Proud mom moment. Wilson hasn’t had his hair cut outside of our home in more than six years. The last hair salon we attempted with him was when he was about two years old, and he was screaming so much before he even got into the chair that the stylist said she couldn’t work with him. So, we left, and started a haircutting program with his therapy center that lasted about four years. I’ve continued to cut his hair at home, and while he doesn’t necessarily like it, he has improved greatly and will tolerate it.
Last week, while I was getting my hair done, I asked my stylist if she would be willing to attempt to cut his hair at her salon. I honestly sat there thinking about it for an hour or so before I asked her. Deciding when and how to attempt things like this is tricky. I don’t mean to be pessimistic, but we have been there and done that and I was sweating at the thought of attempting it again. I pictured the screaming and the other clients staring, and the headbanging, and the hand swatting. And thought maybe continuing with the mediocre mom-cuts was good enough.
Her salon is small, quiet, and I had a feeling he just might like it there. She was very happy to give it a try and we agreed that if it didn’t work out, we wouldn’t push it.
I talked with Wilson about the salon over the weekend. I told him about the cool plants he’ll see there, the big mirror, and the nice lady named Sarah that was going to cut his hair this time. He said “no.” Later we talked more and landed on him getting to watch his dad’s iPad after his haircut. Sunday night and throughout yesterday, he calmy repeated his schedule, including the haircut.
He did AMAZING. He stayed calm, let her use scissors (hadn’t used those in six years either!), and was so excited to feed the ducks at the lake afterwards.
Proud is really an understatement. As much as I want to erase some of our tough experiences from memory, they sure make me grateful for how far we have come.
Also, there are really good people out there. Find the courage to ask, it’ll be worth it.
We’ve been busy over here at Wilson’s Climb! We started an inclusive clothing collection, Little Rebels with a Cause, with this sweet boy in mind. Sometimes it’s just nice when the shirts can do the talking for you.
Our designs quickly morphed into much more… for the advocates, the upstanders, and the world changers.
We make apparel with purpose for LITTLE REBELS: upstanders who embrace differences.
Our son is an adorable, curious, eight-year-old who is autistic and processes this world differently than many of us do. We see the way his little sister advocates for him, from running to get his headphones when a noise is painful for him, to telling most people she meets that her brother has autism. She does this in the same way one might say their brother is great at football or playing the guitar. She’s proud of him.
We’ve seen the value of inclusion for both of our kids, and so many more incredible humans who are a part of this Little Rebels community. We have so much to learn from one another.
We believe words are important, and we hope our tees spark valuable conversations in your communities.
Our son’s sensory processing difficulties can make clothing choices tricky. We worked hard to find the softest, most comfortable tees around, most with easy to tear-away tags. You’ll notice an abundance of black and white throughout our designs, as that is the only kind of tee he will wear.
We’re proud to donate ten percent of every purchase to some amazing nonprofits. These programs range from assisting anyone with a disability in finding their inner athlete through outdoor recreation, to programs who build inclusive and ACCESSIBLE playgrounds so that ALL can play, and those who advocate for a loving and inclusive community for anyone with a disability. We plan to introduce additional nonprofits throughout the year.
We look forward to raising awareness for these programs and making a difference with you.
P.S. A heart is one of our boy’s favorite shapes, so he helped us out by drawing the one in our mission statement.
I’ve found it very difficult to protect my heart when it’s beating outside of my body. These days it’s running around in the form of little sandy-haired, blue-eyed kids, in such vulnerable form.
I’ve wanted to protect these two from the Big Bad World since the moment I met them. Most of the time, my boy’s adventurous spirit would get in the way of the bubble wrapped life I had in mind for him.
I wasn’t ready for fearless. I wasn’t ready for vulnerable. I wasn’t ready for autism.
How will I protect him now?Will he be OK?
Will he ever talk? Attend school? Be bullied on the playground? Will he have a job? Drive? Live independently? Fall in love? And commence the spiral to nowhere.
