every day

I knew he was different when he was two.

I remember the first Christmas. The shopping cart he was so excited about.  Not for the cart per se but for what came inside.  We woke up early Christmas morning to find him at the end of a long trail of boxes.  All neatly lined up.  The shopping cart on its side while he spun the wheels round and round.

I remember not being able to communicate with him.  He had his own language - his own way of seeing the world.  Hands over his ears shielding him from loud noises - eyes covered against bright lights. Being told by the school district that the problem was on my end - that my child was brilliant; that I just needed to learn how to understand him.

I remember sitting in the car while he screamed at the top of his lungs for what seemed like an eternity. Strangers walking past looking at me as if I had beaten my child. Knowing that the only thing that would stop him was sheer exhaustion. I felt helpless and frustrated.

There were days that I felt like the worst mother in the entire world.  Days that he would tell you I was. Days that I would sit in my car alone and uncontrollably cry. So many years later, we still have days like that. Too many.

There were times along the road that I asked myself how I would ever get through this.  Begged G-d for understanding. For patience. Those times are not behind me.  They are my every day.

Some things haven't changed in the past 14 years.  I still often feel helpless and the level of frustration has only increased with age. Gone are the boxes of fake food, and although we talk, we still do not communicate. There is still a great deal of screaming. Frustrated, angry screaming that leaves us both emotionally and physically drained.

I remember the parent-teacher conferences, year after year after year, where we were told that our child was smart (testing showed that) but not engaged.  "He zones out... he's not present... he sleeps through my class."  Classwork wasn't done.  Homework was a battle. Grades fell. Comments from both sides of the table, "We know he can do better." Fingers pointed both directions.

I remember each 504 and IEP. Psychologists and specialists and support groups. Diagnoses and medications and therapies. Parenting classes and books.  Explaining to yet another doctor, teacher, friend, family member, and parent.

I also remember the first time he told a joke. Sitting next to him the first time he watched a fireworks show without his ears or eyes covered. The feeling of picking him up from summer camp last year (the first time without a family member). Watching him lead his peers at Boy Scouts or mentor a younger scout. When he left me in a theater to go sit with his friends - people who accepted him and welcomed him.  These are the everyday.

But then there are also the everyday battles over homework and responsibility. The constant reminders that he lacks reason and the ability to differentiate right from wrong. The same concerns over hygiene and personal safety we had when he was little. Worrying about what the future will hold for him. For us.  Every day.

And, I often wonder how much has REALLY changed in 14 years.

The school district was right - he is smart and I do not understand him. And THAT, more than anything else, leaves me feeling frustrated, helpless. And sad.

Every day is Autism Awareness Day

I've been 'bagel holed'

I have some stellar ideas.  Not all of them are good, I admit it.  Sometimes I'm a bit like Lucy Ricardo.  OK... a lot.  But every once in a while, I have an epiphany.  An idea that has the potential to change the world.  Or at least my world.

Usually, these brilliant nuggets involve food because, honestly, food is what I think about most of the time.

So, let me tell you the story of the Bagel Hole.

About 20 years ago, we were sitting around one night talking and I innocently asked, "If they make donut holes, why don't they make bagel holes? What happens to all the holes?"  That discussion led to me developing an entire marketing plan to open franchises of bagel hole locations.  You could buy holes in many flavors.  A bevy of dipping sauces.  I could see it all.  Millions of people walking through malls and airports, dunking bagel holes.  It was brilliant.  So why can't you buy these tasty treats? Here's why.

1. We discovered very early on in the test kitchen that neither Eric nor I had a knack for making bagels - let alone holes.
2. I have the attention span of a gnat and I quickly lost focus and drive and moved onto another venture.

So why do I tell you this?

A few years ago, Eric texted me a picture of Thomas' Bagel Holes available for sale in the grocery store!  They had stolen MY idea!  The audacity! It became our private joke for anytime someone "stole" our idea.  "It's bagel holes all over again!"

It happened again this morning - also food related - also a text from my husband.

Now, don't get me started on squeeze ketchup!

birds of a feather

When it came time to write my mom's grave marker 2 years ago, I really struggled. I guess I should have expected that. My relationship with my mother was always a struggle.

Ask anyone... my mother was a great friend, aunt, coworker, volunteer, caretaker. She took care of my father, Dan and Joe Sklar until they took their last breaths.

And my mother was an awesome grandmother. She loved my boys unconditionally, from the second they entered our lives. She proudly sat behind us when we finalized the adoption paperwork a year later, a formality in her mind -- they were already hers and always would be. She gave them their Jewish names that day - just as Eric's parents gave them their last name. Her gift to them was a lineage that dates back 5771 years.

Growing up, she wasn't always the mother I needed or wanted. In fact, she wasn't always a mother at all. I left at 15 in search of what that word meant (a search that continues today). We butted heads... a lot! She wanted to do everything for me. I was an independent soul. She was emotionally excessive. I am aloof. She always needed people around her, complimenting her. For me, validation comes from within.

It has taken me until now (at 41) to even start to understand. She taught me a lot. Some through example and some through not repeating others' mistakes. She taught me to have compassion, to try to see the world through someone else's eyes. She taught me that no matter how little you have, there is always someone out there that has less. She taught me what "til death do us part" means. But she also showed me how important it is to just "be there", to not run away, to trust myself, to not act helpless and take advantage of people, to love myself unconditionally. Unfortunately, those lessons were learned by watching her fail. These days, I wear her wedding rings to remind me of all I learned from her - for good and for bad.

When I think of my mother these days, I think of a bird. Not a solitary songbird alone in a nest but the ones that congregate on the phone lines. Flying here and there but always with company. Pausing to watch the bustle below. Then flying on.

I've let the bad history (and there was a lot of it) be carried away by one of those birds. I choose to remember her like she was in this picture. Just enjoying time with the boys. Giving them all the love she wanted to give me but I wasn't ready or willing to accept.

Each Rosh Hashana I tell her I love her for who she was. I forgive her for not being what I needed when I needed it. And then, I open my heart and accept her blessings for the same.

L'Shana Tova Mom - you are inscribed in the Book of Life forever - your memory lives on in all the people you touched

peanut, peanut butter and jelly

OK who am I kidding? The only reason for the existence of the apple or the banana or the wheat bread, for that matter, is to get the delicious peanut buttery goodness into my tummy. Peanut butter is by far one of my favorite foods. It satisfies my need for something sweet, salty, crunchy, fatty and rich all in one bite. Face it, it's one of the most perfect foods there is.

I can remember, as a kid, watching my dad devour half a loaf of white bread slathered in peanut butter. And, it wasn't uncommon to see him dive into a jar with a spoon (much to my mother's horror) -- no bread needed. So why, do I feel compelled to sully the perfection of peanut butter with all these extras? Why indeed.

My dad and I were a lot like PB & J. We could get along pretty well in small quantities but we did better apart. He's come to mind a lot lately... peanut butter, food trucks, Saturday morning cartoons, reruns, crossword puzzles. All things that make ME smile that I "inherited" a love of, from him. Last night, I dropped my notions of propriety and dove in, spoon first. As I sat on the couch decadently enjoying my treat, I couldn't help but think... THIS would make my dad smile.