Autism Answer: Driving the Boys

 

 

My sons enjoying a moment out of the car during a road trip

When I think back, when I remember, we are in the car. Me and my four sons, on our way.

It is being in the car that is the thing.

They are mine when we are in the car.

Oh, I know, they are not mine. They belong to themselves, these small boys fighting over who is the red ranger, spilling sports drinks on the seats, singing their hearts out to Higher by Creed.

Did I say small boys? They were, I remember.

Yet I can also look back and they are teenagers of various stages. When we are just us in the car, on our way places but not yet arrived, they are still mine. Okay, they belong to themselves, I know. They tell me clearly, with attitudes that suit each one individually but say the same: drive us, but let us go.

Oh, my heart. Did I say teenagers? They were, I swear it.

But now, look at these men in my car. My sons. We are on our way after having picked up my youngest from the airport. They are visiting me from their own homes around the world; some have spouses and children waiting for us to arrive. I stole this time for myself. Only me and them alone in the car. We are singing our hearts out to Mariana’s Trench, Three Days Grace, remembering live shows I took them to. We are singing our hearts out and I am tempted never to arrive.

The truth: I have arrived when we are us in the car.

Yet I must let them go so they, too, can arrive.

How could I deny them, these men who are my heart, who influence the colour of my days, the bounce in my step, the tightness in my chest, the direction of my thoughts, how could I deny them this feeling of having arrived?

This feeling that is mine only when I am denying it to them. This feeling that is mine when they are alone with me and I am sharing them with no one else.

I need to know they know this feeling.

If they recognize this feeling of home – for that is how I feel when it is me and my four sons alone in a car: home – I can breathe easily, knowing they have access to this perfect feeling.

When I think back, when I remember, we are in the car. Me and my four sons, on our way.

When I open my eyes, when I am now, I see them in their cars, on their way.

Driving the boys gave me the gift of being with them, taking them where they needed to go.

Arriving was never the point.

Driving the boys until they were able to drive themselves, that was the point.

We did it often, we did it well, we did it while singing out hearts out.

We do it still, when we can.

An arrival worth revisiting.

 # 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!

Tsara Shelton (x.com) 

Autism Answer: Love is not a Tornado

 

A tornado with hearts and the words "I love": image by Ian Langtree (my soul mate!)

 

Love is like a tornado.

 

I love and I love and I love. My sons. My grandchildren. My mom. My sisters. My brothers. My friends. My soul mate. My nieces. My daughters-in-law. My step-daughters. I love and I love and I love.

 

It is unpredictable and intense. It drops where it will and it tears things up. I cannot make it obey me, I cannot demand that it is tender with the people I care about. 

 

Love is not a tornado. 

 

It does not cause destruction most of the time. Instead, it creates. It connects me to meaning, to the deeper strength and substance inside myself. Because of the variety of people I love, because of my desire to feel close to them, I stir myself up inside to uncover hidden possibilities of understanding or empathy. Where I find none I am often able to plant a seed and grow something wonderful. 

 

Love is like a tornado. 

 

When people I love hurt, it tears me up. It is unstoppable and natural and entirely horrible to hurt the way it can hurt. It is unfair. It is violent.

 

Love is not a tornado. 

 

I love and I love and I love. My sons. My grandchildren. My mom. My sisters. My brothers. My friends. My soul mate. My nieces. My daughters-in-law. My step-daughters. I love and I love and I love.

 

It makes me more. It makes me bigger than myself. I cannot experience so much of the world in so many different ways without those I love living life and sharing what it is with me. They share, I share, we consider each other's ideas and observations, we grow and gain because of it. 

 

A tornado is a violently rotating column of air most often quantified by the amount of destruction it leaves behind. Love can be like that. 

 

But love is not that. 

 

Love is a connection that allows for freedom. That would fight for that freedom. While, simultaneously, fighting for changes when who you love - yourself or the other - would be better with change. Better for you? For them? This is the tough stuff love signals us to think about. There is so much involved it can feel like a tornado. 

 

But love is not merely destructive and dangerous when it is active. Also, it is soft and sweet, it is the breath of a baby sleeping soundly in your arms; it is strong and supportive, it is the sister who shows up with an industrial air conditioner when you can no longer take the heat; it is honest and kind, it is the mother who tells you to do the dishes with your brother, not for him, because though it takes longer and seems like a skill your brother will never have, you are wrong and he is worth the time it takes both of you to learn that. 

