The Girl Who Could Fly

I’m titling this blog after a story I’m writing. There’s not much more to say about that for now, except that I want to assure you I don’t really think I can fly!

Who am I?

I’m a mom, wife, sister, cousin, aunt, friend, and, well, me. I’m in my thirties. My daughter is autistic, and I may well be mildly autistic. In fact, I’m pretty sure I am. I don’t have an official diagnosis for now. As my doctor put it, would knowing for sure change anything other than knowing? That’s not as cold as it sounds. I’m already working on a lot of things, and ninety-nine percent of it applies even if I had an official Asperger Syndrome label.

Other things about me…

I’m a Virgo. I’m not into astrology that much, but my personality matches my sign to an almost frightening degree. I like things just so in a lot of ways. An observer might debate that claim, especially if they see how messy and disorganized my house and mind are. I think it’s a thing where the subconscious picks and chooses what’s important to address.

I’m a stay-at-home mom, aka a SAHM (I pronounce it “Suh-hmm”–just for fun). My daughter is autistic. She’s close to the middle of the autistic spectrum. Don’t know what that is? Google “Autistic Spectrum Disorder” or ASD. She’s six.

My daughter talks, albeit softly and, at times, indecipherable. I continue to marvel when she says anything complex, even though it occurs more often all the time. She doesn’t use the toilet if she can help it. I keep telling her I’m going to puke on her feet one of these times from cleaning poop off her butt. If that sounds mean, well, I don’t apologize. I just want her to know it’s a possibility. Despite the speech and bathroom issues, I can’t say as I’ve ever met a sweeter, more gentle little girl. She has a big heart and soul. I don’t think she’s retarded, just reserved. At least, I hope that’s the case. No one knows for sure. She’s an enigma. I adore her.

I also have a son who is under a year old. He seems to be doing great. I always add “knock on wood.” I try not to be superstitious, I really try, but I keep having things happen after saying they haven’t so far. It’s a false correlation, I know. Still, “Knock on Wood!”

My husband is not necessarily the kind of guy you might expect me to have married. He’s very left brained, while I am very right brained. Where I might write a story or draw a picture, he’ll work on computer code. Where I follow my heart, he believes in efficiency. (Note: I said efficiency, not logic.) Where I talk to much, he’ll keep quiet. I don’t think I need to go on.

I come from a highly dysfunctional family. As much as I try to avoid adverbs, this time it’s necessary. Most families are dysfunctional to some degree or another. Mine is the kind of family that makes “normal” people alternately cringe or blankly stare. (Oops, two more adverbs!)

If I don’t get more organized–or more mature–my little family here will be dysfunctional. I think most people expect their grown-up lives to be just so, to take what didn’t work during their child- and young adulthoods and fix it for their kids. That’s a joke! We make our own messes that our kids will feel the need to clean.

My hope is to share what it’s like to march to the beat of me, my own drummer. I’m not alone in how I relate to the world. I don’t think I am, anyway. Maybe, through the use of my writing and art skills, people like me can make more sense to “mainstream” or “normal” people. And if not, at least I can show the value of being an oddball. After all, who do we remember: Joe Shmoe, or Albert Einstein?

Some of my favorite oddballs: Mark Twain (Sam Clemens was related to my family), Leonardo da Vinci, Vincent Van Gogh, Steven Hawking, Ben Franklin, Einstein… Me