As parents, we never want our children to feel pain and sadness. Hunger or cold. Lost or confused. It tears me up from the inside out when I look into my boy’s eyes and see how confused and frustrated he can become.
I remember a moment years ago when, during one of his meltdowns, his 2-year-old little sister hugged him and would not let go. Eventually he started laughing because it became a game to try and get her off him.
I noticed something that day. The way she looked at him. It was simple and unconditional adoration. In her eyes, he isn’t “different”. He is her big brother. Her hero. Her person.
I pray that she will always see him in that same light. As time passes, the weight of his world will inevitably impact hers more. New challenges will arise, they both will grow and change, but oh, how I hope that their unconditional love remains the same.
My children are both unique and made for one another. I can’t catch them every time they fall, but I can teach them how to help one another back up. To comfort one another. To laugh together.
They have shown us fearless. They have taught us how to find comfort in vulnerability.
My son has a phenomenal tribe of family, friends, doctors, teachers, therapists, specialists, and peers to help raise him up as high as he can go.
And he has her.
So just like that, I had all the answers to that pesky spiral to nowhere:
Joy. I want to get it right, explaining this birthday boy to you, and joy is what comes to mind over and over again.
Sometimes fragile but mostly fearless, he’s going to discover, celebrate, and remember every little thing about this big old world.
He finds the joy around him all the time… a spontaneous “moo!” to the cows out his car window and an ecstatic “choo choo!” when we are lucky enough to spot a real-life train.
I know other eight-year-olds might not do that, and that’s okay. Sometimes he celebrates joy in atypical ways or in places you wouldn’t expect. But it’s always there with him, radiating throughout the room.
He is happy in his soul.
We don’t waste moments with worry & comparison. We left that game a long time ago. Wilson is in a league of his own, right where he belongs.
We’ve been rushing this boy to grow his whole life. In true Wilson fashion, it will all be in his own time, and in his own way. Now I see this big eight-year-old in front of me and pray for time to slow down, just a little.
I am so thankful for his joyous energy, his curiosity, and the way his happiness feels like sunshine.
Hoping this year is filled with chasing more trains, searching for the ends of rainbows, and that sense of wonder found only in a child’s heart.
When autism entered my life, I knew nothing about it. Books and the internet provided some information but at times they were also terrifying rabbit-holes to nowhere. No one was talking about autism. Because of this, I think the road to acceptance for many parents with special kids is very lonely and isolating.
It did not take long to realize that there was very little I could control about my son’s autism. We worked hard at various therapies all day long for very slow progress. We still do, and it is worth it.
We built a team of therapists, doctors, and interventionists to help him learn, keep him safe and help us learn to communicate with him.
The more I came to terms the impossibility of completely changing my son’s autism, I decided we were going to change the world instead.
I want the world to be easier for him to navigate through. I want awareness, kindness, acceptance and inclusion to surround him wherever he goes.
I want people to know my boy, to understand him. I know this is not going to be easy. We work every day to do that ourselves.
I want people to know that his favorite color is red. He has never told me this, I just know.
I want children to understand that he wants to play with them, even though it does not always look that way. They need to know that most of the time his words are trapped somewhere deep inside of him. That he is not intentionally ignoring them and that his hearing is perfectly fine. He just does not always understand their words, but maybe they could show him instead.
You see, too many words get all mixed up in his head. But if you take his hand or tap his shoulder and show him the way, he just may follow.
Little friends need to know that he might not share the toys that are precious to him on a particular day because the way he has them lined up and organized is what he depends on to make him feel calm and like all is right in the world.
I want the shock and awe stares during the public meltdowns to disappear. Our meltdowns are not the typical toddler I-want-a-candy-bar kind. They are communication breakdown, sensory overload, all- systems-firing and frightening. I want a stranger to tell me I am doing a good job or acknowledge that being a mom is hard, instead of a judgmental glance when I struggle to pick my child up off the parking lot pavement.
This is where we begin to try and change the world, by sharing one boy’s journey with autism. Let him be your reminder that things are not always as they seem and to always lead with kindness and patience.
I don’t think there is a mom out there that hasn’t been kicked in the ass by motherhood a time or two.
Years ago, when Wilson was a nonverbal toddler and Charlie an infant, I attempted to take them both to Target. This was pre-autism diagnosis, and I really struggled to understand and communicate with this boy of mine.
He started getting worked up as I loaded them into the double stroller. As we passed through the automatic doors, he quickly escalated to intense screaming. Everyone stared. I had no idea why he was so upset. His shrieks were so loud, he couldn’t understand a word I was trying to say (or see the bribes I was sending his way). I turned around, wheeled them outside and bent down to try and reason with my frantic child at his level.
That is when his little ninja foot connected perfectly with my jaw. My toddler had just kicked me in the face.
I held back tears as I headed back to the car. Wilson still screaming, the baby was clueless, and we had no groceries to show for the courageous outing.
A man in the parking lot saw me and said, “You’re doing a great job. Being a mom is the hardest… I’ve got two little ones at home.”
I burst into tears.
What he said was nice, but do you know what I heard?
I heard that motherhood is hard, and it wasn’t just me doing it wrong. I heard that I am not weak, unqualified, or unfit for this mom-life thing, which is exactly the narrative I had been telling myself all too often. This job is hard, and beautiful, and messy, and to acknowledge that is normal and to struggle is okay.
I felt seen at one of my weakest moments and encouraged by a stranger.
That man probably has no clue what he did for me that day. How he encouraged a struggling mom and that she still thinks about those words, years later.
Think about how easily you could do that for someone else… your words matter.
Just to be crystal clear, I know there is always a time and a place and commenting on a given situation doesn’t always feel right. Just remember you are capable of being a bright spot in someone’s tough day.
Also, remember that your best is MORE than enough.
During the years surrounding Wilson’s autism diagnosis, I could barely say the word “autism” out loud.
I thought I would just break down every single time and, frankly, I didn’t have time for that. To be clear, this had nothing to do with shame. Not one day has gone by that I am not immensely proud of this boy.
It was about fear, worry, the unknown, and all the other bumps along the road to acceptance. All a parent could ever want is for their child to be okay. Autism has a way of tricking your brain into questioning if that will be the case. There is so much to learn and understand before some of that uncontrollable worry begins to fade.
I threw myself into research. We got on waitlists. I began on the path to truly knowing this boy.
And I wrote. I got it all out. Everything that was too hard to talk about at the time. Processing this kind of information is not easy, and it can be very lonely. This is a big reason why I am here, sharing our story. I never want other families to feel the same confusion and loneliness that we felt in the beginning of this journey.
It has meant so much to me to connect with other autism families, some who are going through the steps to a diagnosis or have a child that was recently diagnosed, and other parents of children of all different ages and abilities.
The main message I want to convey to all these parents is that there will be MANY times that you will feel alone in this, but you do not have to be. I constantly must remind myself of this.
I cannot tell you how many situations there have been where my knee-jerk reaction was that no one knows how this feels. The same battles, day in and day out, the medical incident reports, medical and educational decisions, the moment I saw AUTISM written on paper in an evaluation about my boy.
I’ll tell you there is not one thing I could tell my fellow parents of children with autism about our life that would shock them. Seriously. The fears, the frustrations, the meltdowns, and all the “inappropriate” behaviors we’ve faced. They GET it. They also get how big some of the simple, small victories truly are as well.
Things can still be hard for me to process a lot of the time. Sometimes it seems easier to sit alone with the tough stuff. If you do this, please don’t stay there long. Let someone sit with you.
Find your own way to work through your thoughts and feelings. They are real and should not be ignored.
