Autism Answer: He Smiles in his Sleep

the sun rising, reflecting on the river, across the street from our house

 

“Snuggle bug, Shay Shay, you awake?” I ask quietly, crouched on my haunches beside him where he sleeps on the floor in our basement. My twenty-six year old son makes a small sound in response. I lean in closer to rub his shoulder and see his face. His eyes are closed and the softness of sleep is settled on him like fairy dust. 

 

I see a comfortable smile settled on his lips. 

 

My second youngest son is smiling in his sleep.

 

Rubbing his shoulder I speak again, a little louder this time, “It’s 6:45, you gotta get up for work.”

 

“Rugga bugga, baby boops,” he replies. This is a common reply from him. It most closely translates to, “I heard you.” 

 

There is movement now, he shuffles a little under his weighted blanket, his eyes remain closed and the smile does not fade. 

 

“I’m going to go upstairs and make coffee. See you in a few minutes Shay Riley Bones,” I straighten up carefully, trying to use my muscles purposely and to take advantage of every movement. I like to use life as my exercise room and every movement is an opportunity to stretch, strengthen, or simply care about my body. Also, I don’t want to hurt what I have always called my “old lady knees”. I am pretty much fifty years old now, but these have been my old lady knees since my elementary school track and field days.

 

“I like coffee,” Shay says as I slowly walk away toward the stairs that will lead up to our kitchen where organic shade grown fair trade coffee beans await to be ground and brewed. 

 

I love these mornings. I love making coffee while beneath me my second youngest son unfolds his giant body, stretches out of his bed on the floor (his preferred place to sleep) and gets ready for a job he feels competent and appreciated in. Meanwhile, above me, my soul mate showers in preparation for a day working at home, sitting focused at a computer that is next to mine, accepting a slightly annoying onslaught of obsessive touches, squeezes, and smooches from me. I love standing in the kitchen, lights off surrounded by shadow, while my gaze easily consumes the sunrise kissing the river outside our front room window and the cats meow for their specially made milk and morning affection. I love this spot where I can be in shadow while watching and feeling the world unfold via its morning routine. The house is big, but each room offers such specialness I don’t mind the size. 

 

The coffee beans have been ground and are steeping in the French Press. I set my adorable cube timer to the perfect four minutes (this timer is one of my favourite gifts given to me by Ian, the soul mate I moved in with only a few years ago) and take myself to the front room to stretch a little. Four minutes of random stretches in front of a window facing the river. Lovely. 

 

The timer beeps, upstairs I hear the shower turn off and imagine my soul mate toweling himself in our en-suite bathroom, I stand straight and smile. 

 

I remember seeing my son smile in his sleep, and I am overcome with a sense of gratitude. 

 

This home, this life, this morning routine that brings me such joy, is a gift. 

 

Another favourite gift given by my soul mate. 

 

A gift given to us. 

 

Invited into his home we – my second youngest son and I – have carved our space in it. The basement is my son’s domain, where there is a kitchen, a bathroom, washer and dryer, a pool table, a bar, a sauna. He is not dwelling in darkness and brooding, though he could if he chose. Some days I’m sure he does. But for the most part, he works, he plays his games and watches his shows, he listens to music and bounces around, smiling easily. 

 

My domain is sort of everywhere. I have a dance room where I can turn the music up, close my eyes, rock out and imagine myself alone in but also at one with the universe. I have roller skates and headphones for summers outside around and around the pool. I can spend hours listening, singing, and skating in circles. There is the car where I take people places and go to the grocery store, where I listen to French radio stations and practice saying and singing the words. But mostly, my domain is beside Ian. My soul mate. I follow him around unnecessarily. This is a big house and there are many rooms, the outside is sizable too and there are many delicious spots to sit and read, think, and write. But mostly I follow him around, often with a coffee in my hand, and mostly he doesn’t mind. 

 

We – my second youngest son and I – love living with Ian. 

 

We miss the ease with which we used to have access to the rest of our family, now that we are here in Quebec and they are still there, mostly in California. We have feelings and challenges that are hard, that hurt, that we must deal with. We work to be our best selves and to discover how we can best pitch in, how we can best take part in creating an environment that includes our influence, insights, and work. We struggle to know how we can be helpful without being underfoot or overstepping. 

