Leeann Whiffen

Autism in Reverse

2010-07-23T08:52:00.001-06:00

I gave a presentation many months ago at an annual teacher's convention (out-of-state) and wanted them more than anything to walk away recognizing that kids with autism can improve, that it is worth their time and effort to work with them and their families to try and make a difference. I've had a lot of requests for it, so I recently had the PowerPoint converted into one video that any parent could then show to others to help convey the same message. I hope you will find it helpful!

Treasures we find deep under our beds...

2010-06-11T07:54:00.007-06:00

Earlier this week I told my oldest son that he needed to clean his room - something I say at least four times a day to any one of my three children who seem to be having too much fun before their jobs are done. So I was surprised to find my typical two-minute speed cleaner sitting on his floor sorting through old schoolwork he'd collected in his under-the-bed drawers. I tried not to comment on how it looked like he had taken a fan and set it in front of a pile of papers. Instead I glanced at the papers littering the floor, one in particular catching my eye...

As I read the words to the poem/short essay he'd written about what he'd put in a magic box, it took me to a perfect world. It opened a tiny hole into his mind; it held a magnifying glass to his soul. It showed me in beautiful words from a then fifth grader what is really important to him - something he'd never even remotely communicated to me. It reminded me what should be important to me.

Now before you gag and run for the bathroom, let me implore you that I refuse to be one of those mothers who believes her kids are really heavenly beings with tilted halos, or that everything they touch shimmers like a sequin. (splash cold water in face) Richard Paul Evans was brilliant when he once wrote, "It is one thing to take joy in a child's achievements and quite another to aggrandize ourselves through them. It is emotional incest to live vicariously through a child's success."

Be assured my friends, while I'm tap dancing with joy, it is just that. A very happy place to be. So with that in mind, I share with you his essay.

What's it like having your favorite author touch your book?

2010-05-14T09:45:00.015-06:00

When I found out that Kathryn Stockett, author of THE HELP, was coming to the King's English I did three chair pirouette's followed by the Tiger fist pump and wide, toothy smile. After I read THE HELP, many months ago, I was so sucked in by the writing, character development, distinct voices, and subject matter that I just had to have it signed. So I finally found a way to contact Ms. NYT Bestselling Stockett to see if she would sign my book. She wrote back, classy author alert!, and said she'd send me a bookplate. (another triple chair pirouette)

So you can imagine my little girl-like, wet-your-pants, excitement when she signed my book in person. Other authors may try to pretend they don't have author idols and that they don't even lose sleep the night before their favorite author signing. Yep, okay.

And it gets even better! I'm sure you can also imagine my "is the earth moving under my feet?" excitement when she placed her hand on MY book, A CHILD'S JOURNEY OUT OF AUTISM. See it in the photo? It was the Mardi Gras. It was the first day of school where all three of my kids were IN school. It was a night of ten new 30 Rocks! The day one of my babies was born.

It was Zoo-Wee Mama! (for all you Diary of a Wimpy Kid closet lovers)

*NOTE TO READERS: If you love to read, okay even if you don't, Maw Books - one of the best book bloggers in Utah - posted my author interview and book review on her blog. Also, sorry for the long delay between posts! We're working on some exciting projects for my non-profit, Utah Autism Coalition.

We Ladies Need To Stick Together

2010-03-09T08:43:00.006-07:00

We ladies need to stick together.

Sandra Bullock echoes this sentiment exactly when sharing her reactions to winning the Oscar for best actress.

I couldn’t agree more.

Ladies, I’m sure you can think of at least five women who have significantly helped you succeed in your life. Unfortunately the truth is I’m also pretty sure you can think of one or two who haven’t been helpful at all. Maybe she even blew you off completely, never called or emailed you back despite your best efforts to contact her for help. Or maybe she’s purposefully made life difficult for you.

Madeleine Albright apparently wasn’t kidding when she once said, “There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.”

In a day where thinness is celebrated to the point of pushing women into anorexia, where family and career become impossible juggling acts, where the stresses and societal, even cultural pressures to be perfect in every aspect of your life become too much – we women need to stick together. You’ve all seen the bumper sticker, Mean Girls Suck. Maybe you’ve even seen the movie. We all know what it feels like to be ignored. We must stick together. Let’s celebrate our differences, put away our pettiness, and instead reach into our hearts and pull out the empathy and innate nurturing abilities we possess to lift one another.

Life is full of distractions, but nothing adjusts our focus clearer than altruism in the form of reaching out to one of our own.

Sticking together doesn’t necessarily mean spending weeks or years helping someone succeed. It means smiling at another woman when you see stress flash across her face. Putting an arm around her when her posture looks heavy. Helping a stranger who “cold calls” or emails you to ask for your professional advice.

Let’s be the women who have been there and who willingly reach a hand down to help the woman who wants to get there.

So to my many women friends: Thank you for celebrating with me, for empathizing with me, and for answering my “cold call” emails. For telling your friends about my book, for calling your legislators to help pass important autism legislation. For being my friend. For sticking together.

Lessons from Haiti

2010-01-20T15:28:00.002-07:00

The day after the earthquake in the heart of Haiti, I watched all news updates with intense interest. I went to CNN and watched heart wrenching videos of the disaster. Haitians were running in panic down what used to be a main street – strewn with debris and lined with flattened buildings. Husbands screaming because they can’t find their wives. Mothers screaming for their children. Families torn apart. The camera panned to dead bodies strewn in all directions. A tear fell from my face. Suddenly, an ad popped up next to the video I was watching. It was a picture of a designer stiletto with diamonds studding the heel. I was instantly reminded of the stark contrast of what was happening in the poorest country in the western hemisphere versus the comforts in which we live.

Those scenes haven’t left me.

As the week ensued I watched more horror unfold. People buried alive. Excavators dug mass graves. The stench from the dead was so potent it caused many to faint.

I watched as a woman pleaded with rescuers to help find her daughter. Where? She pointed to the daycare center, now a pile of concrete. The rescuer yelled into a crevice, “If you can hear me, tap three times!” A faint tapping was heard. A dog trained to smell live humans scoured the area finding nothing. The rescuer yelled again, and continued the routine for several hours while digging. The tapping stopped before they could get to her. Her mother sobbed.

Others stood by collapsed homes, knowing their loved ones were pinned inside. But they lacked the proper tools to get them out.

A 10-year old girl remained calm and brave despite her leg being crushed and pinned by a concrete beam. Her uncle worked furiously trying to get her out. She cried out, “God, don’t let me die. Oh, please, God. I don’t want to die.” Hours later she was freed from the rubble. She died on the way to the hospital – three hours away.

Where there was heartbreak, there was also triumph. A 70-year old woman was rescued from a church seven days after the earthquake. Earlier that day, an 18-month old baby was rescued from under the rubble of a flattened day-care center and reunited with his mother. Miracles indeed.

May God bless the Haitian people. May they be comforted and unified. May we learn from their pain and sorrow and be inspired to live better lives and to contribute more to the betterment of humanity.

Impact Your World

Here's To A Year Of Four-Year-Old-Isms

2010-01-05T09:54:00.009-07:00

And how they have helped me remember why it is important to be present in every moment.

Watching him out the back window, his hair matted to his head from the rain as he dipped his wand in the bubbles, and blew. After a couple of minutes, he saw me, he smiled and mouthed the words I love you while he gave me the sign in sign language.

Tucking him into bed one night and pressing "play" as his Mary Pope Osborne book on CD started to play. His eyes got big. He sucked in a deep breath, then said, “I love this one! It makes my heart beep and beep right out of my chest!”

Walking into my office while I was “in the zone” and dumping an armful of leaves onto my desk and computer. He had collected them especially for me.

Telling me one day that Happy + Sad = Purple.

Riding in the car one day and he said, “Look at those pretty clouds up there. I want to get one for you, but it’s too high for me to climb.”

“Mom I have a bloody nose and there’s blood on it. But that’s okay, I just ate it."

"Mom, will you marry me?"

Telling him I had to get beautiful before we went to church he said, "But, you already are beautiful." Then he whistled at me as I came out of my room in make up and a dress.

Bowing his head to pray before dinner, he started, “Once upon a time…” Then went on to tell the most fantastic story about a bunny, then ended it “amen.”

Telling the boys to use the bathroom before we left. I had to ask him three times, and on the third time he pleaded, “Mom, I can’t because I’m all out of pee!”

Asking me, “Is a male a boy?” I said "yep." Then he asked, “Is an email a girl?”

Telling me, “Mom, I love you more than my lego set.”

When asking him how the circus was he replied: “The clown hates me.”

Laying down on my bed due to a severe headache. He came into my room and said, “Mom, I can make you feel all better, just like you make me feel better when I’m sick.” Then he took his little hand and put it on my forehead. "See, don't you feel better now?"

Dum Vivimus, Vivamus
While we live, let’s live

Uhrumpapumpum

2009-12-09T09:49:00.003-07:00

I love the spastic flashing lights – yes the ones that could quite possibly cause a seizure in certain susceptible people. I even look forward to the plastic yard nativity scenes, broken Christmas ornaments, and even being thrown out of the “no fall club” after turfing it on an especially inconspicuous piece of black ice. I love the memories that bring a smile as I pull out that childhood Christmas ornament, or the nostalgia felt when you discover year after year that ugly brown and orange, yarn-wrapped-around-popsicle-stick decoration that your third grade teacher gave you. Throwing it away would somehow equate to a memory wipe of the events surrounding that priceless gift.

As all of that adds to my happiness, it’s the memory of Judd’s face when Santa Claus knew his name and that he had been trying hard to brush his teeth twice a day; it’s the memory of watching him top the Christmas tree with the star; it’s the memory of Drew congratulating Clay after a win in his Christmas Classic football game; it’s waking up and plugging in the Christmas tree while the house is still quiet, and staying there for a moment enjoying the magic. It’s as if we need something tangible to tie to those fleeting moments that often otherwise get forgotten if not captured in our hearts.

