Halloween and special needs kids

I’ve heard so many grievances about kids and Halloween for years now and honestly I just don’t understand the big deal. If they’re a kid and they are trick or treating, just give them something yummy, a smile, and move on with your life. Same goes with teenagers because come on guys, they could be out making some terrible life choices, but instead they are holding onto their childhood a bit longer and participating in something innocent. Don’t complain.

But my major issue surrounding adults and Halloween is that everyone tends to forget about the special needs kids. Halloween can be hard for them. The scary decorations, the bright jack o’ lanterns, greetings from strangers and the excitement of all the other kids running around. Even just at home it can be stressful.

I remember a few years ago, my husband and I didn’t feel like our son was ready to go trick or treating and he agreed. We still bought candy, gave him some, and dutifully answered the door when kids came knocking. But it was too much. After a while our son was visibly agitated and started melting down every time someone knocked on the door. He was looking outside and seeing all the scary costumes and with each knock he was getting more and more overwhelmed. So I wrote a note, telling kids to take a piece of candy and have a Happy Halloween, and I left it outside with the bowl of goodies. No more knocks, no more anxiety. (Believe me I was having just as hard of a time as he was. Anxiety disorder + people knocking on your door nonstop = bad news.)

The next year, he still didn’t seem ready, so I was prepared. I printed out a cute little poem about how our little pumpkin was autistic and got scared of the loud noises of Halloween. I asked for no one to ring our doorbell, and for them to enjoy some candy, and again have a Happy Halloween. And this time, it was better. No one knocked. No one rang the bell, and when people say the sign, they quieted down a bit. And this time, my son looked out the window and watched the trick or treaters walking down the street with curiosity mixed in with the anxiety.

Last year, when he was 6 years old, was our first year trick or treating. We put out our bowl of candy and set off on our own adventure and honestly it went well. We got a few people asking what my son was dressed up as (he wasn’t because he didn’t feel comfortable in a costume), which he got upset about, but our daughter, 4 at the time, was quick to step in and distract people with her sweet charm and adorable Sheriff Callie costume. So all in all, it was a good night. My buddy was polite, and most of the time said thank you without being reminded. He ran to each door with excitement and didn’t complain about what he got. I was so damn proud.

But I know in a different area it could have gone different. I’ve heard stories of adults demanding to know why the child wasn’t wearing a costume, or getting angry when the kid wouldn’t say the right words, or wouldn’t talk at all. Kids literally being bullied by adults for not behaving the way they’d expect a “normal” kid to behave. And that is unacceptable.

These kids might not be comfortable saying trick or treat. They might not be in costume. Costumes are itchy and different and different is hard. They might not be able to look you in the eye. They might forget or be too scared or shy to say thank you. They may get upset that the candy you give them is something they don’t like. But guys… This is not their fault. It’s not about you in any way and it’s not personal. They’re just kids, trying to enjoy an innocent tradition, just like other kids their age.

So remember, the kid who won’t look you in the eye, or say trick or treat; the kid not in costume, or the one having a meltdown instead of going door to door, they’re all so special and they are trying so hard. And they deserve a good time just like everyone else. So give them an extra smile, don’t put any pressure, and if they aren’t in costume, don’t mention it. Just wish them a Happy Halloween. It might not seem like much to you, but I guarantee you, their parents will notice and it will mean the world to them.

Why I willingly gave up bus privileges

As of a few days ago, I am officially a school drop off line mom. And I’m good with it. I really am. Here’s why.

Last year, my son was in first grade, loving school and learning enough to make his mama feel a bit dumb. But, as with most kids with special needs, things weren’t that easy. He had a lot of behavior issues in and out of school and they weren’t improving much. Especially on the bus. The school he goes to is 15 minutes away from our house, so the school was adamant that he take the bus. Partly for some sense of routine, partly because this is an amazing school and they want to make things easy on the parents if they can.

But things weren’t great. The bus driver was nice, the bus aide was a total sweetheart, but they were no match for my son. He would throw things, get up and try to move seats or cause trouble, scream and hit the aide if he got upset. So the school timidly approached me about getting my son a harness. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, imagine the kind of harness a dog might use, except instead of a leash on the back, the back would be strapped into a special seat belt attachment on the bus, so my son wouldn’t be able to get up during the ride.

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I think many parents would say no, and I could tell that they were expecting me to be upset. But if he needed this to stay safe on the bus, and keep everyone else safe, then I wasn’t going to complain. So we got the harness.