 

But we are graced with a man who opens his home and requires very little from us. I do the driving (though I don’t pay for the fuel). My son pays rent (enough to feel good about pitching in while still paying far less than he would elsewhere). We are living in a situation where we play a part and ask for responsibilities yet are asked to do little beyond taking care of ourselves. So though we are human and have human hardships, we are also humans with less hardships. 

 

I sometimes wonder, should we work harder? Worry harder? Are we wrong for finding joy in this easy life gifted to us? Should we be more? Are we missing something and burdening others without knowing? Are we unfairly happy?

 

Maybe so. Maybe so. 

 

But I will not deny the perk of this place we are in.

 

My second youngest son smiles in his sleep. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Allow, but also Push - aka Old Lady Wisdom

 

Me trying to show my age but also using the vignette feature to try and make the photo look cool and not just like I'm trying to show my age :D

 

Ever since I was a little girl I've enjoyed the feeling of picturing myself as an older woman. 

 

More specifically, I'd imagine myself as a wise older woman with a smile, an approachable kindness, and a life alone in the woods. I would push myself in that direction. No rush, of course. I like enjoying all the states I'm in while I'm in them. But I would imagine my older self with a happy anticipation. 

 

Interestingly, I never imagined myself feeling older. 

 

Now, as I'm enjoying my 50th year, I am noticing that the feeling older is something worth paying attention to. No, I do not want it as badly as I want to look older, but I also do not want to hate it. I want to allow my age while I push in the direction of feeling great in my mind and body. 

 

I want the privilege of being older and I want to embrace it holistically. 

 

Which means celebrating the appearance, cultivating the wisdom (which my little girl self, with her lack of wisdom, had assumed simply happened when you got old), and focusing on the way I feel. 

My focus on how I'm feeling is to better understand others and to have more of those spectacular, "Oh, now I get it!" moments I continually crave. I freaking love stepping into a new understanding.  

Also, though, it is related to my desire to be an active participant in my own evolution. I want to feel myself age while I explore what that means for me, and while I challenge what it could mean for me. I want to be strong in my refusal of certain elements while being brave in my acceptance of others. I want to decide where to be strong and where to be brave as the evolution continues. I want to do this in real time, not predetermined. Not unthinking. Unaware. Unkind.

It is a valuable skill, knowing how to both accept and push against. My mom exampled this fantastically with my autistic siblings: they were to be accepted and allowed to be themselves while also pushed in healthy directions, growth, and skill acquisition. 

 

Each of my mom's children (there were eight of us) were unique. Which meant there had to be flexibility and understanding of where one could be pushed while another ought to be accepted. We grew up in a home that knew we were all equal but not the same. We knew not to judge each other for which skills we chose to work on, which feelings we insisted on finding, which challenges we chose to accept and rise to meet.

 

So, yes! I will allow age to enter me everywhere. The little girl in me claps with appreciation over how far we've already come and bounces with excited anticipation over what awaits. (Although she might be a little disappointed at how long it's taking the wisdom fairy to give us our old lady wisdom magic. tee hee!)

 

As I allow I will also insist. I will insist on pushing toward my own version of how age feels in my body.

 

Push, but also allow. Allow, but also push.

 

Because I am old I am wise enough to know this is worth doing.

 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Just a Woman

 

My mom

Everyone is born equal and deserving of respect, celebration, and love. That is true. 

 

But, it is also true, some people stand out and are wholly uniquely worthy of particular attention. 

 

My mom is one of those people.

 

Her brain works differently and always has. As a little girl synesthesia caused her to say and do things that had an angering affect on many around her. Her innate ability to see unfairness - particularly where misfits and outliers were concerned - and to INSIST on change was not universally welcomed or recognized. And though she was different, she was also just a little girl.

 

My mom works hard, always has. Before most of us would consider her old enough she was babysitting consistently, a go-to for "problem" children and/or disabled ones. She left home at 15. She sewed her own clothes and worked as a car-hop for A&W. She worked in the mall as a gift wrapper and if she needed something she found a way to get it for herself. She went to auditions and wrote screenplays. As a single mom she ultimately raised eight kids, six adopted and four with autism. She was a hands on mom always there for us and insisting we could gain skills and be happy, meanwhile she was also an entrepreneur working constantly to feed and house us. To feed and house us well. She even found ways to work while sleeping, the small number of hours she was able to sleep. Though she worked hard, harder than many if not most, she was still just a young woman, a young mom. 