Each year I reflect upon those who play in my life’s orchestra. There are the staples – my close friends and family who are the violinists, cellos, trumpets, clarinets and flutes. But then there are those who come in and make certain parts of the song special – a chord on the harp, the addition of a classical guitar, a piccolo solo, or the impeccable timing of a cymbal. While the song would never start with the core instruments, it becomes so much more beautiful and harmonic with the addition of those symphonic instruments. The potential of the song to touch the audience becomes stronger. And even though they may not play the melody, the song would not sound the same without them.

Many of you in my life have functioned as piccolos, harps, classic guitars, and cymbals. I’ve been thinking a lot about you the last several weeks and the role you play in my orchestra. I wondered how I might crash the cymbals in your orchestra, or strum a chord on my classic guitar in your life?

What can we do to help someone today? What if you lend a hand to the lady in front of you in the mile long line at Wal-Mart. You know – the one with five kids playing tag around her cart as her baby cries hysterically.

We all have something to give. Every single day. And I believe once we find out what it is and act upon it, our lives will be that much richer.

Ladies, Have You Had Your Yorkie Today?

2009-11-23T08:11:00.005-07:00

Lush. Humid. Cell phone usage triple the normal rate. Tree frogs whistling in the evenings. Dinner on the water lot. Dancing with dolphins. God-fearing, happy people with heart and hospitality. Where tennis was born. Minimum wage is $25. 183 steps to the top of Gibb's Hill Lighthouse. Where we rediscovered life, food, people, and our relationship with each other.

Bermuda.

I was nervous. Okay, really nervous. Not the anxiety you usually feel when you’re late for work, or the clock is ticking on a really important deadline. It was the anxiety you feel when you wonder if you might be having a myocardial infarction, or if the left side of your body just feels numb and you also happen to be suffering from an irregular heartbeat. It’s ground zero in your stomach – that spot you think you can feel (maybe even see) oozing burning acid that may or may not spill up and into your esophagus.

I’ve presented at many events before without getting booed or bitten by anyone (that’s for you psycho New Moon fans), and I tried to remind myself of this as I boarded our midnight flight to Atlanta en route to Bermuda. I had never taken my entire family before. We’d never pulled an all-nighter together either, let alone on an airplane. Nevermind that our next stop was a four-hour layover. I had never had to carry so much equipment with me, from snorkel gear and sunscreen to a laptop and pantsuit with heels. It was risky. It could be a disaster.

But I wanted this to be my best effort. I wanted to make a difference. If I could inspire my audience it would be a successful trip.

I was inspired. Educators who wanted to make a difference in the lives of their students. Parents who refused to give up. Bermudians who are some of the most friendly, genuine folks I’ve met. Folks who exemplified something Neal A. Maxwell once said, “Those with true hope often see their personal circumstances shaken, like kaleidoscopes, again and again. Yet with the ‘eye of faith,’ they still see divine pattern and purpose."

I barely remember the last time we were able to enjoy each other as a family in that way. Raw. No internet, cell phones, distractions. It made me realize that while goals are good and work is a necessity, vacations are essential. They force you out of your box and into a new realm of creativity and life learning. In those seven days, I understood myself better; I connected with my kids and Sean on a fresh, unique plane. Perspectives changed. Hope renewed. Memories were etched into our time lines.

One person fell out of bed at 3 a.m. Three people swam with the dolphins (while two others watched in the rain with faulty ponchos). While on a ferry at night, we saw lighthouse beams that could be seen for 60 miles in all directions. We drank Ginger Beer. We ate Yorkies. Yes, I gobbled three over the course of the week. Once I saw that the package clearly stated “not for girls” I made it a point to eat as many of those rich, velvety chocolate bars as I felt like – despite in large, bold font the package also declared a 385 calorie count. Meow.)

We puddle jumped, and ate chicken fingers and fries almost every meal. We ate the marshmallows from Lucky Charms for breakfast and forgot to use our disposable underwater cameras. My psoriasis went away. Paper was moist. The Stud got taken under by a wave, but his big brother pulled him to safety. We saw good in each other, and bad too. But most of all, we were just there together.

One for another.

The Chain of Distraction

2009-10-28T09:56:00.009-06:00

I’m working on a presentation I’ll be giving in a few weeks, and I open my journal in Word to search for something funny Clay said that I wanted to include. I see a reference to a blog post I’d written a few months ago and it reminds me to check my blog. I see my latest post about the new book I recently finished reading, and I remember I need to update my Good Reads account. I have a new friend invite so I accept, and then check out what she’s reading. I notice a book called The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind, a true story about a boy from Africa. I think how cool it is that the first African-American president has been elected, and it reminds me that I need to get a status on the health care reform bill. I check CNN for updates on the story and notice a headline about the new Google Wave and the buzz surrounding this "real time" communication tool and talks about how it will revolutionize email. I debate whether or not I will ever use it, since those in your "wave" can actually see you type your message. What if I type something not very nice on the fly as my friends watch me delete letter by letter. Not for me.

Then the article mentions a discussion about Google Wave on Twitter, which reminds me I haven't tweeted in over three hours. I go to my twitter account and see an interesting link one of my peeps posted to an article in the New Yorker. Five minutes into the article, I hear a ding and see that I’ve received a new email. It’s from A2Zshoes, the website that I inadvertently purchased a pair of fake Nike running shoes (no I had no idea they were fake until I watched a YouTube video that points out the slight differences. Do not buy shoes from this website). Unfortunately, despite what their website says, they don’t allow returns. So I check Ebay to see if I can sell them as "fakes" when I see that same pair of Nike running shoes going for half the retail price. Are they real? I'm not sure; probably not at that price. By this time my computer is really chugging, not smoking yet, but the multiple programs and windows simultaneously open are causing parts, I don't even know the name of, to overwork. Soon it becomes frozen and I have to restart.

Now I can’t remember what I was doing, so I check my FB account and notice that one of my friend’s is having a good day according to her status. So I click the “I like" that. I look at the clock and realize it’s time to pick up Judd from school.

In this day where distraction is imminent, I’m more and more convinced that some of the best tools one can develop are time management and focus.

Now back to work...

What makes us happy?

2009-10-12T11:01:00.006-06:00

The results of a recent study showed that since 1972 women’s happiness levels have dropped. This may seem puzzling and even ironic since there are so many more opportunities for women now than there were 37 years ago, and since other studies have shown that men are taking a greater role in child rearing and housework.

The study showed that women are happier early on in their lives, but become sadder as they grow older. What factors are involved in this sudden drop in contentment? Is it the pressures on women to look young, sexy, and attractive all while juggling a career and child rearing - to be everything to everybody?

I just finished reading HALF THE SKY, an incredible, eye-opening book in which I'll blog about soon. The last chapter examines what influences our long-term happiness, and that social psychologists have found through multiple studies that our happiness isn't dependent on what good or bad things happen to us, like one would think. For example, if we happened to win the lottery we might feel a blip of happiness, but it would taper off. If we got hit by a car and became paraplegic, we'd find a drop in happiness, but then our happiness would resume to the levels in which they were before the accident. Most importantly, they point out that our happiness levels are directly tied to a "connection of something larger - a greater cause or humanitarian purpose."

I believe there are many reasons why women aren’t happy. There are too many distractions, pressures to perform as mothers and in careers, lack of appreciation for doing what really matters, and less quality time with those we love. But the biggest factor, I believe, is that we become so leashed to our daily activities that we forget that life is really bigger than us. It wasn’t until I became involved in a much bigger cause than just me, that I truly became the happiest person I’ve ever been. I still could give more, and when I have a noticeable drop in happiness, it's usually directly related to how long it has been since I've spent time giving to the cause.

In an age where we're bombarded with information and messages regarding what we think will make us happy, we often lose sight of who we really are and who we want to become. It is proven that an altruistic attitude is the best way to create a meaningful life full of lasting happiness.

Howling at the Moon

2009-09-21T10:05:00.008-06:00

Lately, as I’m going about my business in my own home, I might round a corner to be met by a loud “boo” followed by a giggle in response to my yelp and bugged out eyeballs. I’ve often wondered what kind of an emotional toll this might be taking on my fragile, adrenal fatigued, 32 year-old for-one-more-week body.

The small one talks often about what he wants to be for Halloween. Monday - Vampire. Wednesday - Wait, Airplane. Saturday - No, Darth Vader. Yesterday - Incredible Hulk. “For really, Mom!” He says, after I threatened to dress him up as the pinkest princess in all the land.

Knowing from painful experience that if you wait until the week before Halloween hoping a three or four-year old is done changing his mind, you’ll find that only size 10-12 Grim Reaper (with blood dripping down the face) and adult size Big Bird costumes remain on the racks. So we settled on Hulk last week, and I've only had to threaten Tinker Bell once so far.

As I contemplated how much longer my heart muscles and nerve endings would endure shouts of “boo” at the least expected moment, I decided we had better feed this creative Halloween monster we named, Judd. (the Stud, he corrects in my head as I write this)

We went down in the basement and dug out the spookiest shoebox we could find. We gathered together the 10 candy corns we hadn’t eaten yet from earlier that day, printed some freaky pictures from the internet, and started mixing our ghoulish creative juices until they started to bubble over.

This is what we came up with. And it worked. For a few days.

Now he wants to know what we’re making tomorrow.

Broken

2009-09-08T18:42:00.010-06:00

Our family has finally reached a travel milestone that most parents won’t forget.

No more changing diapers in the back of the car. No more having to Ziploc soiled wipes and diapers until the next gas stop. No more pulling over to the side of the road to feed the baby. No more screaming non-stop because you’ve missed two naps.