It didn’t help with his behavior though. Last year was a struggle, and he was written up multiple times, although I know they hated doing it. And this year? We tried to start off school with no harness, to see if he could handle it. He lasted three days before we all agreed to put it back on. But his frustration with the bus was becoming worse and I was starting to see that his behaviors were not just out of nowhere. I started seeing patterns, and reasons why he would get upset. If the bus changed, if it looked a bit different, if the driver or the aide was out and someone new was there, if another kid wasn’t on the bus like usual; there were a million variables that seem small to us, that bothered my son in a profound way. And they were not anyone’s fault, or in anyone’s power to fix.

The only solution I could think of was to ditch the bus completely. I might not be the most organized person, but I’m Mom. I don’t get sick days, so I would be the one there to drive him every day. In the same van, in his same booster seat, with the same kind of music, and his sister next to him. And, better yet, no harness.

So yeah, it takes a full hour out of my day to drop the kids off and pick them up later, but if it helps my kid, I’m good with that. I really, really am. This is why I became a stay at home mom; so when my kids needed me, I would always be there. And we are already seeing an improvement in his mood and behavior in and out of school, so I know I made the right decision. In the end, all that matters to me is my kids and how they feel. And he’s already feeling much better.

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Ain’t no rest for the anxious

Sleep. That elusive lover that taunts us all day and hides from so many of us at night. As someone with depression, ADHD and a general tendency for laziness, I enjoy my sleep. So much. But it was only recently that I realized how important it is. And oh, does it feel good.

I don’t remember when I started having nightmares. I think I’ve always had them at some point, but they used to be infrequent enough that I’d just complain about a bad night and stick that IV of coffee in and go on with my day. Just kidding, I don’t do an IV drip of coffee. That’s crazy. I inhale it, obviously.

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Anyway, some time in the past year, maybe two years, I don’t know, the nightmares kicked up. I ended up having so many that I was woken up all throughout the night, heart racing and mind reeling. And this continued for so long that they stopped truly bothering me. I’d wake up with these horrible images in my head, and instead of being afraid of going back to sleep, I’d just mentally shrug it off and snuggle back into my pillow, only to slip right back where I left off and continue on with the murder camp or zombie apocalypse or whatever hell my brain had conjured up that night.

Through all this time, I thought my sleep was good enough since I was technically in bed for 6-8 hours. I thought that was pretty good. But I realized that it had been months since I had lost a single pound, all the while on a keto diet that had previously helped me lose 40+ pounds. I wasn’t screwing up my diet, so why couldn’t I lose weight? Add in the fact that I was permanently exhausted, and my husband and I were worried there was a problem. He was convinced that my thyroid was failing.

So I saw a doctor, got some blood work done, and talked to my psychiatrist in the meantime. They both asked how I slept, and both times I said something like, “Good. I mean… I do have a lot of nightmares. They wake me up a lot. And pain wakes me up sometimes… But I mean otherwise….” Both doctors, without even knowing of the other, told me the same thing. I needed better sleep. Not more hours, just better sleep.

In the end, my blood work came back excellent, besides telling me that I am anemic, which explains part of the exhaustion, and I’m working on that through diet and iron supplements. But the major factor here came down to my brain. My psychiatrist gave me a new prescription for an anti-anxiety med and told me to take one every night right before bed. And both doctors also told me to take melatonin to make sure I’ll sleep.

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And the craziest thing happened, I started sleeping better. My dreams are still weird as hell but they’re no longer nightmares, and no longer wake me up. And I swear, as soon as I started sleeping actual REM sleep, I started losing weight again. One of the doctors, I don’t remember which one, maybe even both, explained that it doesn’t matter how many hours you’re in bed. If you keep waking up and you never actually get into that deep REM sleep, you will not wake up rested. Your body doesn’t just need you to be in bed. It needs the good stuff.

And who’d have thought my brain would have been the culprit for all this!? Oh, that’s right, all my doctors. I should listen to them more.

Miscarriage and Marriage

It’s been 6 years. I still remember that time of my life very clearly and it still kicks me in the gut. But October is the month to talk about it. So I’m going to join the brave souls who are speaking up. I’m going to talk about my miscarriage.

I don’t remember the details of the beginning. Like the day I took the test. I faintly remember that the line was not strong, but it was a line, and I was thrilled. I estimated that I was probably around 6 weeks or so, so I made an appointment at a local clinic since we didn’t have insurance and they’d help with the first ultrasound. That two weeks could not come soon enough.

