The Neurodiverse Child

Gene selection is a beautiful science. An elegant dance of the double helix: splicing, selecting, and producing new combinations of people with new and unique features – a new song. You.

Evolution is the magical conductor in this orchestra. Its not-so-mysterious pattern of directing the wind instruments to play allegro and brass to follow the percussion is affected by many factors – with one of the most notable being the environment around us. It feels like a slow process relative to a single human life, but the orchestrated nuances that eventually create a notable characteristic and produce a new song occur within each new generation – even if not noticed by the keen senses of the audience in that short time.

You may have heard that you are “one in a million”, but my nerdy-ness tells me that you are even more unique than that.

One of the best played songs I’ve witnessed so far by this conductor would be my son and others like him.

Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is a clinical term that is used to categorize a subset of the population and explain the manner in which brain wiring is outside typical scientific expectations. New and different wiring causes new patterns of activity in how the human brain reacts to stimuli. This neurodiversity is vastly different from person to person, and the spectrum of neurodiverse individuals is exciting because the features and presentations are so varied. If you are interested in neurodiversity, Now This has created a fantastic video to explain it further.

As a mother to a neurodiverse son, and a sister to a neurodiverse brother, I’ve seen amazing abilities in my family that have been selected to create an even more beautiful musical. Sometimes the song is very overwhelming because the culture hasn’t caught up with accepting the style of the song. Maybe it’s too loud, or too scattered, or the saxophone should be playing on another bar. In those times we are fortunate to have a caring clinical community and governance to support the costs of redesigning a micro-society around a neurodiverse individual. With the advancement of technology and light speed of social media, the acceptance of change happens much more quickly than we could ever communicate before. This megaphone to the entire planet is a useful tool in changing the way in which individuals, groups, cultures and society share new perspectives and encourage positive changes in thinking.

I would challenge individuals and groups alike to think of ASD as neurodiversity rather than a disability. The experience of having neurodiverse individuals in my family has been exceptional. There are always trials and tribulations as in any neurotypical family, but from what I have seen over my short life is that there hasn’t been a situation that wasn’t made better by the understanding of the groups of people around us. What if that group could be the whole city? country? The whole continent? The world? This is not a new concept in terms of diversity on the planet, but the more you know, the more you can participate with confidence in positive changes in thinking and the culture around us.

What if neurodiverse individuals have been genetically selected by the environment to help make the environment better for diversity on a macro scale? Sneaky.

Evolution my pals…she’s a mysterious conductor with a plan. An entire musical on broadway. What an artist.

Sincerely yours,

A Fumbling Mom to a Neurodiverse Kid

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford is All of Us

If you are a woman, and reading this, the probability of you feeling upset about what is happening in the United States right now is high.

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford stood up in front of a panel of men with power and influence (read: the patriarchy) and described in granular detail her experience of sexual assault in the 80s by Brett Kavanaugh, nominee to the Supreme Court, and his peers. It appears that this testimony has fallen on the deaf ears of men whose upper lip sweat was glistening in standard definition as the wheels turned, and they thought about instances from their high school or college years when *maybe* they took advantage of women in a way they felt entitled to back then. “A simpler time” I think I’ve heard it referred to by people who make excuses for the Kavanaughs of the world.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg must be foaming at the mouth to dissent.

The reason you are probably angry about what is happening in fallen Rome is not only because Kavanaugh will most likely still be appointed to his position in the Supreme Court (and make the most powerful rulings for other Kavanaughs of the world) but because you are Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, but you.

I am Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, but me.

I think I can confidently say that all women, at some point in their lives, know fear at a primal level. Even if you call it by another name, you know the details:

You feel, almost hear, your pupils dilate when your breath catches in your throat. The hair on the back of your neck stands up instantly and sweats, a chill runs down your spine. You shiver uncontrollably, unable to catch your lost breath because your diaphragm is spasm-ing. You are thankful your bladder is empty because you’ve already lost control of so many things: safety, security, space. Numbness takes over in self preservation. You hear fog, and think to yourself, “Next time I’ll be more prepared. Next time I’ll be stronger. Next time I’ll have an escape plan. Next time I won’t be so nice. Next time. Next time.” Not realizing that the problem isn’t you.