Instead we create lasting memories that don’t involve the smells of sour milk, sewage, and recurring images of zombie parents. Now the boys are old enough to either pee in an empty bottle (a luxury we women will almost always envy), pee in the weeds off the side of the road, or if mom has to go we’ll hit the nicest gas station we can find. (she’ll push out thoughts of deadly bacteria yet-to-be-discovered collecting on the soles of her shoes)

Memories of the Denver Zoo and the highlight and topic of discussion for the last four days has revolved around when the Zebra rolled around on the ground causing a mad dust storm; then he unexpectedly passed gas with his legs straight up in the air. Thank you, Striped One. You made our entire trip. The boys have already forgotten the Denver Broncos game, the trip to the Lego outlet, and Elitch Gardens (Six Flags). But the memory you created, Striped One, will be passed down from one generation to the next as a favorite tale releasing countless endorphins, which could quite possibly cure any undiagnosed disease lingering in our future posterity.

The one family travel event that hasn’t changed – broken priceless objects. We manage to fatally damage at least one irreplaceable object or family heirloom every time we travel. Once WE* broke a lamp at my parents house, the shade AND the base. Over Thanksgiving one year, WE broke a large vase that was given to my brother and his wife as a wedding gift. Last summer, an errant football flew through the air breaking a chandelier. On our last day of our vacation in Colorado, just when we thought we were changing our fate, I came downstairs to see my sister-in-law sweeping up glass in the kitchen. Yes, WE did. WE broke a snow globe that was purchased in Germany and given to the youngest daughter. Exhaling, “ahh, sad.”

Oh, the anticipation of our next trip. Let’s just hope the Striped One is there to make it all better.

*I use “WE” as not to cause unnecessary therapy in any one child’s adult life.

In Celebration of Writer Appreciation Week

2009-08-31T21:18:00.014-06:00

A special thanks to agent Nathan Bransford for creating Writer Appreciation Week.

It soon becomes apparent to an author that if you’re writing to be published, you can’t just be an artist, a creator, a master of your craft. You have to have stealth-like moves, brain power in the gigahertz range, and the ability to thwart all impending doom. When you get knocked around, you have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, get back up in stoic form, and like Bruce Willis’ character on Die Hard, make extraordinary feats look easy.

So when determining which part of the publishing process is most difficult, you’d have to take into account the following:*

a) craft the story...one to two years, if you’re snappy
b) revise the story until you’ve rewritten and subsequently memorized all 330 pages
c) obtain an agent...most agents reject 99% of submissions. Now remember, you were once the fastest swimming sperm out of millions…
d) sell it to a publisher
e) build a platform...oops, you were supposed to have done that two years before you started writing your book
f) exploit yourself online
g) create a brilliant viral marketing scheme including book trailer so funny or dramatic it rivals an MGM creation
h) ensure your book gets into bookstores...gotta get a blurb by a NYT bestselling author. Dig deep with those connections
i) sell enough copies so you can keep writing...remember those Bookscan numbers? They can bite your rear in half. One chomp.
j) blog three times per week, keep your tribe happy on FB & Twitter while keeping up with book #2
k) obtain a coveted national TV spot or a rave review in a major newspaper
l) a dose of luck that would be akin to winning the $1 million PowerBall always helps
m) stand outside Rockefeller Plaza at 4 a.m. to secure a prime spot with your book poster. Then when Al Roker does the weather, pump it up and down above his head.
n) If you’re lucky enough to get a fantastic agent, editor, and publishing team like I did, the C-N will be delightful. Kinda like eating a fluffy piece of chocolate cake with hot fudge in the middle...with a side of vanilla bean ice cream.

Would I do it again? Abso-friggin-lutely. It’s an ~~obsession~~ love like none other. Your spouse may hate you, your mother may block your calls, any word related to the publishing industry may become banned in your own home and even your neighborhood, but the love of the craft is more potent, more pining and unrelenting, and more dangerous than Shakespearean prose.

So to those writers ready to shred the manuscript and become an organic farmer, I beg you to reconsider and instead ride on this for awhile. Kathryn Stockett who wrote my favorite book to date, THE HELP, was rejected 45 times. Well actually, she said she didn’t really know exactly how many times she was rejected because the fact of the matter was, she stopped counting at 45. Now she's #4 on the New York Times bestsellers list.

As one New York editor put it, “People think publishing is a business, but it’s a casino.”

I do like the bright, flashing neon signs.

* This is to be squeezed in somewhere between your full-time job and raising your children

Seduction on Aisle Five

2009-08-02T22:25:00.007-06:00

The other day during breakfast, Sean casually suggested we create a separate budget item called, “Target book budget.” I looked at him like he had just poured orange juice over his cold cereal. I refused to believe I had ever actually purchased books at my Oasis, the Omnipotent One where the price is always right. After all, I really try to support our local indie bookseller in SLC, The King’s English (see below for proof).

I have never set out to buy a book at Target, ever. It’s just that on my tri-weekly trip, I inevitably pass the aisle of beguiling literature where all the covers are face out. As I pass the said aisle, I see a delicious cover with three cute birds dotting the center. “Quick, cover the eyes,” I remind myself. Then I swear I hear one say, “Hey baby, come look over here.” Then I think I hear, “Hot stuff, you look good in those jeans (the same jeans I thought made my rear double in size when I put them on that morning), but you’ll look even better if you read this. You know you want to.” Before I realize what is happening, I’m stuck with my nose buried deep into some book called, The Girls From Ames, which by the way, was telling me it had some Lindt excellence white coconut chocolate hidden somewhere between the covers.

How does one resist?

One doesn’t. I grab it from the shelf and flip right to the acknowledgments page (weird ritual), then the author bio, and finally I partake of the first square of white chocolate – Chapter One – and it reels me in like a rainbow trout stupidly chomping down on the fluorescent pink power bait (even though it knew better).

Bobby Banjo can sense my book point-of-no-return like a bird dog sniffing out the course. And he intends to exploit me at this vulnerable time in my life. “Mommy, I’ll be right over here…”

“Yeah, okay Judd. Whatever, just…”

“Mom!” he says. “It’s not Judd. It's Judd the Stud.” I look at him over my book. “Okay, whatever, Judd. Uh, Judd the Stud. Just stay close,” I say, as the bubble above my heads shows my hands rubbing together in the glee of 10 minutes of solitary book reading. When I realize I’m finished with the first chapter and he hasn’t tried to interrupt me at least five times, I throw the book in my cart.

Whoops? Did I just do that?

I head around the corner. Not there. I cruise down a few more aisles until I finally find him here. "What? Why here, Judd?” I ask. “Judd the STUD, Mom.” He says poking his head out.

I still have no idea what he was doing. But it reminded me that I needed something on that aisle anyway. And, that I had forgotten to check out that book called Sarah’s Key…

I need your help!

2009-07-10T08:41:00.005-06:00

There are few aspects of parenthood that are as visceral as the need to protect our children. So it’s no surprise that when there’s a scraped knee, bully, or fire-breathing dragon threatening our children, we are on the front lines with artillery ready to comfort, then fire.

What IS a surprise is that insurance companies all across the country continue to discriminate against individuals with autism by denying medically necessary, evidence based treatment that is prescribed by a doctor. Now, we as parents are forced to deal with the biggest bully of them all. It’s unfortunate, but true, that this large, powerful industry and lobbying group can withhold something so vital to our children’s health and future. And it’s up to us to change public policy for our country’s children and for future generations.

I'll never forget the wave of sick that swept over me when I realized appropriate life-saving treatment for our son could cost up to $50,000 per year. We risked bankruptcy, became deeply in debt, and suffered immeasurable stress so we could implement treatment prescribed by our son's physician. 72 children are diagnosed with autism each day. Families are placed in this agonizing situation, most of whom will never be able to afford a proper diagnosis let alone treatment no matter what they sacrifice. So what results? Divorce. Bankruptcy. Job loss. And a child who never has the opportunity to progress or even recover from autism.

Justice.

Please join me by calling and emailing Speaker Pelosi (202) 225-0100 and Majority Leader Reid (202) 224-3542. All you need to say is this, "Health reform that does not stop autism insurance discrimination is unacceptable." It only takes a couple clicks to make an impact. Take action HERE!

Together, we can save the futures of countless children with autism all across the country.

For those of you who followed me through Clay's Law, this is federal legislation (vs state) that will be much more comprehensive, helping families all across the nation.

Spiderman and Other Tall Tales

2009-06-26T09:00:00.004-06:00

One nice thing about long summer days is the ability to sneak in some good reading time while one of your kids is dressed up as Spiderman climbing the lamp post right outside the window and while the other two boys are busy watching…

If you find yourself in this unique position, you must whip out your favorite book. Then record what you’re reading on Good Reads. Oh, and don’t forget to friend me. I’d love to see what books you love.

Currently reading: The Girls from Ames by Jeffrey Zaslow

Favorite book I’ve read in the last three months: Still Alice by Lisa Genova

What are you reading?

Father's Day Gift Idea - Wrapped With Love

2009-06-11T08:57:00.011-06:00

"Riesens" Why I Love You

1. Purchase a bag of chocolate Riesens (chewy chocolate caramels).

2. Get some manly scrapbook paper – maybe with a Boston Terrier print or something (rub it in the dirt if you think it will look even manlier).

3. On the plain white side of the scrapbook paper, write reasons why you love your husband/dad and why you appreciate him. Get the kids involved. They might even tell you he let them watch a PG-13 movie or let them eat ice cream cones on the couch or other secrets that you may not know about.

4. Cut in strips. Unwrap all Riesens. Wrap strip of paper around the Riesen. Wrap back up in original wrapper. Set aside. Eat one (not the one you just wrapped!). Then another. Repeat.

5. Place the newly wrapped Riesens in a clear cellophane bag and tie with a little note that says “Riesens Why We Love You.” Be specific - and clever! Make him laugh. (Caution: don't bring up the corner in the kitchen where he always places his spare change, credit cards, and hankie. Just don't.)