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I had all the same symptoms as my first pregnancy, but much less subtle. I thought I was lucky and I’d have it easy this time. I was smug. But then the big one, the nausea, started to taper off. I was happy it did but it scared me. That was when I first started wondering. But still, I pressed on and counted down until I could see the little bean for myself.

The day came. My husband was running late so we met up at the clinic, me toting our one year old. They had me take a pregnancy test, just to make sure they wouldn’t be doing a free ultrasound for nothing I guess, and it was faint again, but still positive. So into the room I went. I stripped from the waist down and relaxed myself as the doctor inserted the wand, happily chatting and looking for what we were there for. Then she stopped talking. The smile on her face faded, and the hand that was reaching out to turn on the sound stopped and pulled back.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m not detecting a heartbeat.”

The next few minutes she gently told us that the fetus was only measuring at 6.5 weeks and she didn’t know how long it had been since…. She mentioned going to the hospital for a D&C if my body didn’t let it go naturally soon. I didn’t hear most of that. I was too busy trying to breathe and control my heart rate so I didn’t lose it in front of a stranger.

I barely made it out to the car, tears falling as I strapped my son into his carseat. Turning to my husband, I looked him in the eyes and lost it. Full on panic attack in the parking lot of a pregnancy clinic. My husband tried to calm me down for a few minutes, and then said he would meet me at home and he left. He just left. I sat in my car for I don’t know how long crying and thinking that it couldn’t be real, and how my husband just LEFT me there and….

I was a mess.

Turns out my body held on just long enough for me to get that ultrasound picture, and that night, the process started. I couldn’t deny it any longer. I was having a miscarriage. Me. This doesn’t just happen, right!? I must have done something wrong or not done something I should have done or… I didn’t know what to blame or what to think. In my grief, I got more and more angry, and in the end I found somewhere to direct my anger. My husband.

While I was spending every spare second thinking of what might have been, crying my eyes out and longing for answers, my husband just went on. He went to work the next day, the gym a little more often than normal, and went to bed early. He was avoiding me.

The more time went on, the more angry I got with him until I almost hated him. That was our baby, how could he be okay!? We grew further and further apart and neither of us seemed to have any desire to fix it. I don’t know what stage of grief I was at, but at some point I fell into a deep depression. The more I hated my husband for not caring, the more depressed I got, but every time I got a little lower, I started to feel a little less. I was starting to feel everything less. Less angry, less sad, less happy. It was all just fading away and I welcomed it.

Then I finally got the perspective I needed. I overheard my husband on the phone with one of our church pastors, telling him that I was pregnant. I stopped where I was, out of sight, and listened. He told the pastor that we had lost the baby, voice breaking on the word baby, and then he started sobbing. It took him a few minutes to get himself together to finish the conversation and I spent that time in a whirlwind of emotions.

There was anger: How can he talk to the pastor about it but not ME? It happened to both of us! I’m the one who physically lost the baby!

There was confusion: I didn’t think he cared at all, why is he crying now?

There was relief: Maybe I’m not the only one mourning.

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And finally, it hit me. He had been mourning the whole time. He was just as broken as I was. But despite the stereotypical manly vs womanly ways of showing grief, we had different childhoods and upbringings and his way of dealing with something that hard, something that could break him, was to turn it off. He needed to not think about it. He needed time to process it without pressure and without guilt. And I had not given him that at all. All I had done was make him the bad guy in a situation where there was no one to blame, and no winners. We both lost something huge, and I got angry because my husband didn’t grieve the same way I did. I felt like the worst person in the world.

So I went in and just sat in his lap and hugged him. We cried together, and I don’t remember if we talked at all, but I felt a change then and I hope he did too. I wasn’t angry anymore. From then on, I took his cue and I didn’t talk about it to him. I knew he needed time, so I let him have it.

And we did talk about it eventually. When he was ready, we talked about whether we thought the baby was a boy or a girl, and agreed we both thought it was a girl. (It was way too soon to tell, and we went with our gut, that’s all.) We gave her a name and I often visited the spot in the backyard where I buried her.

Now, we can almost talk about her without tears. Now we imagine her waiting for us in Heaven, and we have imagined what she would look like today. I think she would have had curly light brown hair like I did as a little girl, blue eyes like her daddy, and the cute little button nose that our next daughter has. Her name is Kaelyn Anne and we will never forget her, even though our time with her was short.

But the message I want to get across specifically is this. Going through a miscarriage is one of the worst things someone could ever experience. Don’t do what I did. Don’t shut out the person in it with you. And remember, people grieve differently. Respect that, both of you, and stick together. Your marriage deserves that. You deserve that. And you are not alone.