Pinocchio

It seems as though somehow the mere mention of the A-word makes people forget that they're still interacting with people. I've been lucky enough to have several speaking engagements over the last few years. I've always made a point to share that when someone sees my son, I need them to see a child with a disability not a big blob of disability. Over the years I've had more frustrating encounters with professionals than I could possibly share. I've had numerous conversations that centered on what I could--or couldn't--expect from a child with a lifelong, permanent disability. I've been beaten half to death with best practices. And I genuinely understand all of that. The thing is, B isn't a case study in a text book or any other patient/client/consumer/student you've ever worked with. He's a real boy (please go back and read that in the voice of Pinocchio if you didn't the first time). He loves chocolate peanut butter ice cream. He hates fish. He is happier in the water--lake, pool, sprinkler, toilet--than anywhere else. Steve Miller Band's "Rock'N Me" makes him grin from ear to ear. Maybe I'm a dreamer, but it seems to me that who he is should probably enter into the conversations about where he's going and how he's going to get there. So go ahead and ask me about my pregnancy and delivery. Ask me how much college his father and I have completed. Ask me when he crawled, walked, babbled, pointed, and spoke. Tell me that children "like him" typically respond well to A, B, and C, but never D. But do not presume to know him. He is not autism incarnate. The blue fairy told Pinocchio, "Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday you'll be a real boy." I guess maybe you could get him on the unselfish point, but I'm pretty sure B passes that test. My boy is a real boy, and as long as I have breath I'll make sure you see him that way.

So what?

It seems simple enough, right? I love to write, I'm pretty decent at it, and everyone these days has a blog. So I should start one too! I've tried a few times. I've made that resolution and jotted down my password (and hidden it in a place that my forgetful self will hopefully remember). I've determined that this time I will make blogging a part of my daily life. I even decided that the title of my blog and the posts that I create will revolve around the one thing I know best...autism. Still, it doesn't stick. Today may be like all the other times I've tried--and failed--to become a blogger. But I think I've figured out why this hasn't worked in the past, so I think maybe I can muscle through this and take advantage of the opportunity that technology offers to write. The scary part--and my biggest stumbling block to-date--is that technology offers the opportunity, but there's a catch. The catch is that I have to be willing to put myself out there and be vulnerable if I choose to write about personal things in a public forum. The x-factor is that I may be doing it to an audience of none or to a packed virtual auditorium. What a concept! Simply put, I don't write because I have stage fright. What if people don't read this (because I'm not that great of a writer)? What if they do (and realize how lame I am)? What if people think I'm stupid (because, good lord, I'm not really all that bright)? What if they think I'm not interesting (because I'm really not interesting)? What if people read this and think, "Ugh. Why would she waste her time writing that?" (because of all the previously stated reasons). See, whatever I may post, and however easily it may dance out from under my fingers, there's a person sitting at this keyboard. A flawed person with fears and doubts and insecurities. The challenge for me is to acknowledge all of that and choose to write anyway. It's easy to have a good day where I feel like I can take on the world. The real test will be in stringing those days into a pattern of days where I sit behind this desk, share myself with the world, and not lose sleep if someone, somewhere says, "So what?"