I gave this to my husband for our anniversary, and it is the gift that keeps giving (Agh - cliche alert!). He would come home from work everyday talking about which "Riesen" he had eaten that day. In my case, I'd have irritable bowel syndrome of the mouth as I wouldn't be eating just one.

Summer = Life Eternal

2009-06-07T21:52:00.006-06:00

Playing on iTunes – Abracadabra by Steve Miller Band (that must be why I'm imagining salsa dancers wearing hats with hot pink feathers fluttering with every hip movement)

It doesn’t take the fresh smell of grass clippings to shoot me into summer nostalgia. It does take a week of the boys being home from school wondering how it could only be noon even though they’ve already emptied the garbage, practiced the piano/guitar, read for 30 minutes, attended swim lessons, eaten three otter pops each, built a fort in the field behind our house, and played me in a heated game of speed. Doesn’t this break some natural law? Can the summer solstice exist everyday for three months out of the year? There should be scientific studies on the connection in which the average summer day is lengthened by three hours without us actually knowing it. I think most moms of school age children would agree.

What to do to tackle these days of Tuck Everlasting? Here’s my rough draft list…

• Go ice blocking (come on, you’re not that old)
• Make boats from empty water bottles and duct tape. Then float down the ditch.
• Make a target and have bb-gun shooting contests (don’t worry we’ve never shot our eyes out. Knock on wood.)
• Ride city transit to the donut shop
• Ice skating
• Planetarium
• Picnic in the park (bring a Frisbee and a dog if you have one)
• Take scooters to the roller skating rink
• Make a fort – outside or inside
• Go to your closest independent bookseller and attend an author reading/signing.
• Write a children’s book together (www.mightyauthors.com)
• Blow up water balloons. If you have a trampoline put them on the tramp and see how many you and your kids can pop.
• Repeat

I'd love to hear your idea. LOVE to.

Firewood or Family Heirloom?

2009-05-19T10:37:00.008-06:00

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how much more enriched our lives become when we create meaningful memories with family and friends. Sure we have our jobs, to do lists, pets to feed, “important” responsibilities like leading a twibe on Twitter, but when we inevitable hit that tree that we didn't see ahead, suddenly all of that is meaningless. Think for a minute. When you get together with family as adults, what do you do? We talk about the time we as sisters squirted brown Mary Kay make-up into our brother’s brand new underwear and left it on the floor for him to discover. It’s those memories that add texture and color to our lives. So let’s start creating…

I’m about to share with you what I think is the coolest (please circle one) time capsule/family discussion piece/framed honeycomb ever designed. I found it in a catalog - love at first glance. Uncommon Goods shipped it two weeks ago. I opened the package like when I was eight years old and it was the box that contained my first cabbage patch doll. And I could hardly wait to reveal my "when my boys are adults conversational piece." I carefully painted and prepped it for the big day. Never mind that Sean cocked an eyebrow when I unveiled…pause for anticipation…our brand new family wishing/worry wall. I began to doubt my passion for this home furnishing/sentimental family heirloom/fully recyclable wall hanging.

It wasn’t until I found the perfect moment to sit down with my boys (Sean included) that I explained why this was so special. As I brought it out from behind the piano, their eyes grew wide. Their eyebrows furrowed. Their eyes scanned the frame with question marks. Finally in exasperation, in stereo, they asked, “What is it?” I took out the small box that contained the neon-colored papers. I explained to them that they were to write their hopes, dreams, goals, and fears on the strips of paper. Then roll them up and tuck them inside the holes. To my surprise they excitedly sorted through the paper picking their favorite colors. They immediately started scrawling their thoughts on the paper. Then they carefully selected the hole to tuck it into. They sat back to admire with the satisfaction of creating a unique piece art. Yesterday, when I picked up the boys from school, Drew excitedly told me that he had taken first place, beating every fifth grader in his school, in the 50-yard dash. And hey Mom, “Can I write it on, you know, those pieces of paper and stick it in the wall.” Whose your Mama?

Many of you may know my favorite book is Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. This book is special because the unique story almost becomes palpable; the writing makes it feel like butterfly wings are tickling your skin, and the characters and symbolism are deep and rich. If you haven’t read this book, you’re missing out on something akin to the richest chocolate ever made. You’ll understand a new dimension of what makes this wishing wall - now hanging in our hallway - so special.

What would you write on your wishing/hopes/fears/successes wall?

Social Media: Useful Tool or Recyclable Waste?

2009-05-12T11:15:00.003-06:00

Lately, my creativity has been locked in an airtight box hidden in my mind somewhere. As frustrating as it is, I have hope that if I take the right combination of vitamins or start mowing the lawn, or that, perhaps, just the right look at a double rainbow, it might spontaneously open. I remember the days where I'd blog, and even make it somewhat interesting, about why I line my own toilet with toilet paper before sitting down.

What’s to blame? Unproductive time spent on Twitter, Facebook, blogging? I just read a statistic, on Twitter of all places, that our time on the internet now exceeds our time spent watching television. No surprise, but wow, how do we get anything accomplished when we're hovering over our computers like information addicts anticipating the next tweet which goes something like this, "Good morning! I ate scrambled eggs for breakfast." How do we get sucked into this? How am I supposed to write, or study, with all that chirping looming over me begging to be read. As if the magpies on my roof aren't enough! In an effort to organize all this chatter, I downloaded a program, Tweetdeck, which manages all my tweets and tweeters and peeps and facebook status updates. Simplification? Nah - Pandemonium!

I have to be frank, it's nearly as addicting as an engaging book - it lassos me in and drags me to the trough. I'm sure it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm an information junkie, and that keeping tabs on publishing industry, autism moms, long lost cousins, and favorite authors are just a tweet away. But is it using time productively? That depends.

In lieu of my sudden realization that my rear end may have increased in size and my laundry seems to mate, reproducing multiple offspring while waiting to be folded, I've taken a lent-like vow to decrease my time using social media. There I said it in public - I must adhere! I’m living my real life, signed up for class, and I'm contemplating writing another book. I’ve been agonizing over what to write for months – until yesterday. I was sitting in the pediatrician’s office when I heard something that burst that box in the back of my mind open so wide, I thought I might lose it while I scrambled to find a pencil and paper.

So I wake up this morning and I’m not sure the idea seems as great as it did yesterday sitting in a room full of sick kids. But I think I’m going to run with it. We'll see what my literary agent thinks about it. Maybe it's just a pipe dream. But then again, how can I have pipe dreams when I'm too busy tweeting or re-posting "important" links on Facebook.

Especially when I never know when the box of creativity might once again...slam shut.

Okay now, I'm very interested in hearing your ideas for the next book...Let's see if you're even close.

In Defense of Friendship

2009-04-30T11:12:00.017-06:00

Several years ago my front door became a revolving portal through which therapists, early intervention specialists, kids for playgroups, and sometimes stray animals entered. Despite the chaos, I felt overwhelmingly isolated. So it was with irony that I decided I was too busy for friendships. I went on my “mom on a mission” life and thought I was tough enough to make it on my own.

It wasn’t really until the biggest storm blew over that I finally realized the importance of friends – which seems backwards, doesn’t it? Well it is. I wish I had come to this eureka moment much sooner. It isn’t until we make our friends a priority, that we receive the serendipitous rewards of friendship. We must squeeze in time whether it's between soccer practice, homework, science fairs, and work. If we don't, we're missing out on an important piece of life.

So I’m dedicating this blog entry to all the friends who have lifted me in hard times, cheered me on when failure was imminent, and told me to remember my own motto.

To you!

Here’s to the friend(s) who:

• came to my door holding “made from scratch” cupcakes in one hand and her three-year old in the other. For the entire conversation I forgot that I was a week overdue with Bobby Banjo. I even got so carried away they slid off the plate, yes all 10 of them, homemade frosting side down on the carpet.

• brought me flowers, unknowingly, right after my four-year old told me he hated me for the very first time and slammed the door in my face.

• said to me, “I’ll take dorky over fluffy” any day, referring to me as the dork.

• is a make up artist and volunteered to do my make up for my author photo. She also had done Stephenie Meyer, Glenn Beck, and other celebs which made me feel even more special to be grazed by her foundation brush.

• brought dinner over the day Sean passed out in the bathroom at work.

• drove to SLC to my book signing in the snow with her car full of girlfriends, and arranged for us to all have dinner beforehand.

• drove miles to come to my Malad library event – many of whom I haven’t seen since high school.

• saw I needed girl time and arranged to go mountain biking with me.

• brought dinner over when I had strep throat for the seventh time that year.

• read my book and sent me touching emails. There are many of you all across the country.

• didn't get upset with me for dominating the conversation because she kept asking me so many questions.

• reassured me that I can still make it to heaven even if I've said a few bad words.

• didn't freak out when I dented her car.

• told me my zipper really wasn't down when I gave that presentation even though it really was.

• arranged to have lunch last week. Judd had a fever that day, but I took him with me anyway. As I opened the door of the restaurant, her son was throwing up in the corner. We ended up chatting and crying in the car in her driveway.

• blogging friends who have better lift and support than a 44D.

• took photos at my book signing, enlarged one to a 5x7, framed it and delivered shortly after. Also included in the package was a necklace imprinted with the year 2009 and on the flipside says, “Never, never give up.”

• reciprocates but doesn't smother.

• watched Bobby Banjo so that I could pitch my tent at the capitol for 45 days.

• acted as my personal publicists.

• know the importance of women supporting each other.

• laughed and sometimes snorted even when I wasn't that funny.

• reassured me my that it isn't likely any of my kids will be in prison someday.

• (aka autism moms) who inspire me to be better, every single day.

• taught me how to be a good friend.

Aging is inevitable, but friendship keeps us living.

Are you ready to Betty?

