Autism Answer: Growing Up Greedy

 

Family portrait

 

“Parenting was my goal, ever since I can remember. I have learned more from teaching my children than I could have ever learned from chasing a dream with fewer people to care for. I am greedy. And so I filled my world with a lot of people to love.” ~Lynette Louise, aka "The Brain Broad"

 

aka my mom. 

 

She really did fill her world with a lot of people to love. 

 

I can confirm this statement of hers. 

 

As one of her children I was not only a witness to mom's active inclusion of people to love, I was not only one of the people she greedily loved, but I was also actively involved in learning to love.

 

When my mom was a little girl she planned her future with confidence: she would be the mother of many children - about twelve, she figured - and she would guide them with such love that her own upbringing would be washed away. There would be no trace of the abuse my mom lived through in the environment she would create for her children. At the time she didn't know anything about the cycle of abuse, but she did know it was not in any way okay to treat a child, a person, the way her mother treated her. And so, she would not. She would not treat anyone in such a way ever. Her love would be such a storm of goodness and fairness that any trace of the name calling and humiliation and beatings of her past would simply drown to death.

 

Mom was young when she had me. She was still young when my brother was born dead. By the time my sister was born my mom was almost twenty. She was twenty-three when she had to have a complete hysterectomy due to an infection. 

 

She had not reached her goal of twelve children, but she was crazy about the two of us she was raising. Always, mom put us first and cared so darn much about how we were treated. My sister and I were lucky little girls and were loved beyond measure. I wish our brother would have lived to be part of it. That love. 

 

But despite mom's best intentions, her own upbringing was insidious. Mom did not know how to love herself the way she so easily loved us. And whether you believe it or not, a certain kind of love for yourself is necessary for a healthy love of others to grow.

And here is the magic of my mom. She is, at her core, a genius who cares about children and outliers. Even as a little girl imagining her future she would see herself loving people who were having a hard time finding love. Not in a savior way, but in a "don't you see they are like me" way. She saw herself in the outliers, the unwanted, the unlovable. As she grew wiser, she saw all of us in everyone. 

 

Mom's biggest challenge was understanding how the rest of us could not see. It was so obvious to her that everyone was capable and everyone deserved to be seen for who they were, not what label they might be given. It was so obvious to her that she just couldn't see how so many of us were blind to it. 

So, the magic of my mom was this: help herself, learn to love herself, while gathering so many others to love.

My mom was fierce in her intention to create a healthy and loving environment. One that would guide us to independence and strength. She was always an example of that strength and always a seeker of her better self. What started as me, mom, and my sister became me, mom, my sister, two more sisters, and four brothers. And then there were a myriad of others who mom allowed into our lives for temporary help and guidance. There were also many she did not. Love means saying no, too. 

But we did have many. I remember a woman from... hmmm, I can't remember... Kenya? ... trying to raise money to bring her young son to Canada. I remember a teenager, a girl about the age of me and my sisters, with physical disabilities I can't quite recall but her body moved different from ours and one of her arms was misshapen. I don't remember her well but I do remember us girls sitting around chatting about the usual teenage girl stuff. And I admit to being surprised that her interests aligned precisely with ours. There was almost a boy from Columbia who we all wrote to and tried to learn a little Spanish for. After most of us kids had grown and only some of us were staying with her for different reasons at different times, there were more extreme cases. Mom was a renowned brain change and behavior expert by then so she helped an addict who no longer wanted to be an addict, she helped autistic people in extreme need.

 

These people willing to accept mom's help (not my siblings, the ones that came later) knew it was a temporary thing, something meant to fuel them with ideas and skills for the forward motion they were struggling to gain footing with. My mom is not the sort to help without a goal. In fact, she would likely see helping without a goal as the opposite of helping.

 

I don't always remember understanding mom's love for children who were unwanted or unloved, and admittedly I didn't always like being expected to learn to believe in everyone's potential and worth, but I did always learn. About others and about myself. 

 

I watched, also, as my mom learned about herself. As my mom grew healthier, stronger, happier, more balanced as a woman. As a mom. 

 

I do believe it is a wonderful idea to plan a certain amount of readiness before gathering people around you to take care of. I do. 

 

I just also believe that as we gather people to love and care for, we are going to realize that we are in need of more. We are going to discover new areas of unreadiness we will do well to examine, to change. 

 

 

“Parenting was my goal, ever since I can remember. I have learned more from teaching my children than I could have ever learned from chasing a dream with fewer people to care for. I am greedy. And so I filled my world with a lot of people to love.” ~Lynette Louise, "The Brain Broad"

 

 

Mom is greedy and fills her world with people to love.