It’s like that every night out. Sometimes on the nights in. Every shift at work where the safety protocols are lacking. Every midnight change-over with that coworker who backs you into corners. A phone call from that customer who got your number from your dunce work mate. A knock on your door from that same customer who also found out your address. In that parkade. At that movie theatre. On that dark street. In your neighbourhood. At your home. If you’re a woman, it is inescapable.

Unless you point the finger and you name it. You call it out when you see it happening to another woman. You teach your sons that women are powerful and respected, and that consent is the most important. Teach your sons to teach their peers, and hold strong in their feminism. We are all born of woman. We must act accordingly to not only ask, but insist that “our male counterparts remove their feet from our necks.”

You are a hero Dr. Blasey Ford. A goddamn hero.

#ibelieveher

Sincerely,

Fumbling Mom of feminist sons

I Didn’t Know I Had Postpartum Depression with My First until I Didn’t with My Second

It’s Caesarian Awareness Month, and because I was honoured to receive two c-sections, one for each little gaffer I’ve grown and birthed onto this Earth, I feel compelled to write a bit more about the experience of becoming a mother for the first and the second time.

What I’m hoping in writing this piece is to help another mother or father identify with this story, and feel like it is okay, and very much encouraged, to speak to someone, anyone, about what they are going through.

I did not know I had postpartum depression with my first child until I didn’t with my second.

I have never said that out loud, and I have never said this even to my own family. Today, 7 months after the birth of my second child, I realize that I had suffered in silence for about 3 years, and lied to the healthcare teams in 2013 when they called to check up on how I was feeling as a new mother to my first baby. I didn’t know I was lying to them at the time, but I do now.

How could this happen? Well, for me, in 2013 it was a combination of a lack of knowledge and a lack of experience. Fairly common for a first time parent.

You see, healthcare quality is improved every day. New stories and new experiences come forward and inform the changes and improvements across the community. An example in this context is the motto ‘being a good mother’ in 2013 was translated to “breast is best”. Today, the motto has very thankfully been improved to “fed is best”. This movement came upon the heels of a story covered by the media of a mother who tragically took her own life after “failing” (ugh!) to produce enough breastmilk for her new baby, and, in the throws of PPD, ended her suffering. Sadly, I do not believe she was the only one, however, her widower shared her story, and now we are all wiser from it.

In 2013, I had a very base knowledge of PPD, in that I knew it existed, but not what it really was, and I didn’t know a thing about postpartum anxiety (PPA), or postpartum psychosis (PPP). There are now several other postpartum diagnoses for mental wellness of which the healthcare community is aware, and I would imagine other diagnoses will surface in the future as more stories are shared, and the hive mind becomes cohesive.

So I’m throwing my story in the pile, hoping for some stickiness.

2013 was my first year of parenthood, and the birth of my son came unexpectedly by emergency c-section after 40 hours of labour. My body was exhausted, and I was emotionally drained because I had made my “birth plan”, and I chose ‘Caesarian’ as my worst case scenario; I’d built this up in my mind over 9ish months, and suddenly my worst nightmare was coming true after not sleeping for 2 days. At that point I did not know that I wouldn’t be sleeping for another few months after that exhausting experience. I was fortunate to have a baby who slept. I do believe that from the initial deprivation, I did not recover, and spiralled into a fog of fear, intrusive thoughts, darkness, and despair. For 3 years. And no one knew. Not even me.

The experience of my second pregnancy and birth was very different.

I work in healthcare quality, and gained a breadth of knowledge I did not have in 2013. Also, now that I had experienced the process of birth with my first, I knew that I wanted to schedule my c-section in an attempt to side-step the exhaustion I had experienced from my labour in 2013. It was less important for me and my mental health to attempt to deliver vaginally, and very vital that I slept the night before my son’s arrival. Elected c-section was my choice for my second son, and his birth was so utterly amazing that I do not have the words to express how I felt.

Recovery in hospital after my elected c-section was awesome. I felt like Wolverine, healing in record time, and released home after 2 nights. Obviously I had a very skilled, hand-picked surgeon who caused this miracle to happen, although I do like to buff my knuckles on my shoulder (just a smidgen) to celebrate my body epically pulling through another abdominal slicing.