2009-04-16T21:27:00.006-06:00

Tuesday morning, I received some terrible news. So disappointing and gut wrenching (at that very moment) that I contemplated running in front of the guy on a bike that I just saw pass by my house. I settled on a trip to Super Target instead. But before I left I checked my email for the third time in 60 seconds. Nothing? Still? Where are these people I emailed seconds ago! The exclamation in my head is barely punctuated as I stepped on a lego with my naked foot. %$&#!

I passed by the mirror on my way out the door. I cautiously backed up. Bubble appears above my head. "Does it really look like I have silicone implants in my butt, or is it the pocket placement on my jeans. Pocket placement. When I clench it’s not so bad, but if you look at it from that angle…where is that guy on the bike? Did he pass already?"

I get in the car, plug in my iPhone and click to the Titanic Soundtrack. I suddenly remember the Huggies commercial from yesterday, and my throat swells. So I forward to Chariots of Fire. I get to Super Target seconds later (normally a 15 minute drive) with sweat beads on my forehead and a resolve to start training for the Boston Marathon.

I smooth out my crumpled grocery list:

Milk
Eggs
Bread
Medium cheddar cheese
String cheese
Go-Lean cereal
O.J.
Walnuts
Almonds
Apples
Oranges
Bananas
Yogurt

Two hours later, I swing into the shortest line. I notice the contents in my cart. My list – buried in the cart somewhere.

Crunchy Cheetos
Cheetos Puffs
Flamin' Hot Cheetos
Cheetos Puffs Twists
Natural Puffs White Cheddar
Fritos twists
Have a New Kid by Friday by Dr. Kevin Leman
A t-shirt (long enough to cover my pockets) that says, “You mess with me, you mess with the whole family”
Fish net stockings
Lindt truffles
Tofifay
Martinelli’s
Twinkies
Hostess cupcakes
Chocolate milk
Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey
Tampons – Super, super
Midol
Sunless spray-on tan

As I unloaded the groceries in the car, I carefully placed the Cheetos in the front seat. Then I wildly threw the rest into the back and shoved the cart down the row. I hopped in the front seat and tore into the Cheetos like I was a kid opening her first Christmas present. I didn’t slow down until I reached the bottom of the bag. Where are the truffles. I NEED them to balance the salty. Then I called Sean and asked him if he thought my rear was too big, because I knew he’d say something wickedly delicious. And he did. Click. He must have known about the fish net stockings.

Product placement warning. Please leave a comment! Betty Confidential autism essay.

Next up? Photos from Malad book signing...I so heart all of you. Which reminds me of how Seriously So Blessed I am.

Bahama Mama

2009-04-01T22:30:00.002-06:00

I just noticed my last post was on Friday the 13th. This one - April Fool's Day. Something must be on the horizon and it had better not be magpies on my roof.

We just got back from our cruise to the Bahamas. I have been snowing ever since. Really. Sean and I fell asleep to the crashing of 20-foot waves and a warm breeze for a few hours with only a dab of sunscreen on our noses. One day later and 600 mg of ibuprofen every four hours, one could upholster a sofa with my skin and have a stylish, comfortable leather couch. My face has shed four layers and is now a camouflage of browns and reds. I looked like a leper just in time for my PBS interview this afternoon. Product placement warning.

As I crossed the threshold into our house of insanity, I was met by Bobby Banjo skidding down the hall in his dinosaur pajamas. He threw himself into my arms and kissed me all over. We snuggled for a few minutes before I started reading him a delightful new book of poems my editor sent home with me called My Hippo Has the Hiccups. As I turned to page 3, Judd looked at me and said, "Mom, I thought you were dead." I thought he was starting his own poem until I waited for him to deliver his second and third lines but instead he just stared at me with his eyes searching mine. I squished my nose on his and said, "I'm not dead, silly. I just went on a cruise!" He wrinkled his freckled nose and started to laugh. I guessed it was okay for me to laugh - even in the face of death. Then I put him to bed and dreamed I barely survived the sinking of the Titanic.

Now Available in Bookstores!

2009-03-03T08:18:00.007-07:00

The legislative session in Utah is only 45 days long, but it feels like we're on the television show "Lost" trying to figure out how to get off the island, and there is just no end. I wake up each morning with what Brittany, Steve, and I have termed the "legislative hangover" which consists of 4-5 hours of sleep per night, a nauseating headache that is only made worse by looking at those facebook ads of babies with four eyes, and trying to figure out how a vote at 10 a.m. could end up at 4 p.m. And please...PLEASE don't call me on my cell phone. My monthly bill last month rivaled our car payment. My children have started calling me "grandma" (the one who lives in Idaho) because they see me just about as often. We have March 12 circled on our calendars. I've even doodled fireworks on that day. If it passes, we can celebrate. If it fails, our legislative hangovers will live on. Godspeed!*

So in the middle of all this, I've been made aware of some exciting news. My book, A Child's Journey out of Autism, is now available in bookstores! I also have a couple of events coming up, so please mark them on your calendars. I would be thrilled to see you there!

The King's English Bookshop - Friday, April 3rd @ 7 p.m. (Salt Lake City - 1511 South 1500 East)

Oneida Public Library (Malad City); 31 N. 100, Malad, ID 83252 - Wednesday, April 8th, 7:00 PM

*My experience with Clay's Law has been a fulfilling, tremendously rewarding experience. This is another blog entry (even book) that will be meant to inspire. It's opened up an entirely new world where I have been able to experience love, loss, laughter, and hopefully an eventual victory.

Clay's Law - SB 43 Committee Hearing

2009-02-10T13:04:00.004-07:00

Who: Clay's Law hearing in front of the Health and Human Services Senate Sub Committee

When: Thursday, February 12th, 8am-9:30am

Where: Utah State Capitol, Room 250

How Can You Help: BE THERE!! Bring your family, friends, neighbors, church friends, playgroup moms & kids, bring EVERYONE! We need to fill that room so that it's standing room only, and there are people spilling out into the hall. Bring signs that say "Vote Yes for Clay's Law" or "We support Clay's Law." If you are in Senator Bell or Senator Christensen's districts, bring signs that say "Sen. (Bell's/Christensen's) district is for Clay's Law." We are having buttons made that say "Vote Yes!!! Clay's Law" we will only have a few hundred made, so if you take one, make sure you hold onto it and wear it again to other hearings in the future.

Please forward this on to everyone you know in Utah. Ask them to be there to support Clay's Law!

Just so you know where we are at in the legislative process... here is the breakdown. Clay's Law has to pass each step. If it fails in any one of these spots, it's dead. Then we will have to work even harder next year to get it passed. Let's just knock it out of the park NOW!!

1. Senate Sub Committee Hearing - this is the meeting that is on Thursday.
2. Senate Vote - The whole Senate will be able to vote on Clay's Law.
3. House Sub Committee Hearing - Just like the Senate, it has to go through the sub committee first.
4. House Vote - The whole House of Representatives will be able to vote on Clay's Law
5. Appropriations Sub Committee - This sub committee decides if it's worth the money to pass.
6. Governor - After passing all of that, Gov. Huntsman can still Veto the Law. So, we'll need to start writing him letters too.

There are only five weeks left in the legislative session. So this will all fly by really fast. We will need as many people as possible to show up to all of the hearings and votes. Please continue to contact your legislators and ask them to support Clay's Law!!!

Thank you for all of your hard work and support. This will take all of us to get this passed!

Valentines Day Gift Ideas

2009-02-01T14:00:00.003-07:00

Valentine's Day doesn't have to suck. I decided several years ago that no longer was he going to top me in the gift giving department. So I sat down one day and wrote a list of memorable, mostly inexpensive gifts.

1. Cake your lips with lipstick then kiss the bathroom mirror topping it off with “I LOVE YOU” in all caps like that. Then google how to get that much lipstick off the mirror.

2. Get the biggest box you can find and let the kids help you decorate it with hearts and messages of love. If you can all fit, hide inside the box. Then jump out and surprised him when he walks through the door. CAUTION - do not write honey do's on the box no matter how tempting.

3. Buy car paint pens (Wal-Mart). Get the kiddies involved and draw hearts and cupids all over his car windows.

4. Write down all the favorite memories you have of the two of you on cute paper. Cut them in strips and put them in a cool box. Put the box on top of the toilet so you’re sure he’ll read one at least everyday.

5. Purchase fish net stockings and the highest heels you can find at Nordstrom. Go home, put them on and start vacuuming the house.

6. Gather all the love letters and cards you've ever sent to each other and put them in a scrapbook. Place on top of the television so he's sure to read at least once. Then you can place on the bookshelf.

7. Send him a pajama gram at work. pajamagram.com. Start office gossip.

8. Dress up as cupid and shoot him with arrows that have suction cups on the end.

9. Take out all the flags in a bag of Hershey kisses and insert your own flags telling him the reasons why you love him.

10. Censored

LET'S HEAR YOUR IDEAS!

Senate Bill 43 - Clay's Law Video

2009-01-26T23:24:00.001-07:00

Please refer this You Tube video to your legislators! Thank you so much everyone!

Here it comes...

2009-01-20T13:06:00.005-07:00

Sorry for the quietness. I've been hiding under this...

Press Advisory

Coalition to Update Utah Insurance Coverage for Autism

Legislators, business leaders and families join together in announcing a bill to update medical insurance to eliminate discrimination of and provide coverage for children with autism. “Clay’s Law”, named after a child who, after successful treatment, no longer has autism, will help countless children and save taxpayers in Utah millions of dollars.

When: Thursday, January 22, 2009 11 a.m. – 11:30 a.m.

Where: Utah State Capitol Rotunda

Who: Sen. Howard Stephenson (Utah Senate District 11), Rep. Roger Barrus (Utah House District 18), Fraser Bullock (former CEO 2002 Olympic Winter Games - in absentia), Paul Carbone, MD (Intermountain Pediatric Society), Steve Michalski (autism specialist), Leeann Whiffen (Clay’s mother), Brittany Recalde (parent), and Holly Rechis (parent).

