Today, in a fit of nostalgia, I reread my old blog. After a seriously rough day with my kids, I needed to relax, and without realizing what I was getting in to, I may have made matters worse.  I found that the words I wrote years ago are still relevant today. In a way, it made me oddly happy, knowing that life is what it always is, and I’m still the same person. I still think the same thoughts and feel the same feelings. However, I stumbled upon a post I wrote about my children and their special little personalities.

In October of 2008, I wrote this post. And while most days I don’t feel as desperate or depressed as I sounded in this one, it broke my heart to see that not a thing has changed in 4 years. What I wrote in this post is still true today:

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For those who don’t know, I have two daughters ages two and four, both carrying a diagnosis of classic autism. This means that they are not higher functioning like Asperger’s or PDD-NOS (Which are two kinds of autism. Chances are you knew some kid in school who went to the same classes as you who had this affliction but you thought nothing of it, just assumed he was a geeky kid). Classic autism is the kind that most people think of when one thinks of autism: the Kim Peek character in Rain Man (although it is now thought that he might not have autism, but he has become a stereotype) and Arnie in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. The hand flapping, rocking, funny noise making kind of autism.

Soon I will write about the good things that have come from being a mother of autistic girls, but today is not that day. Today is the day that I tell you what my life is like on average.

My daughter rides the short bus. You know the one that everyone makes jokes about growing up and some adults still do? Yeah. She rides that one. Monday through Friday it comes to pick her up at 7:00 to take her to her special preschool for other children with disabilities. My four year old, who has a stay at home mother and would not need to be at school so much at her age for any other reason, goes to school half the day to help her cope with life. While she is gone, I get my two year old fed and dressed and three days a week she has therapy. I take her to a center for children her age with autism where she spends two hours working (which is just a time for fun for normal kids) with therapists and other children, who are all currently higher functioning than her. Some days she cries and screams and drops to the ground because we’re trying to take her outside on the playground. Or trying to get her to go down a small slide. You know, normal things that any other child her age would love. Or we go to occupational therapy where she sits and learns how to scribble and throw and put puzzles together.

When they are not at school or therapy, we are usually at home, although we do venture out in public. You will notice us because I’m the woman pushing the cart containing the child who is yelling nonsense at the top of her lungs while holding her hands as if they themselves are doing the talking. When you stop and say hello and tell me that I have beautiful children and ask them if they’re having fun or what their names are, they will not respond. They will not even look at you because in their world you are not talking to them. If I’m not that woman, then I’m the woman you will notice because I am holding one crying child on my hip while literally dragging my other screaming child across the floor because she refuses to stand up and walk. For a fleeting moment you will probably wonder why I’m such an incapable mother and that I’ve raised a brat, unless you are also touched by autism and then you’ll look at me with understanding and sympathy while wondering if I would be offended if you offered to help.

My children do not talk to me. Well, that isn’t entirely true. Sometimes my two year old will dance in front of me while making excited sounds, and she will look me in the eye and “show” me that she is happy about something. What, I don’t know, but at least I feel like she is sharing with me. My oldest has a rather large vocabulary. She only knows what half of those words mean and uses less than a third of them on a regular basis. She can say, ” I want juice” or “More Elmo please”, but when she comes home from school, she does not tell me about her day. She can’t tell me how frustrated she got when a little boy in her class accidentally pulled her hair while trying to pick up a toy and how she screamed for ten minutes while scratching her legs and pinching herself. I don’t know what she thinks of anything, or what her favorite color is. I can’t ask her if she likes how I decorated her room or if she is bothered by any of the clothes I put on her.

We are attempting to potty train at the moment, and I will spare you the details because it is gross and horrible and incredibly draining. And that would be how I’d feel if I had a normal kid.

We will probably never have another child. Not because we think that three is too many, or that we wouldn’t like to try for a boy, but because the thought of this happening again is more than my head or my heart can handle. I know people who deal with more than I do and I can’t even conceive of how they get through their days.

My children may never graduate high school. They may receive their diplomas at twenty one years of age because the school can’t keep them any longer. At eighteen (assuming it is still around) they will start to collect social security checks to help them live because it is possible that they will never hold a job, or go to college, or get married. They may live in an assisted living home down the road or they may never leave our house. I don’t know, and I try not to think about it too much because it will get me nowhere.

Anyhow, I’m not looking for a pity party. I just wanted to tell it like it is and get this weight off my shoulders that I will feel free from for about five minutes after having talked about it. It will replace itself as soon as I walk out my bedroom door and see my little girl watching Blue’s Clues, but the five minute moment of release was nice. So thanks.