In this way she encourages others to become people who love.

And this helps us become easier to love. 

 

We are not all like my mom. 

Be we are all capable and of value, we are all able to step up and over our own obstacles, and we are all responsible for doing so (this includes asking for help where it is required for forward motion).

I know this because my mom is like my mom. 

And she will not allow me not to know this. 

Not if I don't want to be grounded for a month. :D 

 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!! 

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Bannock on the Living Room Floor with my Uncle Henry

*Bannock is a form of bread. Most Indigenous nations in North America have some version of bannock as a staple in their diets.

 

Uncle Henry

 

My Uncle Henry was murdered when I was still young. I only have a few memories of him. My memories are few but I have thought of him often.

I have often thought about the lack of time we had with Uncle Henry. The sadness of his story tends to envelop these thoughts like a fog. He was native and adopted into my mom's white family. The history of his specific why and how I do not know, but our Canadian history I am aware of. I think of how my uncle's stories were stolen from him, of how his life was manipulated, of his murder and the horrific unsurprised and hardly caring attitudes about it.

My mom loved my Uncle Henry and was angered by the way her family treated him. When she shares memories of their childhood, the angry passion she expresses reminds me of the angry passion I would see in my own little sister when she witnessed cruelty dressed up as kindness. It is a passion I have always felt uncomfortable around. My awe of their innate vision mixes with my fear of their inability to be in the background and ignore it, shrug it off. Be a good girl.

I think of my Uncle Henry and, often, I think of children like me. So busy being a good girl they don't let angry passion get them in trouble. With practice, they learn not to have angry passion at all. I suspect, from the little I knew of my uncle, he was a child like me. A good boy. But unlike me, he wasn't white. No amount of being good could change that.

But today, for me, this is the wrong way to think about it. The wrong focus.

I have only a few memories of time spent with my Uncle Henry, and only one that is clear and easily replayed in my mind. It is a wonderful memory that brings no sadness. Only a feeling of family.

I remember bannock.

He sat, quietly - he was so quiet in my memory - on the living room floor with my sister and me, making bannock on mom's hot plate. He was telling us, in a quiet uncertain sort of way, about the bread he was making and a history of learning it from his native family. A history he may have been both inventing and remembering. A history I craved knowing more about but feared asking too many questions lest he feel singled out and interrogated. I was loving the moment, the stories, the food, the family, and I didn't want him to stop sharing.

He was living with us for a bit. His family had refused him, and eventually my stepdad refused him, but not mom. She fought for him, insisted on finding ways to help him even when my stepdad wouldn't allow it. My mom deeply cared about her brother. She didn't treat him like a problem, or a hardship, but like a person she cared about.

A person worth the work of caring about in an environment that didn't make it easy.

I'm sorry I didn't have more time to learn with him. To know him. To discover the person my mom cared so much about.

There is sadness in his story but to focus on it takes away from the beauty of the bannock. It also creates a feeling that sadness belongs in his story. That it is a necessary part of remembering my Uncle Henry. How sad!

Today, I am grateful. For the time he did spend with us, for a mom who made room for that, and for the quiet way he showed his caring.

I'm grateful for an uncle who was shy and uncertain yet inclined toward sitting with my little sister and me on mom's living room floor to make bannock.

An uncle who sat on the floor with us to share bannock.

Hugs, smiles, and love! 

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Bonus: I am including a link to the song my mom wrote about my uncle and his murder. Have a listen. Maybe sit on the living room floor while my uncle, through my mom, shares his bannock. 

 

Autism Answer: Chatting about Love with my Granddaughter in a Dream

 

A pic my granddaughter took while we were video chatting

In my dream I was chatting with my oldest granddaughter, Nevaeh, who is four, almost five. 

 

She was looking up at me from the water of our swimming pool, standing on the stairs holding onto the rail. I was sitting on the edge leaning back on my hands, my legs straight out along the side and not in the water because, even in my dreams, I don't want to remove my roller skates. 

 

We were chatting about love.

 

"But, grandma," she was asking, "is it okay that I still love grampa?" 

 

"Of course! It's wonderful that you love grampa. And your grampa will always love you." 

 

She smiled at me with that special smirk of hers. "I know he'll always love me. But if you aren't still married to grampa do I still call him grampa? And what do I call the new grampa? Is he new grampa?" 

 

The dream was so vivid I swear I could feel the weight of roller skates on my feet. A weight that gives me the gift of moving in a way that feels weightless. 