So, this second baby does not sleep. He is up, even at 7 months, 5-6 times a night, and although I am very tired, I am not exhausted. I’m not afraid of the night like I was in 2013, and I felt connected to this little soul, his first cry in the OR ringing in my ears. A song just for me.

I so wished this for my first, and I am thrilled I had the opportunity to feel elated during my second birth experience. I am so grateful that my eldest is such an amazing human, connecting with me when I was in the darkness, patiently and unknowingly pulling me into the light over the first 3 years of his life. My indigo child. My love.

I did not know. There are others now who may not know.

My hope is, in this month celebrating c-sections and birth, if my story resonates with you, and you see yourself, even a little bit, I hope that you will talk, or write, or sing, or dance, or whatever language feels right — about it. There are resources where you live, and if there aren’t local resources, the internet and social media platforms have support groups that make the world feel smaller and much less lonely.

You are brave, and a wonderful father or mother. The community will support you. Reach out. The light is warm, and our inner child would roll their eyes saying ‘I told you so’, but parenthood is better with the lights on.

Love always,

Your Fumbling Mom — my friends call me Kel

Your ID…Ma’am?

I’ve read somewhere, everywhere, that when you become a parent, your whole identity changes. The transition from not having your DNA breathing, running around, barfing on you and getting into everything, to it doing just that everyday is a bit…bumpy. The person you once were exists too, but as a sort of, quieter inner voice. A hush, almost…

“Did you see that episode of Friends where Joey eats everything in the fridge because it’s broken? That’s you! You’re the fridge! How are your nipples feeling today?”

“Gosh, remember when you showered every day and everyone remarked on how great you smell all the time? Did you buy deodorant yesterday?”

“Let’s go dancing! Ooooooh remember dancing?! It felt good right? All the people, free flowing drinks, great beats? No, not beets, Mom. Beats! Tunes lady! Yeah, let’s do that again! You should buy beets though…”

Sometimes my inner voice says things that result in situations that were once very familiar, but now foreign being the guardian of two small humans:

I went out to a club. Like, out, out. I haven’t been out out in almost a decade.

But not just one stop, no no, that would be half-assing it! A youthful restaurant with a DJ, a bar with live music to follow, then a dance club to cap off the night, all wrapping up nicely at the crack of 3am after visiting the 99 cent (now $1.49) pizza place. Snapchat captured it all in a brief 24 hour story that has disappeared into the bowels of the internet somewhere. Like whiteout for social media. Sigh. Best invention ever.

I’m going to be honest here. I didn’t think I was going to have fun. I have an infant at home with hubby, a high energy 4 year old, and I’m an introvert; so picture a completely exhausted dirty dishpan, and that’s me, except with messier hair, on my good days. AND I was “Ma’am-ed” at the beginning of the night! Ma’am-ed!! Lord give me strength.

BUT

I was in GREAT company. Two of my favourite ladies were out with me, and it was one of their birthdays. The drinks were flowing, the nostalgia was strong as the live band was the same from my early 20s and they were playing 90s jams. We got great seats at the bar for some pretty epic people watching. The conversations were deep and inspiring. My vocabulary and expressiveness increases 100 fold after a few spiked ice teas, and I can spittle at strangers with confidence. Yes, yes, this was a good time. Even when I tried to explain to the bouncer at the club that he really should see my ID as he explained it was 100% not necessary (and I was belligerent, arguing for 90%) it was a great time.

The people were a total mess. Like, the kind of mess where you’re wiping vomit off your shoe that isn’t yours (or your DNA’s), you find yourself sympathizing with the bar tender who tells you tales of the office party that was in there at 4pm that day getting annihilated and limiting career opportunities…

and as I looked on at a girl and a boy who had just met that night, making out on the bar, tongues a-flailing, in front of a packed house, I thought to myself…

I’m definitely a Ma’am alright. Definitely.

That bouncer deserves a raise, he One Hundo P did not need to see my ID. Because you know what, inner voice? Even though you get me into trouble sometimes, you’re right. I DO like dancing, and I’m only sometimes a broken fridge, and dammit I CAN smell good sometimes if I want to! And although parenting the day after this late night adventure was like conducting a marching band of monkeys on ice, it was nice to do something different with my favourite people. Self care is a big deal when you’re responsible for small ones who look to you for balance and love, and laughter, and light. Loving you makes loving them all that much more rewarding. Take it from this tired pigeon. Do you think I should just shred my ID?