 

She is creative, always has been. From her youngest years she was writing poetry and songs. Attempting to use lyrical language to make sense of a world that didn't make sense. Everyone deserves love, yet that was not what she was seeing. She was seeing abuse that was often unintentional, but abuse non-the-less. She felt certain that if she could craft the right story, the right imagery, the right song, people would notice and the world would change. As she grew older she gained more perspective and more inspiration, and she continued to create with the intention of understanding and instigating positive change. And though she has always been creative, she has also always been just a girl. 

 

She is strong, always has been. She could impress people with her physical strength but even more impressive was her emotional strength and certainty. If mom saw injustice, if mom believed in possibilities and rights for people who were easier for society to set aside, to pat on the head and pity, or to simply hate, mom stood strong. I don't know where her confidence came from, I suppose her different brain played a starring role, but whatever it was she went to bat for so many others. Despite becoming continuously a target, she went to bat. It is impressive and so many are lucky because of her. But though mom is strong, she is also just a woman.

 

Just a woman. Not more or less than other women. Just a woman. 

 

my mom

This, I think, is part of what makes my mom, and people like her, so challenging to some. Because she is not an alien, she did not come from a world where her species can magically see what needs to be done to protect children who are abused, to accept people who are different, to create new beliefs and presumptions in order to build an environment meant for more of us to thrive. No, she's just a woman who is, yes, a little bit different, but also yes, from the same world as the rest of us. A confusing world that wants women to be everything and nothing all at once.

 

Today is my mom's birthday. Today, she is still being different, hard working, creative, and strong. When she wakes up most mornings it is alongside three of my five grandchildren, the three she is helping raise. It is not far from my brother, Dar, who is severely autistic and her right hand man. It is in a small loft, an apartment in the back of a house where a woman with DID (dissociative identity disorder) lives and relies on my mom for so much - neurofeedback, therapy, friendship and more. It is in a room with one dog, one fish, and one guinea pig. When she wakes up on her birthday today, it is surrounded by many things of her making, things she brought to herself via being different, hard working, creative, and strong. 

 

But it is also as a woman. 

 

Just a woman. 

 

More than anyone I know, my mom merits celebration. Not because she is more than anyone I know, but because she isn't. 

 

What she does, how she behaves, who she is, it is all impressive beyond measure. 

 

And she does it all despite the truth that she is just a woman. 

 

I love you mom. 

 

You are more than just a woman to me, but I also recognize that you are just a woman. (Which, you know, kinda sucks because I can't use the excuse that I am just a woman when I want to not be strong, hard working, different, or creative. )

 

Happy Birthday!!!!

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 

 

 

NOTE: If you want to celebrate my mom on her birthday, I recommend Living with Lynette! The show where many of us star as ourselves - though I play the role of a neighbor - and we all giggle at the barely fictionalized true story of our home! 

 

Autism Answer: And Then There Were Slippers

 

My slippers on the stairs at our front door.

Slowly I slip my naked foot into the soft comfort of these slippers. My skin is embraced and caressed, my sole cushioned. Sometimes I will start with my right foot, sometimes my left, but always I offer the pleasure of these slippers equally. 

 

I don't always choose the slow embrace of this soft home for my feet. Sometime I jump into them with speed and vigor. We hop our way into those cushion-y cuddles of a slipper. We bounce noisily throughout the house - up and down the stairs, dancing in my dance room (no more cold floor on my feet!), stepping out onto the front step to sip coffee outside.

 

But these are indoor slippers, purchased for me by my love and intended to last. So I do not step down the stairs in these sweet soled snuggly slippers, and instead stand only on the top step while avoiding the snow and ice. Avoiding the small rocks and dirt that live outside and migrate toward our front door. 

 

Avoiding. 

 

This is what I also notice about these slippers. That I am avoiding a few things for the sake of them. 

 

Most notably is outside. I am nurtured and brought home to myself by spending time outside. In all seasons, winter being one of my favourites. I love the acoustics of a snow covered world, and the feel of cold air on my skin. I feel myself become more ME when I close my eyes to feel the touch of nature. 

 

But these are indoor slippers, and I adore them, and I want them to last. 

 

So I notice myself making the choice to stay on the top step, to take the trash out later so I don't have to take them off, to wear them in the car when picking my son up from work and then avoid the fun of going into the grocery store with him to check out the reduced racks. 