 

"Grampa is your grampa and you can always call him grampa. Ian is grandma's love and you can figure out with him what to call him. You know what, Nevaeh? That's a cool part about love. There are so many kinds! And the more you love the more kinds of love you'll find." 

 

And suddenly, as happens in dreams, so many of our different loves began to come and go in ghost like form, appearing on the edge of the pool in a variety of snapshots that nearly came into focus and then disappeared, all around the pool they came and went and we pointed and talked about different kinds of love and what it can look like. Also, what maybe it shouldn't look like. 

 

"Look!" Nevaeh cried out at one point, turning her head and pointing her still slightly chubby fingers toward the deep end, "Look! There's my Tia! I love her but different than I love Serenity." 

 

"Right!" I said, laughing and feeling such joy to be spending this time with my granddaughter, who I love. "And even though you love Serenity, you fight with her sometimes. So love can have fighting in it." I said that because, to be honest, it was kind of a new learning for me. I'd been thinking about the times I fought with my mom as a child and how my willingness to fight with mom stemmed from my absolute certainty that she loved me and that I loved her. How it had often grown out of my certainty that we could push and pull at each other without ever breaking. 

 

But my granddaughter looked at me with confusion. "Like how mommy and daddy fight?" Oops.

 

"No, that's different," I had to admit. "When they fight it isn't coming from a place of love. I think they are fighting because they want to hurt each other and, even if it is some kind of love, it isn't a safe or healthy love." 

 

The dream wanted to turn dark, and for a moment snapshots of my son's wife screaming at him threatened to materialize, but I spoke with the intention of diverting the dream back to a lighter feel. 

 

"Love can have fighting in it, but love isn't full of fighting. Think about how it feels when you love. How it feels when you snuggle Dramma or when your daddy plays with you. Are you feeling it?"

 

Her blue eyes were closed and she was hugging herself, her bathing suit danced with colors and her small body swayed happily. "It feels good!" 

 

"Does it feel safe?" I asked. 

 

"Yes! I feel safe with Dramma snuggling me!"

 

"And do you feel like you and the person you love both matter?"

 

"Daddy matters! He's playing with me because I matter and because it's fun!" 

 

"Who else do you love? Different from Dramma or Daddy?"

 

Nevaeh did a jump for joy, "Uncle Dar! I love uncle Dar!" 

 

"That's a really good one! You love uncle Dar even though he doesn't play or talk in a usual way."

 

"Because Uncle Dar matters and I matter! And he likes to be on the swings! Wait, grandma! I know something!" She looked at me with such force I almost reached out to hold her but stopped myself. In my dreams, sometimes the attempt at touch wakes me up and I was not ready to wake from this. Neveah continued, "Sometimes when Uncle Dar is cranky Dramma talks to him in a fighting way. But it's because she loves him and wants to help him calm down. It's like they're working together. That's the kind of fighting love can have!" 

 

We talked a little more about different kind of love. About the crushes she had, the kinds of love we can feel for things like swimming and roller skating, the love we can have for the world. (Gotta love the attention span of my dream granddaughter! Giggle!) 

 

Just as I felt myself begin to wake - I admit I fought it because it is only in my dreams I can spend this kind of time with my grandchildren who live in California while I live in Quebec - we returned to the love she has for her grampa. 

 

"So you won't be mad if I keep loving my grampa?"

 

"Sweet, sweet, sweet Nevaeh," I was able to tell her in the dream, "I want you to keep loving grampa. I love your grampa, just not as my husband. Ian is my love that way. But it isn't because your grampa is not someone to love, it is because Ian is my someone to be in love with. So, yes! Love all the grandpas you want!" 

 

I could feel my eyelids begin to open, I stayed as long as I could in that world between two worlds, my granddaughter in the pool and Ian in the bed beside me, I wanted him to see Nevaeh and let her know it was okay to love him and my ex-husband. I wanted Nevaeh to see him and know how much he feels like home to me. How comfortable I am being all of me here. I wanted her here. 

 

When I could no longer keep myself in that space, where I was everywhere at once, I whispered to her, gathering as much love as I had time to gather before the dream was completely unreachable and packing it into that whisper, "I love you, Nevaeh." 

 

For the next two days I went in and out of that dream. Talking about love with my oldest grandchild. Remembering that as we adults teach our children we are never done learning and shifting and changing ourselves, so we will always have new and different kinds of love to talk about. And to example. 