 

I love and I love and I love. My sons. My grandchildren. My mom. My sisters. My brothers. My friends. My soul mate. My nieces. My daughters-in-law. My step-daughters. I love and I love and I love.

 

Loving people is hard. It can be easier to just not do it. Sure, it brings brightness and beauty, but so does a sunrise and that is less likely to cause emotional turmoil.

 

Love is like a tornado. As are most of our human emotions. 

 

States of uncertainty, tumultuous and worrisome, unpredictable and unconfined. 

 

But love is not a tornado. 

 

Love is the hardest most beautiful thing you can do with your tumultuous tornado like emotions. 

 

Don't be afraid to unleash love upon yourself and those who are worth the wonderful exhaustion and vulnerability of it. 

 

Like a tornado.

your love can reach the clouds, command attention, and influence the landscape. 

 

Do that.

 

Hugs, smiles, and LOVE!!! <----- not a tornado.

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. 

Autism Answer: He Will Make a Great Dad

I love a world that celebrates great parents. Working ones, stay-at-home ones, quiet ones, struggling ones, silly ones, older ones, strait laced ones, single ones, partnered ones, funny ones, young ones, adopted ones... parents have so much power. I love when we care little about the labels and a lot about love, evolution, and all encompassing caring.

 

Shay building fun stuff for the kids with his brother, their dad

My son, Shay, is missing the kids like crazy. 

 

A little background: Shay is living in the basement. He traveled with me from the USA to Canada, where he wants to plant roots. His dream, from as far back as I can remember him dreaming of where to be a grown-up, is to live in British Columbia in a small house amongst the trees. Well, a small house or a retired train car refurbished to be a house? Also, he wants to have a working phone booth randomly in his woods to weird out any trespassing teenagers? He's a funny fella, my Shay. Anyway, he's living here - in the basement, which is actually quite a luxurious basement - but unable to work until he gets his proof-of-citizenship certificate. Which, fun fun fun, he's been told could take more than a year. Until then, he isn't comfortable leaving the country to visit the kids, his nieces and nephew, who are all still in the USA.

 

Shay has really been missing the kids. His arms reach out for little bodies, which are not here. His mind replays all the laughter and phrases they shared with each other, the games he'd invent to make chores and diaper changes exciting, the songs he'd sing so they'd sleep safely in his big strong arms. His mind is kind, but also cruel. It replays these things so he can relive them, but then sometimes pushes him to realize how much laughter he's missing, how much growth and how many games he is not being part of, now that he's here in our basement. 

 

A little background: Shay lived in my mom's home for years, along with my brother, my oldest son, his wife, and the kids. Shay was sort of a live-in babysitter (while my mom was sort of a live-in nanny, my oldest son and his wife had a lot of helpers!) so he spent many days and nights taking care of his nieces, as well as his infant nephew. Hence, he misses them in the way a person misses someone they spent delightful time with and felt partly responsible for. 

 

When Shay comes up from the basement to do the dishes - there are no babies here for him to babysit, but we are kind and so we offer him dishes to bathe - he almost always says something about the babies. Clearly, they are on his mind. Almost always, they are on his mind. It can give me the feeling of being a sub-par grandma, actually, since they are often on my mind but not, I think, as often as they are on his. When the babies call and I chat with them on video, they always ask for Shay. They always want to see and play with him. The kids are missing Shay. 

 

A little background: My oldest son and his wife struggle as parents. (Sort of goes without saying, everyone struggles as parents.) The help they get from my mom, and the help they got from Shay, were necessary. Living with Lynette (a great show, by the way!) means people are pitching in, but it also means those people are there because my mom's special brand of helping is required. My mom, who is a behavior expert, is a believer in teaching how to love fiercely, how to raise the bar, how to insist on stepping up while acknowledging particular challenges. My mom loves with such strength that it pushes itself everywhere, fills nicks and crannies, and lifts people up. It's a lot of work, even when it is also a lot of fun, filled with sweet children and delicious laughter. So when Shay was living there, he was part of that intensity. He was helping his brother take care of his children and navigate a rocky marriage while everyone was trying to learn to do better. 

 

As Shay does the dishes here he often talks about doing dishes there, and about how a baby would cry and he'd go bring them out of the room to be with him so their mother could sleep rather than yell at them. And he'd make them small cups of pretend coffee to sip while he sipped his morning coffee. And he'd lift them, to their great pleasure, high up in his arms to touch the little bell hanging from the living room ceiling. Soooooooo high! Shay is a tall man! He talks as well about wanting to be a dad. 

