effort underway.
There is an 80% chance you and your treasured partner are going to crumble under the strain of this experience.
No, you won't, this experience will make you stronger!
The desert is a gift!
No, it's not. It's a war and war is hell!
Trying to make sense of this, you look around and say, "How did this happen? What made our plane go off track, when all the other planes made it to their destination just fine? If only we'd flown on a different airline. Who is right? Are we going to end up divorced or not? Is there a rescue party coming? Why are all of you talking at once?
Everyone in the crowd starts to shout LOUDER. Their voices jumbling into a unintelligible cacophony . Then, it dawns on you that maybe there are no right answers, because no one really knows. This is more terrifying than any answer you could have heard.
So despite being overwhelmed, despite struggling for the basic necessities and despite not knowing how you got there, you get on with the business of living your life. It's hard. It makes you angry, not at anyone in particular, just angry because it wasn't supposed to be this way. There are moments when the absurdity of it all makes you laugh. You and your partner discover that there are gorgeous sunsets in the desert and here, the stars shine with crystalline clarity. You smile a little more often and you realize that going to get water every day is doable once you know where the water hole is. You're scared sometimes, yes, but not as often as when you first landed. There are days when you wake up and wonder how you are ever going to make it through. At times, you're lonely for all the friends you had who went to Paris. Sometimes you don't recognize this person you're becoming or the person your partner has transformed into.
The desert is your new normal and once it becomes familiar, it's more understandable. You know which plants are poisonous, how to get sand out of your sleeping bag and how to be patient when your partner is screaming "ALL I EVER WANTED WAS A CROISSANT!" The path to the water hole is well worn. You learn how to handle your own meltdowns and you figure out that there are some wonderful people here in the village. Your skin gets toughened by the sun, and you realize you don't need Starbucks to get through the day.
Sometimes at the end of the day, as you gaze up at the endless sky, you wonder, "What would Paris have been like?" But then you realize that the desert has become your home- and you wouldn't give it up for the world.
It's Not Holland
-by my uber-awesome friend Rhy
Imagine planning a trip to Paris for you and your partner. You get your guidebooks, your luggage, your wardrobe and your plane tickets. You research everything about Paris so you'll be ready when you arrive. You make make reservations. You talk with friends and family about their wonderful trips to Paris and how much fun they had. The two of you talk everyday about how much you want to go to Paris and how amazing it's going to be when you get there.
You get on the plane and take off. Suddenly, without explanation, the plane is diverted. Then at 5000 ft you and your partner are yanked out of your seats, strapped into parachutes you only vaguely understand, and tossed out the door.
Some how you manage to make it to the ground.
At first, you just sit, clinging to one another, checking to see if you have any broken bones. Once you're done thanking god that you're still alive, you dust yourselves off and look at the terrain. You look at each other and reassure one another that you're going to get out of this place.
Your first few days in the desert are exhausting. Just getting your basic needs met feels overwhelming. You feel alone, terrified and honestly- You're not sure if you're going to make it. Sometimes you fight, not because either of you is doing anything wrong- but because you're both tired and frustrated, there is sand everywhere, not enough water and there is no one else to yell at.
After many days of struggle, you finally make it to a village. The first thing you find out when you arrive, is that this settlement is made up of people who also got dumped out of a plane. This is what they tell you:
We are on the moon!
No, this is Arizona.
No, we're in the Australian Outback!
It's the airlines fault.
No. It's the flight attendant who pushed us out.
Oh! Another passenger pushed me out. How did that crazy person get past TSA?
There is no hope of rescue.
Wait! There is a rescue effort underway.
There is an 80% chance you and your treasured partner are going to crumble under the strain of this experience.
No, you won't, this experience will make you stronger!
The desert is a gift!
No, it's not. It's a war and war is hell!
Trying to make sense of this, you look around and say, "How did this happen? What made our plane go off track, when all the other planes made it to their destination just fine? If only we'd flown on a different airline. Who is right? Are we going to end up divorced or not? Is there a rescue party coming? Why are all of you talking at once?
Everyone in the crowd starts to shout LOUDER. Their voices jumbling into a unintelligible cacophony . Then, it dawns on you that maybe there are no right answers, because no one really knows. This is more terrifying than any answer you could have heard.
So despite being overwhelmed, despite struggling for the basic necessities and despite not knowing how you got there, you get on with the business of living your life. It's hard. It makes you angry, not at anyone in particular, just angry because it wasn't supposed to be this way. There are moments when the absurdity of it all makes you laugh. You and your partner discover that there are gorgeous sunsets in the desert and here, the stars shine with crystalline clarity. You smile a little more often and you realize that going to get water every day is doable once you know where the water hole is. You're scared sometimes, yes, but not as often as when you first landed. There are days when you wake up and wonder how you are ever going to make it through. At times, you're lonely for all the friends you had who went to Paris. Sometimes you don't recognize this person you're becoming or the person your partner has transformed into.
The desert is your new normal and once it becomes familiar, it's more understandable. You know which plants are poisonous, how to get sand out of your sleeping bag and how to be patient when your partner is screaming "ALL I EVER WANTED WAS A CROISSANT!" The path to the water hole is well worn. You learn how to handle your own meltdowns and you figure out that there are some wonderful people here in the village. Your skin gets toughened by the sun, and you realize you don't need Starbucks to get through the day.
Sometimes at the end of the day, as you gaze up at the endless sky, you wonder, "What would Paris have been like?" But then you realize that the desert has become your home- and you wouldn't give it up for the world.
Craplosion
I read this article a few years ago, and it goes out to my friend who didn't just have a crapisode but an craplosion with 2 pools, a deck, no diaper, and a dog diarrhea scented aroma for the backyard.
"Twice last month, we had a "crapisode." What is a crapisode? (This is where you might want to stop eating and put down your beverage.) My 10 year old (#2, appropriately for the purposes of this entry) pooped in the toilet. That is reason to cheer, believe me. Toilet training is a major issue in my section of the autism community. Our kids can wear diapers into their teens and beyond. So Miss G pooped. Hooray! But Miss G forgets to flush. And she rarely closes the lid. Not hooray.
Miss Peanut, my 6 year old, seems to believe that being a Virgo means she simply MUST swim in any puddle larger than spit. The toilet is like an Olympic sized pool to her. So Peanut goes into the toilet after Miss G has had her, ah, success. Peanut flings kaka everywhere and gets it all over herself, the floor, the walls, the tub, the baseboards and the window. Wes Craven could not film anything scarier than what I saw that school morning, 35 minutes before the bus was due to arrive. That's a "crapisode." It happens in the blink of an eye while I'm washing dishes or doing laundry. I'm alerted by a splashing sound that drops a brick into my stomach. Miss G doesn't understand to flush and close the lid. Miss Peanut doesn't realize that a face full of feces is rarely considered a way to amuse oneself outside of the fetish community."
To read the whole article click here.
To read the whole article click here.
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