 

My son and his wife are struggling to change their situation in order to become better examples for their children; in order to be better (and happier) people themselves. 

 

At the same time love is evolving, growing stronger or simply different, with everyone else in our family. 

 

And I had the pleasure of discussing the ever evolving love in our lives with my four year old granddaughter. Yes, it was in a dream. But it is also in my memory. A memory of discussing love with my granddaughter in a dream. 

 

Which is also a memory of the very real love I have for my granddaughter. 

 

There are so many kinds of love.

That is something I love. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

 

INVITATION TO PARTY WITH MY FAMILY: Today is my mom's birthday!!! I invite you to join our family party by watching this fun video of mom, my brother Dar, and the great-grandkids playing together. And to make it extraordinarily pertinent to mom on her birthday, which is also World Autism Awareness Day, you get a tip for engaging in play with your autistic loved ones while encouraging social skills. It's a perfect party celebration and I love that you're here with us!

Autism Answer: The Loop (And Adorable Proof)

Funny story, 

I was writing and editing the upcoming edition of The Loop, our every-other-month newsletter, when I realized that the edition I had worked on previously, the one labeled "July/August", was never sent out. More specifically, after working on it, after polishing the language and being certain all the information was relevant, I forgot to have it proofed by Dr. Lynette Louise (The Brain Broad) and sent out to you! Oops! So sorry about that!

In my defense, I was surrounded by grandchildren and nieces and sons and brothers and all manner of fun people distracting me from my online duties. So I do apologize, but I promise it was worth it! Having such an amazing time was the least I could do for you since I left you wondering what we were up to by not sending our updates. Luckily, for your sake, we made sure to be up to a lot of snuggly summer family fun. You're welcome! tee hee!

Pardon me? What's that? You want photographic evidence of the summer fun? Of the togetherness and good times we made sure to have so that my forgotten online duties could rightly and justly and fairly be forgiven? Well, who am I to deny you such adorable proof?

I submit the following: 

 

 
Clearly, this is confirmation of the cutest kind. 
 
Okay, back to our story. So, yes, I forgot to send out the July/August edition (which was filled with brilliant writing that would have knocked your socks off! <--- I can say that now. It's been deleted and replaced. ;D) but our upcoming edition, the September/October issue of The Loop, HAS been sent for proofreading and once I have received and incorporated all suggested edits and additions, it WILL be sent to your inbox.

That is, assuming you are signed up for The Loop? 

Anyone who still has that on their to-do list can sign up here (just your email address) safe in the knowledge that we will never share your info, and you'll be included in the family of friends receiving our edition going out a few days from now. Follow this link: Brain & Body

And if you'd like to have a peek at one of our previous editions, just to get a feel for our style, follow this link: The Loop - March/April 2019

Here's another one, picked at random, just for fun: The Loop - November/December 2018

Again, to all you fantastic friends that have been in The Loop for the past few years, and to all you new friends recently signed up, I apologize for the skipped edition. Mostly, though, I have great big heaps of gratitude for the opportunity to enjoy this journey with you and am honored by your invitation to share space with us in your inbox!

I'll be sending the next edition soon. 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

 

Autism Answer: Frustration Dreams and Picture Frames

Writing down my dream.

I had a frustration dream the other night.

Feelings of frustration are rarely waiting for me when I sleep, but I know when they are it's a good idea to acknowledge and explore them. This particular dream, however, needed very little exploration and I had already been acknowledging it. There was little in the way of subtlety.

THE DREAM: My family and friends were all around, coffee flowing, children playing, teenagers dancing, grown-ups gabbing, life was glowing. I was taking a moment to SEE them, to LOOK at them, to paint a portrait of the chaotic spectacle of spectacular togetherness in my mind.

Brilliantly, (or so I thought at the time) I decided to snap a true photo for posterity.

Pulling out my camera I attempted to put all the people in frame.

It. Was. Impossible.

There were too many people hanging out in too many places, one style of fun wasn't coming through the lens with the right mood if set beside the other style of fun, the inclusion of everyone was impossible and so was the inclusion of the absolute joy in the chaos. I moved back to get it all in, but it still wouldn't fit in the frame and now it had no mood other than a mess of people, and closer in I could only isolate small parts of the picture if I wanted to capture any true version of what was happening around me. And now it was happening around me without me because in my attempt to put it all in one frame I had taken myself out of the picture almost entirely. Not entirely, of course, because I was there, trying to put it all in one frame, in one place. Trying to force it to fit.

I woke up as I felt my dream-self fall completely away and give up entirely.