Ample space will be available for photography (still and video) and audio recording. A press Question & Answer session will follow the brief comments. If you would like to make arrangements to interview any of the speakers listed above, or want more information about the Utah Autism Coalition, please call Leeann Whiffen.

# # # #

What is Steamy, Sexy, and Autism?

2009-01-12T08:58:00.010-07:00

A Jenny McCarthy/Jim Carrey fundraiser? Wrong! It’s Kay Thomas’s exciting new book, Better Than Bulletproof! So scoot on over to Kim Stagliano's and leave a comment so you can enter the contest for a free, signed copy of this must read!

Until then, we’re running a contest of our own. In the comments, I want you to write your very best steamy G to PG-13 rated one or two-liner. Come on, Twilight fans, I know you have one tucked away somewhere…

I’ll kick it off…

His oversized hand pressed gently against the small of her back as he dipped her in his arms, staring deep into her hungry eyes. He pressed his lips firmly against hers in a passionate embrace that spoke of their enduring love and unwavering loyalty to one another.

(If this were a scene taken from my life, which it isn’t, the next line would read something like this…Suddenly there was a loud banging on the bedroom door. Mooooooooooom! Judd threw his sippy cup at me!”)

In warmth, in green, in love…

2009-01-06T21:33:00.006-07:00

In Green…

I finally saved enough dust bunnies to make good on my 2009 Declaration. See for yourself. Already used one to clean my face. I named one of them Brynne – because that was supposed to be the name of the girl we never had.

Feels so good to be green.

In Love…

Today, January 6, we celebrate the day Sean asked me to marry him. Down on one knee, he faced a long pause with silence as I finally said…I’m scared. Then the color left his face and drained to his toes. We’ll always remember that day for reasons that include me ending up making a decision that would be akin to winning a high stakes poker game every day of my life.

This what he brought me. (I took the bite)

In Warmth…

At the beginning of the year I was asked to teach a group of 7-year old children in our church. One of these energetic children is a charming girl with autism. I’ll call her Paige - the name we were going to give the other girl that we never had. On my first Sunday with this new class, we sat together as a large group for a lesson and singing time. Many times she got up and bolted over to the teacher she had the year before. I finally coaxed her to sit on my lap for the rest of the time.

As we broke into classes, I threw out my planned lesson and told the kids to sit on the floor with me. Then we told stories about choosing the right. Paige bounced between sitting under the table and climbing all over the stacked chairs. This lasted for most of the class time. At the end, I gave them all something to color, and I began gathering up my things. Paige turned around, looked right at me and asked, “What’s your name?"

Taken back I replied, “Mrs. Whiffen”. She was quiet for a minute, but continued looking at me. “I like you, Mrs. Whiffen.”

And there it was. I looked at her, she looked at me, and I was dialed in. And if you’ve ever connected with a child with autism, even if it’s a brush with time, the feeling is like lounging on a fluffy cloud somewhere in heaven.

Declarations for 2009

2008-12-30T16:12:00.008-07:00

• I will count to 10 in German - using my iPhone translation application - when I see drips on the toilet seat for the third time that day.

• I will not pick up candy off the floor of Wal-Mart and offer it to my Bobby Banjo, even if it means enduring 15 more minutes of hearing-aid inducing screams.

• I will not allow myself to become embarrassed when the youngest Whiffen child flatulates in public, then blames it on me.

• I will no longer try to vacuum oversized items off the floor but rather bend down, pick them up, and throw them in the garbage.

• Next time we go to the automatic car wash and my boys are fighting in the back seat, I will not yell, but instead roll down all the windows.

• I will forgive Judd when he laughs at me when I slip on the ice and fall face first on the sidewalk outside the gym.

• I will be more patient by extending my Whiffen child consequence strikes from three to four, and I will say them while smiling (even if my face still turns red).

• I will not remove the budding dust balls that accumulate around the entertainment center until they reach a size where I can easily recycle them into cotton balls and use them to clean my face.

• I will use the great tip I learned of placing vapo-rub under my nose the next time I have to clean up Whiffen child vomit, so I don’t retch the entire time and lose my appetite for three days after.

• No matter how tempting, I will not go to Costco or Wal-Mart during the entire month of December. I will not.

On a more philosophical note…

• My actions will be guided by my inner voice and not others reactions.

• I will do everything I can possibly do (along with Brittany and all the many parents dedicated to this cause) to get this autism insurance legislation passed. I promise families that are just surviving from day to day that I will never forget.

• I will tell my boys (including the big one) I love them more, and I’ll show them everyday.

• I will live each day as if it were my last blog entry.

I'm anxious to hear at least one of your 2009 Declarations!

Costco Survivor – Roller Derby Style

2008-12-21T22:14:00.007-07:00

The double sliding doors at Costco greet me like a celebrity, and after two Excedrin and a Dr. Pepper, I’m feeling the confidence and energy of Angelina Jolie (if I could only fit into a 42DD) as I take on a night in December at the bloated box warehouse. The newfound confidence is not enough to soothe the slight pain growing from the lining of my stomach up and into my throat as I see oversized cart-to-cart traffic and families of 10 scouring the aisles. Babies are screaming at volumes Mariah Carey can't even match. My heart murmur becomes more pronounced until I’m momentarily calmed by the Christmas lights and nodding Santa to my left. That is until a small child darts in front of my cart causing that same vital organ in my body to freeze in mid-beat. I sigh then smile with relief as the bubble above my head shows all three Whiffen children shoveling the driveway with red-cheeked smiles - their dad appointed as lead shoveler.

Soon I find myself wedged between a woman thumping on every cantaloupe in the bin, and a man on his phone in the middle of the aisle who can’t see me or hear me even though it is clear I’m standing in his peripheral vision. “Excuse me.” No response. He’s grinning at the floor and shuffling his feet. He giggles. I try to wedge my way through the narrow spot, but my cart gets hooked on his cart. He doesn’t notice. I clank my way through, crashing his cart as I squeeze by. He’s still oblivious. "Jackass," I mumble.

Next up…frozen food section. “You can do this,” I whisper. But I think the lady groping the cantaloupes hears me because she keeps staring at me and raising her eyebrows over her bifocals. Suddenly, I see someone I think I know, but I’m not sure, and I’m starting to get the shakes, so I make a quick hook to the right and down the next aisle. I avoid two minor collisions, which would have been non-existent if they would start putting blinkers on the end of the carts – a safety feature that even Brittany Spears would be pleased with.

I eye the frozen chicken breasts I’m after, and swing down that aisle, but 20 feet before I reach my destination, I hear a “ding” and I watch the food sample lady with a hairnet carefully place one-inch squares sections of pepperoni Hot Pockets into tiny sample cups and sets them out. Like flies on a hot cow pie, swarms of people seem to come from the ceiling and even the freezers themselves. Soon I’ve lost sight of my chicken breasts, and the food sample lady. Suddenly, people start to clear, the food sample lady comes back into focus, her hair net now sits crooked on her head and she looks dazed. The samples are gone, and papers dot the floor. I quickly grab my chicken breasts and head for the checkout line.

I eye all six lanes that are open strategizing which gives me the greatest chance of speed. I can almost feel the Dr. Pepper pulse through my veins as I eye a line with only two people, carts each only half full. I quickly pull into the line before someone else sees it. One down, one to go. My thoughts of chestnuts roasting on an open fire disappear when I hear the lady in front of me say, “Now, sir, I thought this was on sale. Let me speak to your manager.” I’m tempted to give her the cost difference until I realize I don’t have any cash left. I contemplate asking the Salvation Army bell ringer at the front of the store if I can have it back as I eye the other lines with an averaging six people each. I grip the handle on my cart and watch my knuckles bulge.

Twenty minutes, one hot dog and berry smoothie later and my fingernails bitten to the flesh, I’m on the other side of those sliding glass doors and into the crisp fresh air. I stop to unzip my pit vents, and giggle while jogging to my car behind my cart -because I know this will be my last trip to Costco before Christmas!

Let’s hear those holiday shopping survival stories!

On three, two, one...

2008-12-14T10:00:00.005-07:00

My goggles were worn by request (and for protection because sometimes our flailing arms become deadly weapons). The pirate hat is part of the ensemble (haven't you seen pirates loitering around the ancient pyramids?)

Just in case you want to practice at home, I learned my moves from Dirty Dancing and Napoleon Dynamite (okay, and WWF). It helps me to watch myself on video, though, because now I can see that I need to work on squaring my arms and making the rest of my body as geometric as possible while attempting the Egyptian walk.

I'd love to hear any other tips you might have...

Shake it like an Egyptian

2008-12-07T21:44:00.005-07:00

Every night after I tuck Judd into bed, I downplay the growing excitement spurred by pending freedom. It starts subtly in my toes and ends up almost bursting through my chest as I gleefully try to prioritize all 76 items on my to do list - a sort of optimism even Julie Andrews would envy.

I slither out the door and into the den, and just as I open my laptop, I hear, “MOOOOM! You forgot to do the mummy dance!”

I walk like an Egyptian all the way back down the hall and into his room. My neck bobbing much like the roosters on my childhood neighbor's farm. I hear him giggle as I bob my neck and squared arm through the door, then back out. “Mahm, come on!" he begs. I hit play on his stereo and Mary Pope Osborne “Mummies in the Morning” book on CD begins to play. Ancient Egyptian music plunks through the speakers as I frolic my way in front of the lamp so I can make freaky dance shadows for my solo, giggling audience member. I place my hands together pointed toward the ceiling. My neck moves back and forth, my hips move the opposite direction. I shimmy around the room. Judd mimics me - neck and all. His lips pursed together in concentration. His three-year-old body doing Egyptian moves like he’s dancing around the ancient pyramids with the mummies themselves. Soon he’s by my side - his moves too expansive to contain inside his small twin size bed. His shadow crosses mine just as the music runs out. I continue moving around the room, the music continuing in my head. "Mama, that's all. It's over."