Best,

Your Fumbling Ma’am

Where is Mom?

Moms are beautiful creatures.

Often we see them tending to their young in the wild terrain of cities, towns, and villages. Chasing and coaxing 50% of their DNA to ‘be careful’ and ‘have one more bite’. Bags under their eyes and hair in a messy bun spewing from the crown of their heads, the mother is often unwashed, covered in offspring’s vomit, eyeing the closest parking spot to the cart return, hair flopped to one side, lip balm close at hand.

The mother is talented, able to multi-task while keeping her spawn alive and well, she is always armed with some version of a camera to capture moments as the Mommarazzi.

By far, out of all the many notable traits, talents, and identifying features of the mother creature, the most outstanding is her mysterious quality.

So rare is the historical evidence of the existence of the mother. Never featured in the thousands of photos and videos of their young; so limited in number that a less experienced observer of the mother creature may believe that the species does not actually exist – as mysterious and rare as a sighting of the Yetti or Big Foot of the West Coast or Abominable Snowman of the Arctic. The only trace of the mother is fed, healthy, happy children…and a cracked cell phone strewn on a crumby couch while Joni Mitchell plays somewhere softly in the background…an empty bottle of wine on the counter.

Is she shy? Invisible? Stealthy?

Where is Mom?

I will be the first to admit that I am rarely in photos or videos with my kids.

When I was a kid, my Mom was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I still think that today. I think a lot of kids feel that way about their Moms. There is just something special about the face that you have known literally your entire life. The first face you memorized as an infant, and loved unconditionally. That person protected you, cared for you, scolded you, laughed with you, cried with you, was so proud of you. How could you not find that person to be the most beautiful human you have ever seen?

I have a video of my 6th birthday party, and my Mom was the host in our house. It is the only historical footage I have of my younger self and my mother in one package, and I cherish it dearly… and she hates it!

I am rarely in photos with my own kids for the same reason: Because I think there is a common thread in the Mom World where we are not super happy with the way we look all the time, and documenting that feels bad/scary/[insert negative feeling here].

Isn’t that crappy?

It is crappy. And today, I thought, you know what? My kids might feel the way I do about my Mom: How I wish I had more photos of our life together where both of us were in it.

Photos are so treasured! What the hell am I doing not annoyingly inserting myself into every picture with my kids (heck, the whole fam-damily) even when my hair’s a mess, no makeup on, and feeling extra postpartum chubby?

I implore you to take that awkward selfie because you and your human are wearing matching t-shirts. Be bold, brave, and brag about it! Do it! Email those pictures to your kids, print them off, make a photo book…whatever floats your boat. Just get ‘Mom’ back in those images, frozen in time.

Because those pictures are not actually for you, in the end, are they?

They are for those little people who will grow up to be big people who will one day miss their Mom, and will need to remember the moments they spent with her. With you! The woman they believe to be the most beautiful human in the world: the wonderful and mysterious Mom Creature.

#putMombackinthephoto

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

The Pink Nightmare

Do you have dreams, like I do, where you are not familiar with the environment, are not entirely certain who you are, but you know that you are not who you are in your waking life?

See, I was born in the 80’s, and that meant I was a youngster in the early 90’s, where mushroom cuts were all the rage. I preferred having short hair for a good majority of my childhood simply because I liked the way the clippers felt when they shaved the back of my head to get that perfect mushroom bowl. This preference, my preference, led others to conclude that I was male because my hair was short, and my face is handsome rather than fine featured.

Preference. That’s a funny word.

So, my mom had my ears pierced when I was 5 years old to help convince other folks that I was female; and like I said, it was the early 90’s, and men (even a handful of boys) also had their ears pierced, so this tactic was about as successful as Pepsi Clear.

“You are such a cute little boy!” said the neighbour lady who lived next door to me since FOREVER at the time.

My sister and friends were always slightly more offended than I was by ‘you must have a penis’ commentary, and were quick to jump to my defence by shouting from the bottom of the neighbour lady’s driveway that I was indeed, a girl.