Now, I'm not at a loss or at all unsure of the meaning or timing of this dream. Oh, no. Not at all.

In fact, this dream was almost inevitable.

Physically and emotionally right now I am trying to be and see and feel too many of my people in too many places.

It. Is. Impossible.

Without giving away too much of my family's personal stuff (which they are absolutely entitled to and which I am surprisingly rarely tempted to borrow for my own purposes, considering how addicted I am to sharing my own personal stuff with you!) here is where I am: In California at my sister's house, living temporarily with her family while they work at building a new kind of life due to recent events - including my son, his wife, and their new daughter moving in with them and dealing with their own unexpected and scary life events - while my mom lives a few hours away with two of my brothers, two of my sons, one of my daughters-in-law and two of my granddaughters who are all pretty much navigating newness and change, while my husband is home in Texas, alone for the first time in years because our youngest son started University in August and lives on campus, two hours away from our Texas home, and he (our son) is without a car, while my youngest brother deals with lonliness bigger than usual because I am not at my usual post in my Texas house ready to greet him with coffee and conversation at a moments notice, while my best friend is struggling with a new job and her children are dealing with new adulthood and unexpected health issues while her husband is out of state making money and unable to get home. So *breath* all my people are doing new things and living lives of change and reaching out for me while I reach out for them but I am one person in one body with minimal money for travel.

Clearly, the dream did not surprise me.

It did, however, give me an answer.

My Answer: My situation is frustrating and that's okay. As long as I do my best to be where I am when I'm there, and to find MOMENTS for the things I miss and want to be part of. As long as I remember to have faith that I am not necessary for the success of these many new shifts, but I am wanted and that's nice. My absence, however, leaves room for other people and opportunities. I am not in the way of them if I allow myself to be gone. This is a gift, too. 

 

I can waste my time struggling to frame it all in one picture, or I can appreciate the bigness of our fragmented fun. I can gather myself together and stay where I am. I can look where I'm looking and trust in where I can't see.

This is what it is to parent. And I have done it for years. Keeping an eye on what is in front of me so we can learn skills and grow together from the place where we're at, not the places I've heard or read we should be. I've always tried to be with my kids when I'm with them and trust in them and their world when I'm not. This is what it is to parent. Turns out, this is also what it is to let go as a parent. Which is still parenting. 

And I'll be doing it for years. Might as well start getting good at it now. 

 

Phew! Problem solved. Maybe now I'll have room to dream up the answer to life's biggest question: How is it possible that some people are not lying when they say they don't love coffee? How?

Happy Tuesday, friends! May your dreams bring you answers and your friends bring you coffee! (Unless you don't like coffee. In which case, are you sure you aren't lying? Giggle!)

Hugs, smiles, and love!! 

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: The Men Who Found Me

*Author's note: I wrote this piece about five years ago. I don't remember why I wrote it. I do remember hoping it would be published somewhere by someone other than me. I do remember hoping it would be understood as valuable by someone other than me. I do remember hoping it would be published by a journal that compensates their contributors. I have submitted it several times to paying publications and have received several rejections. However, I don't believe that means it wasn't understood as valuable (though that is perfectly possible and alright with me). I believe it most likely means it was understood as not for them. That's one of the great gifts submitting work can offer. Understanding the various reasons for, and possibilities of, rejection.

This piece has been rejected several times by paying publications, but it has been accepted and adored often by me. My sons and husband have also felt the value of its message, though they have not read it. And perhaps it will be understood as valuable by you, dear reader. I would be honored if that were the case. I would be grateful if that were the case. Goodness knows that cannot be the case if I keep it tucked away hidden in a file on my computer. 

Whether or not you find this piece valuable or interesting, I hope you understand it as true and meaningful. Because though it carries with it several rejections, it absolutely is. 

Happy reading!
~Tsara

The Men Who Found Me

I was always there but deeply lost.

When the much older than me dark skinned mechanic, different from me in so many ways, looked adoringly at my colorful sons, helped my autistic brothers fix their cars, and held my milky white hand in his strong callused one, I knew I’d been finally found.

Admittedly, he wasn’t the first man to bring me closer to the surface. He stood in line behind a short list of important others. And they themselves had been in the position to search out the pieces of me, hidden and strewn haphazardly deep inside my container of a body, because of a long-ago man who broke me and left me hidden. 

When I was twelve my step-dad molested and disoriented me. 

He who we loved so much; he who’d stepped up and taken beautiful care of my beautiful mother, given us a home and the gift of adopted siblings, given us stability and a feeling of being powerfully protected—he had done what we knew he would never do. 