As I walk out of his room and down the hall, I think about how good I’m getting at the mummy dance. I start to wonder what I might look like moving my hips this way, and my neck that way. Soon I find myself in my bedroom, door locked, doing the mummy dance in my own bathroom mirror.

After three minutes of this ridiculous fearlessness, I finally realize why my mom took me out of dance class after only the first year.

Supporting and Lifting - Like a 42DD

2008-11-29T13:10:00.009-07:00

My friend, Kim Stagliano, the mother of three girls with autism is the managing editor of Age of Autism. Her husband recently lost his job, and they're wondering how they're going to afford to provide for their family including ongoing treatment for their girls - a pretty crappy card to be dealt especially during the holidays. When I'm tempted to wallow in the mud puddles that inevitably appear along my path in life, I think of Kim and all those like her who stealthily maneuver around their puddles despite the seemingly endless spotted road ahead. It gives me strength, fearlessness, and resolve.

The autism community is one like I've never seen before. The support generated among club members is equal to a 42DD Victoria Secret Miracle Bra. So if you need a lift today, don't go buy a new bra, read here instead Age of Autism. It will put some warmth in your Thanksgiving dinner left overs.

Now this is what you can do with your Miracle Bra...

On Becoming Fearless

2008-11-23T22:19:00.003-07:00

I’m a treadmill reader and when the black lines smear into each other and all different prism-like directions, or I start thinking cut the crap, where’s the beef, I either toss the book into the “maybe later in the bubble bath” pile, or the “give to thrift store,” pile. On occasion if the book and I keep pace together and we become running partners, I consider it a stellar read – not because I have cheetah-like strides, but because I’m so lost in this new world, I forget that my thighs are burning, and my cheeks jiggling (both sets).

The latest book that has survived the treadmill test – On Becoming Fearless by Arianna Huffington. It kept me so involved, it rivaled running to the song “Holiday” by Green Day or “Holding out for a Hero” Bonnie Tyler – two goodies that nearly jolt me from fat burning speed to aerobic in less than 15 seconds.

After lapping up On Becoming Fearless over a five day treadmill stint, it became decorated with post-it flag markers in all the Crayola crayon colors, and a few ripped up gum wrappers after I ran out of flags and had to scrounge up whatever I could find within reach.

Fearful by nature, but with a temper that can be ignited by only a mere spark, I was the little girl who trembled if anyone raised their voice. When my fourth grade teacher, a giraffe-necked guy with red hair and a mustache, threw me in front of the class and said, “Leeann, I know you can talk louder than that. Now, pretend your horse is down there and you’re yelling its name. What’s its name? Barron? Okay, come on. Like you mean it now. Yell it. You can do it.” I just stood there in my pink Ricks College sweatshirt that I wore every other day. My cheeks burning as the kids in my class stared at me and laughed.

I couldn’t do it.

So this book was written for me two decades too late. For the one who didn’t try out for the basketball team in high school because I was afraid I wouldn’t make it. Then when the coach who was also my P.E. teacher saw me shooting hoops one day, she screamed, “Holgate!” loud enough I almost jumped out of my shorts. “Why, girl, didn’t you try out for the team!”

“I didn’t think I would make it.” I told her. She punched my shoulder and rolled her eyes. “Geez, Holgate. I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

Where was this book during those hormone inducing acne, mean girls suck days?

Why do we as a collective “body of women” worry so much about what others think? Why are we afraid of having a different opinion? Offending someone? Why do we live our lives wondering if we’re failing to measure up? To what? Is the fear of rejection so great, we can’t even try? Why do we feel we need to acquiesce? In order to be a leader we’re going to piss off; we’re going to have to go against what is generally accepted as “appropriate behavior”; we’re going to have to live our lives like this is the only chance we get – because it is!

Today, our fearless days begin as we stand in the mirror and imagine ourselves in our elasti-girl under-roos with a tiara on our heads, and a make believe sword in our sheaths ready for the draw. We’ll do our hair to The Gladiator soundtrack and worry more about what we’re living for than who we are disappointing – since the most important person not to disappoint is ourselves!

Fear swallows our passion and quiets our inner voice. By overcoming our insecurities and deepest fears, our passion and inner voice align, and it is then we know our true purpose and mission.

It is only then we are truly…fearless.

A Stranger's Kind Deed

2008-11-09T21:50:00.004-07:00

Four weeks ago over breakfast at Mimi’s, Senator Howard Stephenson fervently agreed to sponsor a bill that would require insurance companies to pay for medically necessary autism treatments. Upon hearing the tear-inducing good news, I went against all natural instincts, and instead of jumping up in my chair and doing air push ups above my head, I clenched my glass of orange juice tightly and graciously thanked him from my deepest well of passion.

Saturday morning, we, along with nine other volunteer legislative district captains from all over Utah, piled into the Original Pancake House in downtown Salt Lake City for a grassroots launch campaign. As we sat down at our table, I handed each of them their nametags complete with the autism awareness ribbon on the side. Though I had corresponded with many of these eager and equally passionate parents, this was my first time meeting them in person. Each of them shared their stories. And though each situation was unique, their pleas were the same.

“How can we afford treatment that our mainstream doctors are prescribing for her?”

“What is going to happen to him if he doesn’t get the intense treatment he needs?”

“Do you think he’ll ever talk to me?”

“I’ve had to go back to work, but I’m barely making enough to pay our regular bills let alone the treatment he needs.”

“I wonder if she’ll ever know who I am?”

As I traveled through time I heard myself echoing those same fears. I looked down at my plate. I couldn’t force another bite.

Our table grew quiet. I could barely hear the otherwise loud bursts of laughter and utensils clanking on dishes permeating from other parts of the large room.

Finally the waiter swung by and handed each of us our checks. Just as we reached for our wallets, a gentleman approached our table.

“Do you work with kids with autism?” he asked.

“Yes, we do. We’re parents trying to get some legislation passed,” someone answered.

“Your check is on me,” the man said. Then he walked around the table and began collecting our checks, which totaled around $100.

We were stunned into more silence. I looked around the table at each of them through my tear-distorted vision - their eyes were also spilling over.

This man will never know how much he buoyed us up that day. He’ll never really know that with that simple, unassuming act, he helped build my resolve to bionic strength. He’ll also never know that because he touched our lives, we in turn want to touch so many others.

And we intend to do it.

Thank you, Sir.

PS: If any of you are reading this and live in Utah (affected by autism or not), please send me an email so you too can get involved and help these kids get the treatment they need and deserve.

LeeannWhiffen at gmail dot com

Tuna Boat

2008-10-30T15:15:00.006-06:00

I’m driving to the grocery store and suddenly I see something that makes me gush with overwhelming warmth and nostalgia. There she is – sitting under a large willow tree, the branches framing her in a perfect portrait.

I sigh. A slight hum of satisfaction escapes.

“There she is,” I say to the Whiffen child sitting in the back seat.

“What? Who, Mom?” the Whiffen child asks looking around.

“Tuna boat.” I Pause. “That’s her.” I say as if I’m in some sort of trance.

“Huh? I don’t see anybody. Whoa, Mom, why are you pulling over?” the Whiffen child says getting out of his seatbelt.

“For a photo.” I say with wispiness in my voice that’s almost haunting.

“Of who?”

“Her.” I say pointing to this.

The sun peeks through the shadows causing them to dance over the 1972 Buick LeSabre dressed in metallic Hershey bar paint with a hint of olive green. She is even longer than I remember. But just as homely and Austin Power-like.

I instantly recall the time I was 16 years old Tuna and I were speeding down a country road in Samaria, Idaho to meet my friends at the Dude Ranch. There was no moon and certainly no streetlights, only the faint sound of bellowing cattle in the black of night. I clicked on my bright lights so I didn’t accidentally hit one of those cows, and suddenly all the lights went off! I clicked again. Nothing! By the fourth click and near hyperventilation, all the lights finally came back on.

Like my shabby, but favorite bra, Tuna's always been there for me. Never letting me down. Her front passenger seat was a legend in the small town of Malad, and even smaller town of Samaria. An unsuspecting person riding in the passenger seat may have found it disturbing that the seat slid forward launching them into the windshield whenever we would come to an abrupt stop. But not my high school friends. Kids by the dozens started requesting front seat rides. We would start at the top of the hill and barrel down the rollercoaster back country road. Then, without warning, I would slam on my brakes, and everyone piled into the passenger side of the front seat was thrown with G-strength force into the windshield, their faces pressed against the glass in dramatic expressions. Boisterous laughing filled the car and steamed the windows.

All those tender memories are because of her.

“Mom, that’s a piece of crap!” says the Whiffen child, interrupting my pristine thoughts and even the dramatic music going through my head - Journey's "Wheel in the Sky"

“Get in the car! I need a minute by myself.” I wave him off.

He trudges back to the car. “Geez, Mom. That’s kinda weird.”

“Probably.” I mumble.

I pull out my iPhone and take a picture that I can carry with me always and share with everyone I know.

Because something as special as Tuna should only be remembered - forever.

FIRE!

2008-10-20T22:54:00.005-06:00

Last year I was asked to give a presentation at an autism council meeting. I was worried about what I was going to say, how it might be perceived, and whether or not I should have had my bangs cut with the trim and highlight the day before. That morning, as I went to pick out a blouse to wear, I made sure to choose one that wouldn’t show sweat rings under the armpits. Because even when I wear Sean’s deodorant, I get nervous, nervous tells my sweat glands there’s a fire somewhere - usually under the armpits, and, well, it turns on the high pressure water valve.

I’m always obsessively careful to keep my arms close to my body when presenting, but once in awhile, if I need to refer to something on the screen, or if I get excited when I talk, my arms might fly up like they’ve come unhinged. I usually slap them back down to my sides biting my lip as I wonder who may have seen my sweaty pits. Sometimes if I’m really nervous, I might even ask if anyone happened to see.