Preference. Hm.

I remember being invited to a ballet-themed birthday party when I was 5, and borrowed pink tights, a tutu from god knows who, and pink ballet flats that were just this side of too small. Cutting my too long little kid toe nails didn’t help the cause.

I went to that party with my baby fat shoved into a pink sausage case onesie, my mushroom hair freshly cut, and infected pierced ears, thinking, “What in the hell?” as I stared into the mirror seeing a true pink nightmare. Ralphie who?

I remember that moment because it was the first time I wished I were a boy rather than simply looking like one.

Enter the confusing time in every child’s life where we become aware of stereotypes that are thrust upon us (mainly for the purpose of commercialism and product marketing) but also for the purpose of determining a deeper sense of identity and personal belonging in a community. The community of gender.

I am female, and identify as female, but I participate in the world in a way that our current culture still stutters in believing to be male. For example:

• I am the working parent
• I will choose to wear blue over pink
• I prefer to play sports roughly (Foul is my middle name in basketball, and I tend to make it a contact sport)
• I am trained in Kung Fu
• I prefer to lead (in the boardroom, and in the ballroom)
• I think farts are hilarious, and my sense of humour is almost always circling the toilet

I could go on…

For me, being a parent of two boys in this era is a conscious effort. It is important that my sons are supportive and understanding of gender fluidity, and that no, Donald, makeup is not only for girls, and yes pink does make a great hockey helmet for my boy, and if you refer to my child as a ‘bundle of sticks’ one more time I will Kung Fu punch-you-in-the-throat.

My four year old is constantly asking me whether a toy or product is meant for boys or for girls, and I consciously explain it is always both. I have yet to see a child’s toy that is operated using genitals, and if I do find one, you can be certain that a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer will follow shortly thereafter…then a bon fire…then that mind eraser thingy-ma-bob from MIB.

Son, you want to wear makeup to the mall?

Absolutely.

You want to have a Barbie for Christmas?

Santa says yes.

You want to wear a dress to your buddy’s birthday?

You betcha kiddo.

Look, I’m not on a crusade here. I’m just fiddle-farting my way through Mommyhood just like everyone else- throwing shit at a wall and seeing what sticks. All that I’m trying to accomplish is to instil empathy and compassion in my children, who just happen to be born male, but can be whoever the heck they wanna be, and should encourage others to be just as courageous and understanding.

So, do you have dreams, like I do, where you are not familiar with the environment, are not entirely certain who you are, but you know that you are not who you are in your waking life? Well, in these dreams, I am always a dude. It’s nuts!

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

Pluto and me…Planets…Again?

Once upon a time, in a planned home birth that ended in an emergency c-section in September 2013, my first son was born. A reminder of what that was like can be read in This New Life – it was a doozy of an experience.

My son is perfectly unfolding as a human, and has always unfolded in that way…Even when he holds up a mirror and condescendingly points out that I need to say ‘please’ when I ask him to hand me something that I can’t reach. 

I can’t reach many things at the moment, especially from the floor, because I have my own orbit in my 8th month of pregnancy with my second son. 

They say that the second pregnancy, and every pregnancy, is different. This one feels very familiar because my first son and second son have the exact same due date, just 4 years apart. I will say, this pregnancy has felt shorter somehow, and bigger…way bigger. I grow Viking children. Giant heads. It’s astonishing and terrifying as a 5’4″ female. Whose ancient genes are these?! Thank god for modern science.

The other major difference, is that my husband and I have now been vegans for a month, and do not have any intention of returning to the omnivorous way of life. The benefits in such a short time for both of us has been remarkable, and with today’s options for vegan products, much easier than we had anticipated.

I know what you’re thinking. The lady who planned a crunchy home birth last pregnancy has turned extra crunchy by introducing a vegan diet while preganant with #2 because…west coast. Sometimes I do look in the mirror and think, “New phone, who dis?” Because I was a fast food junky in my first pregnancy. 