 

A little background: Shay is a gay man. He hasn't had many relationships and isn't sure what he wants his future long-term relationship to look like. He wants to work, but he also wants to be a stay-at-home dad (this is a conflicting desire all my sons have, they want to work and they want to be stay-at-home dads) so he often imagines himself and his future boyfriend or husband owning a maple tree farm, or a vineyard, or something he imagines he could turn into work and stay-at-home dad-ing. 

 

When Shay talks about being a dad, he has ideas. He, like most of us, has a lot of opinions about how he will parent and why his way is the best way. He, like most of us, will be surprised to learn all the ways he's getting it wrong. Not that he's getting it all wrong, just that in practice, we end up having to make a whole lot of adjustments. His experience with his nieces and nephew has informed him and given him a lot of true skills, but parenting is so much more. And it is something I think he'll be great at. 

 

A little background: Being a gay man isn't easy. Asking another man out can be dangerous. Going out together, holding hands and leaning your head on his shoulder, is still often frowned upon. And worse. Being a gay man who wants to be a dad isn't easy. Having a baby with another man can only happen with the involvement of others. Shay knows this. He always knows this. When I am not bothering to know this, he knows this. 

 

My son is in no hurry to be a dad, though he is missing the kids so much lately that he would probably jump into a relationship with a single dad pretty quick. Here's hoping that doesn't happen unless it's meant to. But he isn't in a real hurry. He's only twenty-four, so he's got time. But he does want, with all of his heart, to be a dad. And I am pretty certain he will make a great dad. 

 

A little background: There are places where my son falling in love and having a family would be illegal. Where people would not bat an eye at seeing him beaten for wanting it. Maybe murdered. There are places where it would be seen as perverted, sinful, or simply wrong. 

 

These are not the kind of places my son would allow his home to become. This kind of targeted harmful hatred would not be cultivated or invited into his home. 

 

My son, Shay, is missing the kids. The kids are missing him. 

 

He is looking forward to one day having a child of his own. Of being a dad himself.

 

He will make a great dad. 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Smiling - A Sibling Story

I wrote the following story last year for my mom's newsletter, The Loop, after she and my brother visited me in Quebec. I'm in the midst of putting together another edition of The Loop and got a little sidetracked when it occurred to me perhaps it would be fun to share this story here with you. Also, I hope you'll sign up for The Loop so you can always get news and updates and fun stuff first! Follow this link: The Loop   

Me and Dar - Smiling

"Dar, look into the camera with me. Okay, smile!" Sometimes I take selfies with my brother while we wait for mom. She'll be working, or at a health appointment, or in the shower, and we'll be hanging out. We love listening to music together. We enjoy the odd verbal exchange, but his words are most often challenging for me to decipher and mine are most often of the less than inclusive "this is what I think about all these things I'm thinking about" variety. So, I've noticed, I've gotten in the habit of pulling out my phone and bugging him into taking a selfie with me. 

Now, in most of our selfies, Dar is not smiling. Not because he didn't smile, but because he doesn't hold the smile. And by the time I snap a pic, I've missed it.

However, Dar is doing something new.

Well, Dar is doing several things new. Ever since mom and Dar left their house behind and have been transitioning into this new life of travel he's been practicing new and old skills in surprising abundance. But for the purpose of this moment I'm focusing on the way he's practicing holding a smile for the camera.

At the park, Dar loves the swing. A few days before I took the photo you see above, I approached him with my camera - mom was with us, sitting in shade nearby - and asked him to smile. He did, and I snapped a photo a little late to capture it. As usual. But then he smiled again. And held it. I had been about to walk away but, thankfully, I felt his energy and noticed. So, I took another photo. Then he shifted on the swing and smiled toward me again. It was such a familiar smile. Not one I am used to seeing on my brother but the one I am used to seeing on those of us who like to smile for a camera. Not a fake smile, but a held smile. I took more photos.

Over the next few days I noticed it again. At first I wondered why this was a skill he'd bother to work on. But silly me! This whole transit(ion) lifestyle - my mom and brother living in an RV and traveling together - includes Dar and mom speaking, being on camera, sharing what they learn with an audience. So what a brilliant time to practice! Here with me, his silly selfie taking sister!

Dar's smiles, the ones he's always shared, are luminescent and transcendent and infectious. And though they were often long lasting they were rarely held for the camera. I hope, for the sake of everyone, that Dar continues holding those delicious smiles for the camera.