Talk to someone. You might find this safe person in a waiting room at therapy or the pediatricians office, on the playground, or online. If all of this sounds impossible and overwhelming because you can’t even say “autism” out loud yet, that is okay too! It will get easier to talk about and then you will be ready to lean on others.
The best way for your friends and family to learn about autism and support you as a parent raising a child with autism is to tell them. Tell them about your child. Tell them about your struggles, your child’s struggles, strengths, passions, victories, and all the things.
They might not understand exactly how you feel, but they don’t have to. Sometimes talking through things just leaves you feeling better. I promise your people want to support you and celebrate with you and your child, you just have to let them.
I’m not saying you have to wave your autism awareness flag as loudly as I do. We all do this life differently. Find a place that makes you feel supported.
I am so much stronger than the day I walked out of that psychiatrist’s office with my son’s diagnosis in hand. My whole family is. If you would have told me this back then, I may have not believed you.
My boy is always growing and evolving and most days it feels like autism is always one step ahead of me. It’s like trying to catch and examine the wind. There is still so much unknown to wrestle with.
While I may never understand everything going on inside of this complicated boy, what I do know is that I will never stop trying, and it helps to know there are so many people here rooting for him.
I have asked myself this question so many times in what felt like weak moments.
There are parts of this autism motherhood road I have accepted will not get any easier. There is no way to dull the pain you feel while watching your child battle big things, things no child should have to face. The anxiety, rigidity, and emotions they cannot make sense of or verbalize. Their frustration channeled into self-injurious behaviors.
When your child hurts, you hurt. Try as I may, I cannot come up with the words to describe the feeling of seeing my son hurt himself out of frustration. When there is nothing left for him to do except scream at the top of his little lungs, the words he needs consistently trapped deep inside of him. I picture our developed brains something like a smoothly running interstate, while my son’s is an entanglement of traffic jams, dead ends, and one-way streets. A never-ending, exhausting road.
Admitting the difficult, to yourself or others, is not weak.
That is where you learn to grow, adapt, and summon up your strength and resilience.
Whatever your struggle is right now, keep at it. Lean on others, talk about it.
“Because he was made that way. Just like you were made to be just the way you are.”
Oh, how I have dreaded this moment in the past. I have asked myself that very question a million times, only to come up with as many different answers. Like many things in our autism world, there is not one straight answer, leaving you with the same frustration and confusion you started with, and more questions.
What did I do wrong?
Did I take enough of those prenatal vitamins?
Maintain the right diet during pregnancy?
Was it his vaccination schedule?
What on earth is a refrigerator mother?
Or maybe this path was meant to be his long before he arrived here on this earth.
People will tell you that everything happens for a reason. I don’t know if autism was meant to be or not but the one thing I do know, is that these two were meant for one another.
She has messed with this regimented little boy in the best possible way since she arrived. And he has been fascinated since he laid eyes on her.
As they get older, their differences have become more apparent but so is how much they are learning from each other.
She is so proud of him for every new accomplishment, while also slowly registering that life really isn’t always fair. She knows which buttons to push to set him off, but will also be the first one to rush to sing to him when he needs comfort.
“Give a squeeze,
Nice and slow,
Take a deep breath…
…And let it go.”
When the fog of frustration clears, I see beautiful “reasons” all around. Wilson is a constant reminder to slow down and appreciate the simplest of things. He could study leaves for hours and lays down to examine ants slowly making their way across the driveway. He studies his reflection with such curiosity and wonderment, and he will study you the same if you let him in.
And is there a better sound than children laughing? Turns out, you do not need words for that.
I have stopped constantly wrestling with the paradox that is this world of autism, insisting it had to be one way or another. Difficult or easy, high or low, complicated or pure and simple. Perhaps it will be, and always has been, both.
Life can be everything. Together, these two are everything.
**Click on image below for a sweet video. That Dumbo was Wilson’s favorite thing in life for his first four years. He brought it everywhere. He loved to rub it’s nose on his forehead when he was tired or needed calming. He shared that feeling with his new sister and it was such a tender moment.