Let me share how my first pregnancy went:

• A little bit of nausea around 2pm each day in the first trimester, used empty file folders to evaporate my upper lip sweat.
• Hired a midwife as my primary care provider who really focused on my weight gain of epic proportions.
• Tested on the cusp for gestational diabetes, treated as though tested positive. 
• Assigned a dietician who told me to eat Splenda and chemical laden foods with no fat for my entire 2nd and 3rd trimester. Tested my blood 5 times a day, kept a food journal. Did not oblige on the no fat foods. still wouldn’t.
• Swollen cankles up to my knees, entire body pregnant. Shocking enough to have complete strangers approach me and say, “Are you sure you want to eat that? Do you want a fat baby?” Classy people.
• 11 days overdue, 40 hours of back labour, emergency c-section for failure to progress. Good lady times.

Here’s how my second pregnancy has gone:

• Terrible nausea all the live long day in the first trimester. No amount of fanning upper lip sweat helped. Constantly sweating. Dove made a damn fortune off me.
• Hired a maternity doctor. Never once has told me my weight upon my request, and doesn’t care. Beautiful. Self esteem for the win.
• Tested negative for gestational diabetes. Praise Allah.
• Craving dark leafy greens, disgusted by processed foods. Tested low for iron counts. Taking supplement. 
• Feet began swelling in the third trimester. Very sore joints. I’d turned into a waddling Macy’s Day Parade balloon. 
• Switched to eating vegan at 30 weeks after watching a terrifying documentary that showed my entire family history for cause of death. Knowledge man, it’ll get ya.
• Feet fairly normal sized now, even in the heat of summer, normal feeling joints, and more energy. Lost weight even though measuring 2 weeks ahead of my due date. Ask me where I get my protein bro. #veganwinning
• Planned c-section for 38 weeks. Because, screw that. I’m good man. #bigheads #vikings 

I’d have to admit that the second pregnancy has been different, even though both of my children were Christmas spirits (“OMG Mom! You are so embarrassing!” They will say in Highschool).

Different cravings, different distribution, different choices, different conditions. Some worse, others better. Quite the journeys. All resulting in a tiny human who will grow, make so much mess, and tell you to say ‘please’ when you ask him to pick up your Oreo cookie (because they’re vegan, and I’m no saint) off the floor while you orbit the sun one more time…

Do you think Santa is vegan?

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom (x2)

Have You Seen My Stapler?

12 months. 365 days. 8,760 hours.

An entire year of mat leave. Complete.

I am sitting here, on a couch, at home, drinking cold coffee (because I got trapped in the bowels of my Facebook newsfeed on some other friend’s friend’s girlfriend’s sister’s husband’s post that required both hands for some reason) alone while our little dude is transitioning into his daycare routine before I head back to the corporate world next week.

Today, I’m wearing sweatpants, have bare feet, and decided to forego a bra. I care not what the public deems appropriate for a trek to visit the people of Walmart. My people.

Next week, I’ll need to make important decisions in a business environment that could affect other people’s lives while wearing heels – which automatically warrants a bra – cuz I don’t make the rules. Fortunately?

Life this past year has been quite a ride.

We welcomed the newest member of our family, figured out the whole baby-care thing, hubby started a new job, and my baby boy lost his grandpa way too soon. Still working on finding time for the grieving process on that last one.

Needless to say, it’s been quite a year. I’m very much looking forward to getting the band back together at work, and my little big guy starting daycare, playing all day with his friends. He loves it, and that makes this whole transition back into the working world so much easier. Phew!

I’ve decided over this past year that change is overall a good thing even when crummy things happen.

Change allows for a fresh perspective on the variety of the every day, and prevents sweatiness over the small stuff while learning to have the small stuff remain small.

Change also gives you the opportunity to feel good about what you have…and I suppose this rings truer when the change is a little misaligned with what you want.

Change also provides new and exciting shopping adventures as someone like me ponders things like, “What the hell is a Muddy Buddy?” and “Would Spanx make this skirt fit better?” and “How do you make an apple turn into a pear?”

Answer to that last one: be me, grow a person, then try to fit back into your old jeans.

It’s okay, I like pears.

In all seriousness though, I’m enjoying change. It keeps me occupied on the days of never-ending Barney and Lamb Chops theme song sing alongs – note to self: Expand this repertoire.

I hear my office desk has been moved.
Hopefully not to the boiler room.

Hooray for change!

Have you seen my stapler?

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom