Friday is once again, guest blogger day. Thank you Dinah for these beautiful pearls of wisdom.

Last night JJ and I went to a performance by Judy Collins. The double dating couple seated behind us were engaged in constant conversation prior to the show's beginning and all during a lengthy intermission between the opening act and main event. Actually, the conversation was between the two women. I am prone to eavesdropping on such interactions. I apologize for my rudeness and I rationalize that my ADD is at its root. However, a portion of their words gave me pause and today after working with one of my young clients I couldn't keep from ruminating on them. I believe these ladies were discussing the young adult daughter of another acquaintance. A remark was made about the daughter struggling in a class at junior college and some statement to the effect that college level work is rigorous and may have been beyond the girl's capabilities. A paraphrase of the ensuing words would be: "You know, your children are successful. My children are successful. We are blessed to have such successful children."

Their words felt somewhat irritating at first. The woman didn't elaborate on their children's success or successes so I can't really determine what standards or criteria were being considered. I could imagine, though, from their demeanor, apparel and previous conversational topics that their children's success most likely had to do with academic and economic achievements. How fortunate for them. My thoughts immediately skip to the children and parents with whom I've worked over the past 39 years. Oh, my! In the world of developmental disabilities, special education, autism - the standards and criteria for success have expanded beyond the norms. My students, clients, friends and their parents so enrich my life. And their successes are not measured in terms of academic or economic achievement. If there are such equations - if women are blessed because their children are successful - then are women whose children don't attain 'success' fall into an unblessed or non-blessed chasm? Irritating - that premise is irritating, not to mention faulty.

By most societal standards my own three children are marginally successful as adults. Only one of our adult sons holds a conventional job - and it is unconventional from most perspectives. Another son is a professional musician who plays gigs, gives music lessons, thinks deeply. My youngest son forsook a teaching career to nanny (or 'manny' as he calls himself) his niece and nephew. Financial or material success is not much of a consideration for any of them. Remarkably, I feel so blessed to be their mother. If they are happy on their life's journey - how can I not feel blessed. 

~~Dinah Ross Jones, Speech Pathologist

Note: Dinah was my son's very first speech therapist 26 years ago! Later on, we ended up having a mutual friend and discovering we live in the same neighborhood. Gotta love life's serendipitous connections.  

Happy Friday!

After a rough patch with Kyle which took a lot of my emotional energy, I am now back to blogging! I have missed writing very much.

One of the Oxygen-Rich Tools in Breathe is Laugh. Laughing and hanging on to your sense of humor is an essential milepost on the "loving and living well with autism" path.

Here's something to get you going...

A Mother's Prayer from Tina Fey's book, Bossy Pants

"First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the beauty. When the crystal meth is offered may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.

Guide her, protect her:

when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from acting but not all the way to finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a tiger flower blooming magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait. 

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes."

 My guest blogger this week is Carrie Bell. Carrie is a writer, editor, and parent. 

I’d like to share a few things I learned about giving from my mother-in-law, who passed away last August. For most of her life, my husband’s mother was a strong, independent, high-energy person who was better at giving than receiving. She couldn’t do enough for me and other members of her family, but when we tried to reciprocate, she would say she had everything she needed. I felt I would never be able to repay all of her kindness to me. You might be thinking, “What a good problem for a daughter-in-law to have,” and it was. But I am a giver, too, and the imbalance between us made me a little bit uncomfortable.

Then along came dementia, the brain disease that slowly robs people of their memory and ability to perform activities of daily living. In the early stages, my mother-in-law knew something was wrong. During visits, we noticed lists all over the house intended to remind her of things she had easily remembered the year before. When to put out the trash cans. How to start up the computer. The steps to prepare a dish she’d cooked a hundred times. There were also changes in her mood. Always energetic and confident in the past, she became increasingly anxious, paranoid and depressed.

I had never seen my mother-in-law so vulnerable and so in need of assistance. This was a terrible and unexpected turn of events, but it was also my opportunity to finally “give back.” At first, her independent nature made her resist my efforts to help. She had never let anyone cook for her, clean her house, or take her grocery shopping. Over time, though, the resistance fell away. Her face lit up when I arrived at her door. We went on walks, shopped together, and drove to her doctor’s appointments. She told me fascinating stories about growing up in Germany between the First and Second World Wars. 

In that sad and difficult time, as my fiercely independent mother-in-law became completely dependent on others, the two of us became closer than we had ever been. I never expected that she would allow me to help her eat, dress and attend to her personal hygiene, but eventually she did. I discovered that I could set the tone for our interactions by approaching her with a smile and a note of enthusiasm in my voice for whatever we were about to do. I learned not to correct her mistakes in memory or behavior and not to focus on what was being lost to her disease. I also learned to be patient, not to rush, and never to be angry with her. She hadn’t asked for this disease, after all. 

Our best times came when we were both “in the moment.” When we sat in a gazebo in the backyard of the group home where she spent her final days, I often saw her find joy in the smallest things. An airplane flying over. A flower in full blossom. A bird in a tree calling to its mate. By staying “in the now,” I found myself enjoying those simple things, too. 

On reflection, I realize that during the period of my “giving back,” my mother-in-law may have still been giving more than she was getting.  And I am grateful.