to my golden girl: happy fifth birthday

 Dear Arlie, 

As I am writing this I hear you and your sister giggle together in your bedroom. You picked out Olivia the Spy for the third night in a row. Any books about Olivia are your favorite. She is dramatic, silly, and has an imagination that is larger than life. She reminds me a lot of you. 

You, my sweet girl, have grown so much this year. I know I say that every year, but this one seems to be one of many wins. You learned how to ride your bike. You've navigated Pre-K and developed new friendships. You learned to be more open with your feelings. You preformed in your first ballet recital and are practicing for The Nutcracker. You braved hospital stays, and scary doctor's appointments. You've done this all with grace and joy that comes from the very core of you. There were many times where you wanted to quit, hide, or give up altogether. Despite the voices telling you that new things are too hard, you never gave up. You persisted and won.  

This year my birthday wish for you is this: never lose your hope. 

This year I decided that hopefulness was a value I wanted to center my life around. I am not a "glass half full" type of girl, so when I first heard the word hope I immediately scoffed at it. Then, I was told another definition of hope; one that seemed to awaken something deep inside me. Hope is the belief that you already have the tools and skills necessary to achieve any problem or obstacle. In a sense, hope is resilience. Hope is grit.  Hope is you. 

Over the year we have seen your autism appear in new and sometimes humorous ways. We share a similar brain, so I empathize with you when your literalness gets the best of you, or when you complain about how the sun is just too bright some days. (And yes I totally agree with you, we should be able to dim the sun.) I have also struggled when I see you struggle. Some days you come home frustrated with friends in class. Having multiple friendships puzzle you, and some days people want more from you than you can give. 

It is these days that I so badly want to shelter you from it all. I want to take you under my wing and protect you from the hurt and pain that I know you have to face from others. People can sometimes be hurtful and unkind. Rooms may be too loud to enjoy. Lights may be so bright you cannot focus. Trust me, I understand. The world may always seem like a snow globe that you only watch from the outside. It may seem like everyone speaks in riddles and equations and you only understand the language of colors. I cannot shield you from this, no matter how hard I try. 

When I find myself worrying over your future, I consider how you've overcome so many fears and challenges. I am reminded that you are full of the hope that I try to center my life around. You have always had the tools and skills necessary to take on the world. I can see it in you when you sing to yourself when you are alone, or the way you dance down the hall at school, uncaring if anyone watches. Your song and dance tells a story of hope and resilience. It is something I cling to when I feel like I am lacking any hope of my own. 

Sweet girl, never lose your hope. Your hope is a beacon for others on stormy days. It is what will carry you through moments where doubt seems to flood every room in your mind. Know that your hope is beautiful and precious, just like you. Never give up seeking moments of hopefulness. 

Happy 5th birthday my darling.  

I love you endlessly, 

Your Mother

genuineness

My shining stars, 

It's nearly been two years since we've updated this blog. Twenty-three months to be exact. I feel like we've lived twenty-three different lives in that time. I suppose that is part of the reason I've come back to write. 

Tonight I was giving you both bedtime snuggles and it occurred to me that there will be a day when you will no longer ask for one more drink of water, one last snuggle, or a goodnight hug. There will be a time when I look back on this haze of childhood and miss it. Sometimes I find myself missing it already. 

It is very easy to get caught up in the hurriedness of monotony.  I wake up to take Arlie to school. I work to be able to make dinner. I check social media enough to make it till bedtime. Life has become a series of dance steps that I do not remember learning; a parade that only celebrates the blur of the everyday. It isn't something that aligns with values that I strive to live by. 

This autumn has been a season of healing for me. I've spent countless hours walking outside, reading books on healing, and journaling page after page until the pain inside began to make sense. I've been taking inventory inside my heart, dusting off the shelves of hurt and mistakes that I've long ignored. I'm learning that healing is a continuous practice and something that you will never quite master. Through it all you two have been my reason for healing. I have healed in hopes that you don't have to hurt in the same ways I have. I can't protect you from all the hurt the world will through at you, but I definitely can teach you how to heal from it. 

This summer, I, for a lack of better words, fell apart. In June, my life came to a screeching halt and I had to drop all the plates I had been juggling for so long. I began to experience what I was later told were severe panic attacks. Short middle of the night terrors quickly became long summer days of tears, fear, and deep-seated anxiety. Life no longer made sense, and all the color in my world faded to dark grays. There were days I thought I lost my right to be your mother, to be a wife, to simply exist. 

Thankfully, I am blessed to have wonderful people in my life. I took time off from work to heal. Your Dad traded our partnership in and took on the burden of running the house solo. I found a therapist and began to unravel the reasons why I crumbled into a million pieces. Over several months she gave me the tools to rebuild my heart from scratch.  

One of the bigger topics we discussed were life values. One afternoon she asked me if there were any core values that I shaped my life around, and I couldn't give her a full answer. There were virtues or beliefs that I held which have shaped who I am, but to be able to name one or two words that reflect me at my core? It wasn't something I had considered. It took several sessions and many evenings of journaling, but I have found two words that I strive to live my life around. The first value is genuineness. 

Genuineness is one of the most important qualities I continually seek to live into. Remaining authentic and genuine has made me reevaluate friendships, habits, thought patterns and more. No longer do I try to make myself fit into boxes that do not serve me. I am continually retraining my brain to stop seeking acceptance in every room I enter. Who I am may not benefit every person I meet, and it doesn't have to. Having a "one size fits all" personality is exhausting, and using it as a barometer for acceptance was taxing to my mental health. 

Writing this makes it all sound very easy. But doing the work has been hard. It is so hard to fight the nagging questions of "Am I good enough?" Am I a good mother? Wife? Friend? Leader? Daughter? Am I fitting the mold that I feel people expect of me? I would be lying if I said I can confidently say that I am enough. I hope someday that I will believe it, but until then, I am clinging to remaining genuine and authentic. It is the path that has brought the most peace and joy into my life. 

My girls, someday you will walk into a room and wonder if you will be liked. You will question if you belong and if your value will hold up against judging eyes and hard earned opinions. Someday you may shape your world around a job, or a person, or an idea and make it your measure of worthiness. Someday that may all come crashing down. Despite all this, I want you to know that you belong. Whatever path you choose to walk on, know that the ground is sacred simply because you exist upon it.

You will still be enough on the days that life seems like a battle and you are a general with no army to lead. Know that you cannot make the world understand your song. Not everyone enjoys rock and roll. But if you remain true to the melody I promise you will find the people that cherish the music you make. Even now, everything the two of you do is pure magic. I love the way Posie eats apples like it is the most treasured delicacy she's experienced. I cherish the way Arlie will dance unabashedly without any music or need for applause. You are always, always enough. 

If you ever lose sight of who you are, I promise I will be there to cheer you on until you find your genuineness once more. 

Love, 

Your Mother

 

The world fell apart

Dear Girls,

Wow, it's been a minute. Sorry about that. While we slept, the world kind of fell apart.

Of course I'm talking about COVID-19, 2020, and what will probably be the most annoying year you'll have to hear about for the rest of your life (sweet lord I hope so).

And sorry most of all for not writing during it.

As you may know, Daddy is a bit of a perfectionist. Sometimes I self-destruct. Sometimes I can't be satisfied with okay - and sometimes the okay I'm satisfied with is pretty not okay. But when I sit here on the New Year, when I look at the year I've had with you, full of growth, challenge, change - in perspectives, goals, outlooks - I realize that some of the most precious things I can spend a few minutes doing, is writing it down.

I'm not going to pretend that the year I - oh, lost my job, lost my insurance, dealt with a plague, and becoming a stay at home dad, - shouldn't also have been the year of grace and rest. I know that I did what I needed to do by taking a break and not pushing myself. I gained the weight. I gained the stress. Mom read sixty books, and Dad took sixty naps (we all deal with things in our own way).

I wish I could say I wrote you more. I know Mom feels the same way.

But I'm writing now to say - sorry for the letters lost in the river of 2020. It wasn't my fault. But it was my responsibility. And here's to more letters in the future.

If at any point you feel vulnerable, weak, like you need to rest your head my only hope - my driving goal for this year for the next several is that if you need a year if you need a place to lay down and give in for a while to do the barest responsible things that you must to stay alive, that we have that place, that we are those people, that in all our arguments and rule breaking and personal hold ups that we all allow ourselves and each other to fall asleep in the safest place imaginable: home.

Sincerely,

Dad

we have a secret.

Dear Arlie,

Over the past five months, You and I have both gone on a journey of sorts. Well, me more than you. You have just been your yellow rain boot loving self. And now I feel the time is right to share our story. Since you are two, and your vocabulary is very limited to all things cookies, Daniel Tiger, and fruit snacks, I figured I’d take the reins.

I am autistic. You are autistic as well.

I’ve been sitting on this for a while, trying to find the right words. I worried people would fear would misinterpret my intentions, or feel like I am attention seeking. But if I am being truly vulnerable, this truly is a story of joy and affirmation; happiness and understanding. This has been a journey that started at the beginning of this year, and now we are just beginning to see the sun peek over the horizon. It’s like we were trying to understand a world of black in white when we were speaking only in colors and never knew why.