I was left lost. A jungle of lies and confusion and guilt and fear buried me deep. 

My mom was a hero, picking up the family and keeping us safe. Safer than safe; we learned to know things. My mom took impossible care of six kids on her own, strong and certain that she could discover answers that would keep us healthy. Against impossible odds—a past filled with abuse and a basket full of challenged children—she carried us to women’s shelters and safe homes, forever remaining the insistent and actively thinking student. Always aware of us children and our needs while climbing and building mountains of knowledge for our sake.  

But men were held at a distance, unpredictable and unlikely to lead to safety. We learned about men, we knew we wanted them around, but we were unable to completely trust them. Unable to learn from them or live as equals.

Leaving me lost. 

Until my first son was born. 

His dad told me he would take care of me because he thought I was appropriately pretty and young. He was looking at the container I was lost inside, and promising to buy it things. He was lying, but I wasn’t expecting much from him anyway. I had been hoping, but never expecting. 

Then I gave birth to my son. My son, who would one day become a man. And when his tiny brown wrinkly hand wrapped around my finger, and his hungry mouth hunted my breast, our love and needs locked and I knew I was in there somewhere. 

I felt him see me when I saw him. 

I began to feel found but was so deeply lost the signal was faint. 

I had another son with the same man, the one who took me to enough restaurants to keep my container impressed, and this boy was more insistent. He was almost downright rude with his demands from me.

He really encouraged me to pick up my pieces and put myself together. He would accept nothing less!

So I walked away from the man who lied and grew a little less lost while I played with my sons. 

I met a kind man, and for a time I struggled to be completely found with him too. But when I was pregnant again I pushed him away. He called me beautiful, smart, and sexy. I didn’t think I could keep that up. 

But for my third son I became more myself. More creative, silly, and snuggly.  

I could feel myself grow less lost, almost entirely aware of my path and my surroundings. The consistent sounds and sticky sweat from my jungle of guilt and fear quieted, chirping less obnoxiously in my head and heart. The path I was walking with my sons felt like my choice. I could intuitively sense something exciting and new calling me in a direction, and I began to trust myself to know it when it appeared. 

Then my mom’s car broke down. This kind, older, ridiculously different than me mechanic came to the rescue. 

At first, he didn’t see me. I tried to be noticed by flaunting my body and lips. I used the only tricks I knew, glossy and flirty. Hips swinging and bodies brushing and lips inviting, but he was avoiding and uninterested. From my place inside where I was almost found I began to consider retreating deeper into the jungle of lost, where I felt familiar. 

But instead I spoke about my sons who were visiting my sister. I put away my flirty tricks and let me talk about my boys. Something about this quiet hard working mechanic seemed to allow it. 

He was not kinder, smarter, or richer than other men. He was there, and he was good, and I was ready to be found.

Talking about my boys drew me out of hiding. My boys had me dancing and showing off

right at the surface of myself.

And that’s when the mechanic found me. He found the beautiful mom, the creative soul, the loving sister, the delighted daughter, the tentative friend, the dancing queen, the flirty girl and more.

He didn’t look at the container I was hiding in, my body and face and hair, not at first anyway. He looked at me.

And I was found. 

Had my sons not needed me I may have stayed too deeply lost for him to see. Had I not needed to find me for my sons, I may have wanted to stay lost. 

But my sons found me. 

And because of them, the mechanic found me. 

Together, the mechanic and me, we had one more son. 

A young man who will grow up having always known me. 

The mechanic and I have been happily married now for eighteen years. We’ve lived in separate homes close together, separate homes far apart, crowded in one home together, and always we’ve worked as a team. 

Over the years I’ve easily trusted him, learned from him, and we’ve lived together as equals. 

When he found me, I found him. A man to help me guide our sons out of their own jungle.

A man who will example and help them to know themselves.

The men who found me were my reason to be found. My reason to find me. And now that I know who I am, now that I’ve grown confident and comfortable with all of the pieces of me as they fit together, I know I will never be lost again.

# # #

Short Bio: Tsara Shelton is a writer of musings, a sipper of coffee, and an addict of anything story. Having learned life exploring the edges of society she finds her footing in the world through storytelling—as a mom, wife, daughter and citizen. She blogs regularly at Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton and is the author of Spinning in Circles and Learning from Myself: A Collection of Stories that Slowly Grow Up.

Website: www.tsarashelton.com

Facebook: Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton

Twitter: @TsaraShelton