 

Also, the pleasure of these slippers, my desire to continually slip my feet into their welcoming embrace, has kept me from noticing our floors need sweeping. Before these slippers, I was one for bare feet. Indoor and outdoor soles, that's what I feel I was born with. Even in winter when I loved to wear cozy socks I could feel the grit on the ground through the material. Before the slippers were introduced to my feet, I swept our kitchen floor at least once a day and other floors often, as needed. Why? Because I felt the bits of food and life that fall to the floor on my bare feet, or I felt them cling to my cozy socks, and I enjoyed the task of sweeping it up. It's a task you can easily do while thinking or singing to yourself. It's simple and helpful at the same time. 

 

But these slippers keep me from feeling the world at my feet. Instead, the joy of them keeps me feeling the fact of my feet. 

 

There is nothing bad or wrong about these slippers or my adoration of them. In fact, it is wonderful! What is especially wonderful is me noticing the changes in my behavior, the shifts in my choices, and reminding myself that these things are important. 

 

That the noticing should continue. 

 

Which of these changes in behavior, or shifts in myself, might I want to shift again? Back in my winter days of cozy socks, I could easily slip my socked feet into winter boots and walk in the snow, take my morning coffee across the street to the river, walk around the block or stomp in the snow under the trees in the park beside our house. But these slippers do not slip into winter boots, and hence I have to make a more purposeful decision to take them off in order to slide my feet into the winter boots. I have begun to do that a little more, now that I noticed how much I miss being outside. I have also taught myself to be comfortable in my winter boots without socks. This has made spontaneous outdoor moments easier and has given me a wider sensory comfort zone.

 

And sweeping the floor! How funny that I rarely do it anymore. I always enjoyed sweeping, but without feeling the grit on my feet it feels unnecessary. I admit, I don't see a need to change this. I still sweep once or twice a week, but I think it is totally fine that our floors are less clean than they used to be. And if someone living in our home that does not wear slippers finds themselves not liking the grit on the ground, they can have the pleasure of sweeping and singing to themselves. I was hogging all that fun and I'm not anymore. 

 

I think it is of GREAT importance to notice how our entire lives can be influenced by little things, like slippers. If I had not noticed, if I had instead simply stopped going outside or sweeping or walking into the store with my son, I possibly would have grown slowly less happy, perhaps more reclusive, perhaps less helpful. Oh, not much. But it only takes small shifts over time to invade a life. 

 

As parents and caregivers, it is also of great importance to notice. Did the introduction of a new food shift behaviors or bowel movements? Are those shifts mainly helpful? What shifts did those shifts cause? Are we moving away from a valuable pleasure by only following the movements of the new shift? How about a tool that helps your loved one communicate. That's great! But also, are you losing the connection you had when communication was based more on a special language between you and that loved one? Was that form of communication valuable to both of you? Or more for you alone? Notice. Find ways to move forward with new gifts. It's okay to lose some things, that is part of the evolution of living, but we want to notice and take care of the things that matter most. 

 

I will not be silly and stop wearing these wonderful slippers. I gained a pleasure when my love gave me this gift. But I am now more often taking off the slippers to step outside, putting on my boots to pick up my son, and being aware of the sweeping that may need to be done. 

 

I noticed the shifts and have made a few shifts in response. 

 

We are mostly responsible for ourselves and our lives. For who we are and who we choose to be. For how we live and for providing our own joy and purpose. 

 

I believe I have this one life and I enjoy the work of doing it well. 

 

I was living it without slippers.

 

Now I'm not. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Life Lessons and Leftovers

 

My boys (circa a lot of years ago)

My four boys are now men. 

 

I care so much about them.

 

When they were small every single choice I consciously made worked its way through the "how do I think this will affect them" filter. 

 

Back then it was intense. I did not see myself as separate from them. Instead, we were a unit. A unit of individuals with the right and necessity of discovering and becoming a healthy version of our natural selves. But, still - a unit. 

 

When my sons were small, I did not feel like we were poor. We had too much support, really, to feel poor. My mom and my sister (who were not wealthy) didn't hesitate to offer us vacations, homes, vehicles, gas money, dance classes, foods with fancy names, trips to museums and science centers. So we didn't feel poor, exactly. But I did not often make money and my husband at the time worked hard but made little.

 

Groceries were a weekly worry. Grocery store trips were emotionally and financially draining. I cared so much about feeding the hunger in our home nutritiously, while not losing site of the value in frivolity and fun. The ideas, the items, the foods: I wanted to offer nutrition, and example the vigor and joy of it. 

 

I didn't do too bad. I cared a lot, and that came through. 