Back at the beginning of the year, we began to suspect that you may have a sensory processing disorder. I mentioned it to your doctor at a checkup. He suggested getting you evaluated for Autism. While it caught me off guard, we went in with an open mind. After two evaluations, you were diagnosed with autism. We were thrown into a crash course of reading materials, therapy, Soonerstart sessions, and much more.

As your Dad and I read about autism in littles, I began to make remarks like “Huh, I used to do things like this as a kid.” I didn’t think much about it until after speaking about it with your grandparents. In efforts to be supportive and love you as fully as possible, they had been doing research and reading up on autism on their own. They began to realize that I had demonstrated a lot of the same traits as a kid that you were currently displaying.

This is the part of the story that hurts to share, because it requires me to be vulnerable and open up, which is such a BARF thing to do. Growing up I never felt like I was on the same wavelength as my peers. I struggled maintaining more than one or two close friendships at a time. I didn’t understand peer groups. Eye contact was pure hell. Social milestones like college that are supposed to be reflected upon fondly are things that I process in therapy because they are filled with trauma and pain. Five months ago I remarked to my therapist that I often feel like life is a snowglobe that I simply hold and look inside of, but never take active participation.

I’ve hid these feelings my whole life. Growing up I treated social situations, fashion trends, and other things my peers participated in like a game. I found the acceptable pattern and mimicked it. I even forced myself to make eye contact as I counted the seconds until I could look away. If I reached a new time limit, I won.

After talking to my therapist and primary care doctor about your diagnosis, we all decided it would benefit you and I if I got tested by a clinical psychologist. After several hours of testing I found out what I had been suspecting for weeks. I am autistic. (Also I have a hella high IQ and used that to mask my symptoms my whole life, which is why I was never diagnosed as a kid.)

This diagnosis has given me such a peace and affirmation in my life that I have been searching for, well, for years. I have never been on the same wavelength as my peers, and I probably never will be. I will always struggle with understanding the emotions of others. I will probably overshare time and time again. But it is OKAY. That is who I am! Moreover, that is who you are. And I am so excited to help you grow into a young girl that realizes who she is, is more than enough.

Arlie-girl, your meltdowns make sense, because I have them too. When you get overstimulated, I understand. You line up your animals when you play. I listen to Elton John’s “Rocketman” on repeat for hours on end. It’s how we make sense of our world, and I love that about ourselves.

One day, I realize that you too may struggle to tap into the wavelength of the world, but that is where I promise to step in and remind you that I am on your wavelength. I get your quirks, your habits. And when your color palette just isn’t for everyone’s canvas, it will always be perfect for me, and your dad, and Po. You will always have a team of people that love you so much. Who you are is perfect, and I will never ask you to change. Who I am is perfect, and I promise I will stop trying to make myself small to fit the expectations of others. We are a team, and I will always have your back.

I love you endlessly,

Your Mother

 

to my butterfly: happy first birthday.

Dear Mariposa,

Tonight I will hold you and rock you to sleep. It's a self-made tradition I like to do with you and your sister on the night before your birthday. It always reminds me of those quiet, sleepless moments in the hospital right after your birth. Your birth seems only like it was a few months ago. It blows my mind that twelve months have already passed.

This year has been a whirlwind. I've seen you grow and bloom into an almost toddler and it still amazes me how lovely you are. In the hospital you were calm and serene. While your birth was a bit scary and chaotic, everything once you arrived slowed down and became so gentle. Even now, you have such a sweet and gentle personality. You are always happy, and rarely fuss or cry. When you do get upset, there is a problem and it's easily solved.

You love life and you love people. Any interaction you get brings you such joy. Your joy is infectious and even strangers comment on how happy you are.
You are curious, always exploring empty rooms, or following your sister into adventures that end up in mischief. Over the past year, I have loved watching the bond that you and your sister have grow into something unique and special. I never had a sister growing up, and I always wonder what that connection is like. It is something that will follow you for your whole life. She will be there for you in ways I will be unable to. You love Arlie so much, and will already follow her wherever she goes. There are moments where you exasperate her; stealing her toys or pacifier. Despite this, it is Arlie that loves to go and wake you up from your naps in the morning or share her breakfast with you.

