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: So Many Dads

 

Dads

When I first started having babies - looooooooooong ago - I thought dads were overrated. I thought sure, dads are fine, but I never really had one and I didn't think much about it. Staying in a relationship just to keep a dad around is worse for the kids than walking away and doing it yourself. Dads are fine, I guess, but overrated.

Now that I've had a lot more life and have met so many dads, including two of my sons who are now dads, I have a different way of seeing it.

My mom raised eight of us on her own, and she was undeniably enough. She was strong, no nonsense, hard working like a stereotypical father and soft, loving, singing like a stereotypical mom. Yet, she was anything but stereotypical. With adopted kids, biological kids, foster kids, homeless kids, crippled kids, disabled kids, abused kids, all the kids - she loved everyone equally, saw potential all around, and pushed us fiercely while showing us how to build our wings, roller skates, trucks, businesses, homes, whatever we needed to move freely our way in the world.

So it's true that a family can be raised without a dad. But it is not true that dads are overrated.

My own dad wasn't around much when my biological sister and I were growing up, though he wasn't entirely out of the picture. He was okay. He didn't help mom at all but he didn't hurt us when we visited. My step dad, however, was around and did help our mom for a while. He also did hurt us. When mom saw that she left him. It would be hard to overstate how drastically our lives were affected by him.

My entire childhood and teen years I dreamed of being a mom, but not of being a partner. I wanted the children and I wanted them alone. When I finally was having babies I never told the dads they could not see their children, but I subconsciously picked ones that wouldn't.

I, errrrrrr, I am not my mom. So I wasn't as awesome on my own. Luckily, my mom was there to help me out. And then, luckily again, I met a man who would be their dad.

He was great! I didn't live with him so I got to have my dream of being a mom alone, but I had help. He worked hard, cared about each one of the boys equally (only one was biologically his but you'd never have known by the way he treated them, though only one having black skin might have given it away. :D) and supported any dream we had. He was not overrated.

I started to notice other dads. Dads who were always there, dads who were behind the scenes, dads who were not really dads but taking on the role, dads who were helping and dads who were hurting. Dads are not, I began to notice, overrated. They are powerful.

There is no one way to be a good dad. But when you are a dad, you matter. My sons, the ones who never met their biological dads, had been hurt by that. But, luckily for all of us, they were also cared for by so many.

Right now two of my four sons are dads. (All four of my sons have always dreamed of being dads and I love that.)They are drastically different dads, but they are both dads that care about being dads. They are not overrated.

My love, the man I live with now, has been being a dad - with his own children and children of others - since he was nineteen or twenty. He stepped in and cared. He is not overrated.

My own dad wasn't there a lot when we were little. But later in life, when my sister and I were moms, he reached out. Funnily enough, to ask for help from my mom. For a while he was like one of the children my mom took in and loved fiercely while showing him how to build the wings he would eventually need to move freely out of this world. He was an attentive and available grandpa, my boys thought of him as a father figure. My oldest particularly. His presence in their lives, in our lives, is not overrated.

There are so many dads. Some are dads biologically, some are dads because they are moms alone, some are dads that step into a dad role, some are dads that are doing it alone. There are so many ways to be a dad. Fierce, quiet, available, at work, playful, nervous, accidental, confident, hard-lined, most often a mix of it all with certain features prominent. Whatever type of dad you are, whatever type of dad you have, whatever type of dad you are evolving into, remember you are powerful.

I was right that you don't have to have a dad but I was wrong about them being overrated.

A dad is a powerful thing.

If you are a dad, any kind of dad, one of so many dads, I hope you're aware that you matter. Whether the children you care for are little or grown, you matter. You are not overrated.

If you are a dad that is doing your best to be your best, thank you.

That matters.

Happy Father's Day to so many dads!

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!

Autism Answers with Tsara (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

Autism Answer: New Life, New Roles, and Home

On a shuttle headed to the airport thinking about home.

Well, friends, I've made it home. 

I flew alone, from Texas to California, and I spent a month there. Going to California for the summer is not unusual for me, as most of you know. My mom and sister and nieces and a couple of my brothers and a couple of my sons all live there. But going alone is rare. My youngest sons almost always join me.

And, certainly, going to California in order to be there with my oldest son and his wife while they have their first baby is new! My first granddaughter! 

It. Was. Fantastical. 

Talk about new! A new life, a new role for me, a new role for my son, new roles for everyone!

Birth is always miraculous. And when it happens to your family, when it's personal, it changes and effects and shifts your world. It discombobulates and redefines and renews your sense of self and purpose. 

It's spectacular and beautiful and exhausting and invigorating. 

It's life; new, remembered, shared, shifted, edited, and all-encompassing.

All of our roles are being redefined and built fresh. And all because of one perfectly tiny little girl.

Our perfectly tiny little girl! 

It's good to be home, but I also miss her and the intensity of it all. 

But, it's good to be home. With my husband and younger sons. With my books and my bed and my coffee maker. It's good to be home. 

And my granddaughter's home is her mommy and daddy. (Boy, she's got a beautifully loving home!) So my new role includes the necessity of me leaving, of me going home. As her grandma, as my son's mom, I want to get out of the way while my granddaughter explores and demands from and helps build her new home. I want that for her and for her mom and for her daddy. 

Her daddy: my son: their home.

It feels not long ago that I was his home. 

New roles for all of us, friends! New roles, yes, but consistently and always we are one great big strong supportive loving family!! 

Don't believe me? Here, let me show you!!! 

(Sneaky "check out my pictures" segue! tee hee!)

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

Daddy and daughter

My sister, her two youngest daughters, and my granddaughter. New roles!

Grandma time for me!

My mom, The Brain Broad, loving her great-grandma role! 

My brother, Dar, wondering if maybe THIS time he'll have clear language first. :D

My second oldest son relishing his role as uncle!

 

The new family - Home

It's nice to love your home. Sweet dreams!