And I love that he's been practicing them with me.

~ 

Follow this link for Autism on the Road videos with mom and Dar: Autism on the Road Playlist

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Chandelier

 "I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, the chandelier..."

 

She's so inside it. Serenity, my two year old granddaughter, is so inside the song. She loves the way she feels inside the song, swinging herself around the room. She sings the lyrics as she understands them, she smiles and twirls, looks down at her little legs poking out from under her shirt - scratch that, under her sister's shirt. The one she's borrowed that is a bit long on her and feels pretty as she looks down and spins. She spins again and the song continues to play from my phone which I have strategically placed on the windowsill. There is a bouncing of sound from that spot, a trick that gives us more than we're actually getting. 

 

"I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist, like it doesn't exist..."

 

My oldest granddaughter dances and sings, too. Nevaeh, big sister, little lady, speaker of opinions. She sings and dances with me. My heart is swelling while I'm dancing with my oldest granddaughter but Serenity, my younger granddaughter, is alone in this world. I recognize that place. The song has swept her away and she's flying. 

 

"I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry..."

 

I can hardly hold onto my heart as it wants to fly with her, alongside her, forever be with her. Serenity swoops down low and then brings herself up, fills her lungs with air and sings out: "I'm gonna swing from the chandelier..."

 

But, suddenly, a crash. A smacking of toes into the wall, cut by the vent. Where was this? Where did this come from? We were flying, we were everywhere and filled with such joy when BAM! 

 

I swoop down, Nevaeh runs over to her little sister, Serenity is crying crying crying out. She's bleeding and hurt. It isn't going to require medical attention but it needs attending to. And now, drastically, the song sounds obnoxious. Cruel, even. Holding my sweet granddaughter in my arms, her sister cooing, "It's okay 'renity, shhhh, we're here. It's okay." I reach up to the windowsill and silent the vehicle of this pain.

 

"One, two, three, one, two, three..." pause.

 

I think about this as we stop dancing and start finding distractions from her pain: I think about how much joy she was immersed in, how filled up with fantastic feeling Serenity appeared to be and how, had she been more present, less letting herself be taken away into the place she had been taken away to, she may have been more careful. She may not have gotten hurt. And we would still be dancing away, silly and safe in the bedroom. 

 

Yet it is in that place, that allowing of abandon I saw on her, where I feel my most free, my most connected to the world, my most awesome. Do I want to say, "Be a little more careful, sweet Serenity. Don't let yourself get so carried away,"? Or do I want to say, "It's okay, little love of mine, you will feel better soon. And the joy of letting yourself be so free is worth the bumps and bruises,"?

 

I think about this and I know both answers are right. I know I want my grandchildren to throw caution to the wind with courage, kindness, and curiosity; I also know I want them to think things through and choose carefully, with eyes open. 

 

I want Serenity to sing her heart out while moving to the music, untethered by distractions inherent in paying attention to the world around her. But I also want her to watch her toes. Her sweet little feet matter to me more than I can express, even understand. 

 

The song, Chandelier, sings to us from a woman "just holding on for tonight, on for tonight," and claiming she's "gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist, like it doesn't exist."

 

But I want Serenity to succumb to abandon because tomorrow does exist, because flying like a bird through the night can bring a feeling of connection and awesomeness and perspective and joy that is not easily felt or celebrated in everyday activities. 

 

So, I think about this. 

 

About Serenity's song and the joy it brought her, a joy that was entirely felt because she let go of looking at the world around her in order to fall into the feeling, how then she was - necessarily - unprepared for the edges that hadn't disappeared. 

 

When we decide to be brave, to follow our heart, to step into a life we are called to but have no experience with, to be swept up in emotion, it makes sense to be careful. When I dance, for example, I move furniture, I wear my knee brace, I choose a fairly safe environment. But then, I dance and disappear and close my eyes. 

 

When I've done what I can think of to set myself up for success, I let go. Invite abandon in. 

 

That's what I want to tell Serenity.

Set yourself free.

 

When you swing from the chandelier hold on, for more than only tonight, and if you fall there are so many of us who will be here to attend to your wounds. 

 

As Nevaeh sweetly said, "It's okay 'renity. We're here. It's okay." 

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 

 

If you want to check out the song that brought Serenity such joy, here ya go: https://youtu.be/2vjPBrBU-TM Just, please, watch your toes. :D