Lately, you have also been a daddy's girl. You cling to your father when he's at home. You want him when you are upset or don't feel well. At first, I took it hard. I used to be your favorite person--and at times I still am. Yet I know at the end of the day, I still have a bond with you that no one else does.
After your birth there were several long months where I struggled with depression. There were moments that existing was a battle--one that I didn't think I would survive. I was lost, and all answers felt unreachable. One day, I woke up and found that I had lost every ounce of hope I had in me. It scared me how low I felt. I felt completely isolated in my grief and pain. In an act of desperation, I picked you up from your crib and I held you close while we slowly rocked. I remember crying as I held you and smelled your hair. Your hair always smells like pancakes and sleepy Saturday mornings. It was that smell that was the link to reality that I desperately held on to. That smell reminded me of the hope I thought I had lost. It reminded me that I had three people in my life that I needed to live for.

Even though you were so tiny, so unaware, you in fact saved me that day. You were the one thing that kept me holding on, and I will always be thankful for that. Even now, when things feel so chaotic or overwhelming; holding you close and smelling your hair brings be back to a place of stillness.
I think that is my birthday wish for you: I hope you surround yourself with people that remind you of your joy when it feels that it is lost. I hope you have people that love you with abandon. I hope you find moments of stillness and relish in their solitude.

I love you, my sweet Posie girl. Your cheeks hold secrets, and your giggle is deep and full of life.

Love,
Your Mother

Dear Family, I'm going to be a Stay At Home Dad

Dear Family,

If you're reading this then you probably already know but Dad's at home now. It's been a crazy ride and a lot of tonal whiplash in Daddy's life lately. I started the New Year looking at 2021 as a debt-free do anything kind of year for us. Now, I'm looking at three years of college and another degree. How is this going to affect things daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly from now until then?

Well Daddy doesn't know.

In reality it's incredibly nerve racking after three years of working and earning money to suddenly slow down. Not that I won't still be working. I'll be working evenings somewhere doing something that people get paid for. It probably isn't going to be sales or lawn care (definitely not lawn care actually).

There's also some chronological dissonance here with Pop pop, who was twenty-eight when he went back to college and look at him now (note: Engineering degrees can do that). We've had phenomenally different lives in our twenties and yet at this moment we appear to have synchronized again. History has a way of repeating itself.

Don't worry though, Mommy has got my back. She knows how nervous and excited I am to spend days with you girls, to have control over your education, to spend each moment of happiness, sadness, and rage with you. There are times Daddy is going to be tired, I can guarantee that. Especially afternoons if he didn't get enough sleep. Maybe we can have family nap time in our schedule.

Mommy says, "It's crazy and then you get into a routine and it becomes doable." I should etch those words in the wall. Doable. I'm looking forward to playing outside, to going to the playground, to swimming at the Y. I'm looking forward to sharing movies and books and music with you. I'm excited to teach Arlie ABCs and Posie to walk and sign. I'm excited.

There are some people who think this isn't the way things should work. But I try not to think about them very much. In reality, the forces that shaped us into this decision are three fold and well thought out. And I hope that the people who have a difficult time understanding are nevertheless respectful of the decisions we make, because we make them as a family.

Thank you Mommy for the support, Arlie for the smiles, and Posie for the very wet kisses. Hopefully, Daddy takes naturally to being a home maker and even if I burn a waffle or two, I'll be there for each and every one of you. Always.

Sincerely,
Dad

Dear Posie: You can crawl.

Mariposa, little butterfly,

I was explaining earlier today that when your infant learns to crawl, you begin to realize that your little newborn is becoming a child. And when your newborn becomes a child, there exists a hole left. It's not visible, but its very real. I feel it in the crux of my elbow where I still am able to hold and feed you. That weight will soon be a ghost, the ghost of your growing body that no longer needs cradled and caressed and held the way it used to. Soon, like your sister, you will happily feed yourself.

You can crawl. You scoot across the carpet and when your hand makes contact you play. With books. With farm animals. Everything goes in your mouth and I've pulled more paper trash and labels out of it than I care to admit. You play with the farm and the cars and the animals. Just the other day I watched you try, from your belly, to struggle, to reach, to place one of those animals on the fireplace.

That is a big deal.

I was reading a self-help book that called to us to remember when we were children. When the spark that led to action was as easy as thinking "wow, what does this do?" "What does this taste like?" "Could I use these sphaghetti muslces to get over there? What about climb on that?"

To be a child, is to lack fear of what might happen. In part, it's ignorance. Nothing can happen. You don't even know you are an individual agent yet. You wouldn't recognize your face in the mirror. But you can do incredible feats of self-motivation.

Soon, butterfly, you are going to be a caterpillar. You'll scurry around on your feet, you'll eat leaves off of trees before Mommy or I can stop you. Your sister will teach you the worst habits of screaming and crying. And you will play with toys, hit your head, or burn your fingers.

But you can crawl. And when you crawled you weren't afraid of anything and everything was just a matter of asking a simple question, "Can I?"

Yes, you can.

Love,
Daddy