 

But I also missed a few things, made missteps and mistakes, and that came through too. 

 

One of the things that comes to mind in this moment: 

 

All four of my sons remember me in their youth with slightly different perspectives. But one thing that is consistent in their memories is the habit I had of often giving them the food and waiting happily for leftovers before I would eat. Not at every meal, not every day, but when the food was either a treat or limited, this was my happy habit. I wasn't dramatic about it. It wasn't a sacrifice or anything, I tried to be sure they recognized that I was not growing and they were. That I was in less need than them. And that I was not actually hungry for anything more than seeing my children's bellies and bodies filled. 

 

As men, my sons now often bring up this version of me while insisting on seeing me eat. My oldest son is following a passion for feeding people and the satisfaction he expresses while watching me enjoy his food is powerful. 

 

Confession: I am warmed by a sense of gratification when any of my sons comments on my habit of eating mostly leftovers when they were little. 

 

I recognize, though, the possible pitfalls of this sort of pride. 

 

I recognize them, because I am a little bit guilty of them. 

 

For one thing, I am a little bit guilty of feeling GOOD about sacrificing my own meals in order to feed them. A little bit of proof that I CARED so much. Now, I did care and I did remember to put the focus on their growing bodies and needs, but I know that the deeper belief (that I was being a good mom and showing love by denying myself the treats) would have revealed itself somewhere. That in some quieter way I was also telling them that sacrificing my own needs was a sign of love. 

 

Another pitfall: I am a little bit guilty of feeling GOOD about not eating when I was hungry because it might finally make me THIN. Oh, I cared too much about teaching my sons to value women of every shape and size to say it. I asked them to applaud women who had passion and kindness and to know that meant they would likely have figures and curves and soft rolls as nature desires. Because of this I never would have said, to them or to myself, that I was excited at the idea that maybe sacrificing food for the sake of my children might have the side effect of making me thin. And thin, though not necessarily healthy, can borrow her sister's clothes without fear of embarrassing the people around her. Hence thin, particularly if you are a woman, is desirable. I tried exceptionally hard not to teach this, but I felt it. So, it likely surfaced. 

 

Yet another guilty pitfall of this little habit I had is how proud I was of being able to find joy in being too broke to feed myself. In my attempt to show them I was happy, I was comfortable not eating, they were the ones growing and I was not (nor did I want to grow) so no big deal, I consistently gave the impression that being broke was totally cool. That it might be a sign we were better than the moms who ate alongside their children for every meal. We were amazing at having a good attitude while being broke, which meant we were learning a skill the richer folks were not learning. Yikes! This is not a lesson I wanted to teach, but I admit to being a little bit guilty of THINKING it. Of maybe even BELIEVING it. 

 

So, from now on when my sons comment of this habit I had, and my inevitable feeling of a pride-like pleasure creeps in, I will focus on the part that I do not mind feeling gratitude for. The part where my sons, all four of them, saw me. Saw me care about them, saw me be with them, saw me try to nourish them. 

 

We were one unit. 

 

One unit made of of individuals. 

 

We still are. 

 

They are grown men and I still make choices with them at the helm. But I am aware, and satisfied with, the truth that my choices affect them less now. Appropriately so. 

 

Moving forward into new years I still think about what my choices might mean for them. But now those movements are more about me and my soul mate, and what we hope to build for a future that is consistently him and me, while inviting our children and grandchildren. 

 

Inviting them to visit but, more importantly, inviting them to see in my choices something healthy.

 

Interestingly, this includes me eating meals alongside my loved ones, and also eating - my favorite food - leftovers! 

 

It turns out that my distaste for waste has instilled in me a love of leftovers! 

 

Hence, when I am around my grandchildren, my nieces, my sons and my step-daughter, I love that everyone knows to share with me the leftovers. It is, funnily enough, often enough to sustain me.

 

I like to think my love of leftovers is finally on solid ground. Not a sacrifice, or secret desire to be thin, or a nod to the perks of poverty, but a good ol' distaste for waste. 

 

Wait, my distaste for waste grew naturally out of me noticing a dangerous lack of caring about waste in the society that surrounds me. 

 

Hence, I suspect it is not without pitfalls. 

 

You know what? That's an issue for another year! 

 

Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to nibble on this plate of leftover cheeses and crackers. Wouldn't want to allow for more waste! 

 

Happy New Year everyone!

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 

 

RANDOM: In the photo above my sons are eating apples. I am certain, I ate the cores.