The morning of the presentation, I finally find the perfect sweat-camouflaging blouse. I grab my materials and dash out the front door. Jammed in early morning traffic on northbound 1-15 into Salt Lake City, I immediately regret spending 15 minutes conceding to Bobby Banjo’s* pleas to help him find “the guy with the sword,” and “the purple crystal” and “two more red pieces that look just like this” in the lego box that contains 100,000 micro pieces.

Suddenly, I’m hit with the thought that I might be late. Nervous tells my sweat glands there’s a fire under my armpits. And once I realize I forgot to put on my deodorant, Nervous tells my sweat glands under my armpits that it’s a THREE ALARM FIRE! Nervous also turns on other sprinklers in other places where I didn’t even realize I had sprinklers.

As I fly into the meeting I absolutely wish I hadn’t gulped down a slim fast chocolate shake for breakfast because it really didn’t taste that good anyway, and now I have to make an emergency restroom visit. I slide into the closest stall, and I fumble with my binder wondering why they refuse to install shelves on the stall walls. I gently balance my binder on the top of the toilet paper holder then fumble with my safety pin that keeps the zipper up on my favorite pants. My elbow flies up and hits my binder knocking two of my papers into the toilet. Before I can say &@#! the automatic flusher does it’s job and whoosh that’s it! Nervous tells my sweat glands forget the three-alarm fire, it’s a FIRE STORM! Send all the trucks and hook ‘em up! Full pressure and sirens!

I manage to make my way out of the restroom and up to the podium just in time. My armpits are stuck to my sides. I’m careful not to get excited, and I deliver my presentation as planned.

On the drive home I can’t help but laugh at a situation I should never have been in. In worrying so much about my sweaty armpits, I forgot the single most helpful thing to prevent it!

How often in life when in pursuit of something, do we worry so much about the end result, we actually forget to take those steps to get there!

I’ve been worrying lately about whether I should or shouldn’t do it. And I can’t tell you what “it” is because you already know silly things like my husband replaced the hubcap on our hooptie when we really should have gotten the neon lights and hydraulics instead. But when a friend quotes Wayne Gretzky, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take," I know what it is I have to do.

I’m now going to go put on my super strength deodorant and go for it.

*If you’re wondering, who is Bobby Banjo, please refer to post “Bobby Banjo Strikes a Chord.”

Hooptie Dooptie had a great fall

2008-10-11T22:55:00.001-06:00

This past week Sean was in Texas and then Tennessee, so we meet for lunch on Thursday at Chili’s to reconnect. At the end of our mid-day tryst we walk out to the car and I say, “Hey, by the way, did you know your car stereo isn’t
working?”

Sean says, “Yeah, remember when the boys left the door open the other day, well, the battery ran out and I had to jump it. The stereo is disabled every time jump the car – some sort of anti-theft thing. I’ll get the code to fix it when I go buy the new hubcap.

“Hubcap?” I ask. “What? Do we really need to replace the hubcap, I mean look at it!”

“Look at what?” he says innocently, as if he truly had no idea what I was talking about.

We stood in silence studying the gold 2000 Mitsubishi Galant with 110,000 miles to boast. The paint is peeling off the front bumper and hood like an acute case of automobile leprosy. My eyes scan to the back where there's a dent the size of Hillary Clinton’s head in the trunk.

“You’re really going to buy another hubcap?” I ask.

“Well, yeah, I don’t want to be driving a hooptie around.” He says.

Silence.

“Sean,” I said ducking into the car. Come closer.

He leans in.

I pull his head toward me and whisper in his ear, “I’m really sorry I have drop this on you. But, it already IS a hooptie.”

He pulls away like I just sucker punched him.

“It IS not!” he insists.

“Sean, just throw a pair of curb feelers on her and you’re driving the hooptie of the year.”

“No way. NO. I can’t believe you’re even saying that!” he says shaking his head while eyeing her longingly like the daughter we’ll never have.

“I know it must be hard for you to say it out loud. But…”

He still looks hurt.

“It’s not!” he shouts as I roll up my window. I mime through the window, can’t hear you, sorry! I kiss the window, then flash him the “I love you” sign and drive off.

Do you buy the hubcap and keep it a half-hooptie, or do you wait until a door falls off and get hydraulics and neon lights installed?

Advance Reader Copies are in!

2008-10-07T08:31:00.000-06:00

I just got my ARC copies and have to buckle down and read, read, read. And obsess, obsess, obsess. So I have to take a little break from the silly stories so I can focus on this project. I'll keep posting as often as possible. So please keep reading!

Thanks for all your supportive comments!

Daily dose of chocolate

2008-10-06T08:10:00.000-06:00

I'm a huge Tina Fey fan. And It doesn't matter which party you're affiliated with, the barriers come crashing down with gut-wrenching laughter in this SNL skit. It will provoke all kinds of endorphins to get your motor started on an otherwise mundane Monday morning.

Zip Your Lips

2008-10-01T15:32:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I said to a certain Whiffen child, “Will you please zip your lips?” and the Whiffen child said, “Okay, but you go first.” So that is why I keep notes like this one, along with his infant photo, taped on my mirror. It helps me remember his goodness so I can avoid that frequent, overwhelming feeling of wanting to hang him up on the towel hook by his underwear.

And yes, we are aware that grammar is a must if he aspires to be my publicist...

A Bad Omen?

2008-09-25T08:15:00.000-06:00

I’m sitting at my desk glued to my computer trying to do my good citizen duty of keeping The Office fan chain alive on Facebook when overhear what sounds like 10 women at Wal-Mart on Black Friday fighting over the last Wii. When I realize it is not just one or two, but the whole My Big Fat Greek Wedding family of magpies shrieking on my roof, I hop out of my chair and run for the front door. As I fling the door open, the sky overhead turns gray as the dumb turned smart scruffy birds apparently remember my BB gun from a few weeks ago. As I step outside to observe the damage to the white speckled roof, feathers still trickling down, I suck in a quick breath and put my hand to my throat as I almost step on this!

Judd runs to my side, carefully bends down for a closer look and says, “We wouldn’t want to eat that would we Mom.”

As I look closer, I realize it isn’t a magpie wing with a small socket bone lying next to it, it’s an innocent robin whose wing was savagely ripped off by those bunch of unruly pecker heads! It’s not enough that the magpies are ugly, or that they wake me at sacred times in the morning before any other live creature is stirring, or decorate my roof with white splotches, but they are BULLIES! Oh, I loathe the bullies…kid bullies, adult bullies, bird bullies.

As the day grows old, music becomes irritating noise, the sunset hurts my eyes and makes me snarky, and the taco shells I was going to use for dinner expired two years ago. And to top it all off with a dingleberry, I reach for the tape in the cabinet and the pencil sharpener falls down, knocks me in the head with a high pitched “toink” and dumps shavings all over my hair and face as it finally disburses all over the counter below. Then I sneeze, and it snows.

Was that broken bird wing a portent?

Perhaps.

Judd woke six times that night whining and crying. By the sixth time, I was actually stomping down the hall babbling in harsh drunkard language. A state of mind in which I could easily spar with Simon Cowell and win. A guttural growl escapes as I pick him up and rock him rather boisterously in the rocking chair. After I calm down and my rocking becomes nicer, he whispers in my ear so close it tickles, “Mom, fank you fer taking care of me.” Then he kisses me on the cheek. I press him closer to me, my heart melting into his, and continue to rock him - long after he has fallen asleep in my arms. And I get that feeling, you know moms, when you know you’ve nailed it – connecting with your kin even briefly on that supernatural level knocking you so hard on your butt you finally realize how lucky you are even if you have to drink five Diet Dr Peppers the next morning just to make it out of bed.

I hear his whisper echo in my head all through that next day despite the glaring fact that he had just told me my tummy was fat while groping my chest. And I tap into that joy that lives inside and drink from it while it lasts.

And suddenly, music is beautiful, the sunrise magnificent, dinner, well…edible, and night wakings are like a shopping trip to Target where everything you want is half price.

The Final Countdown

2008-09-21T23:01:00.000-06:00

On any given day of the week I wake around 6 a.m. to either a) magpies doing the hula hoop on my roof or b) Judd dancing in mini pirouettes next to the side of my bed while rapidly breathing, “Have to go potty, Mom.” I hear myself grumble something about how some day he’ll be able to lift the lid and pull his pants down all by himself and then adding something about how after I get my shot gun I should be able to sleep until at least 7 a.m. since those magpies will be a pile of feathers. As we finish at the potty I swear I hear “The Final Countdown” playing somewhere in the background. I dash to the kitchen where I Foreman grill some heart stopping sausage. I hear a certain Whiffen child say, “Eew, this smells funny.” I remind them how lucky they are that I'm even offering this part of the pig to eat. Some kids in third world countries have to eat the ears and intestines, hooves, and probably even eyeballs, and that cute curly tail. In fact, that hot dog you ate the other day for lunch…

I shuffle them into the car reminding them that they may want to change out of their “I know someone from Malad, Idaho” t-shirts they wore to bed that night and they absolutely have to wear socks with their shoes because I almost spilled all of my stomach contents on the floor the other day when I walked into a certain Whiffen child’s room and smelled a stench only Bigfoot can replicate.

I speed to the school - the boys slamming into each other on every curve. This time I hear the clock from “60 Minutes” ticking in my head. I screech back into the garage, grab Judd and plunk him on the couch trying to find the latest tivo’d Sponge Bob. I grab a book from my virgin book stack, set the timer on my watch, and head downstairs to the treadmill. I get halfway down the stairs when I hear Judd scream, “Have to go potty!” I jog back up the stairs, help him go potty, jog back down the stairs. I’m ten minutes into my work out when I hear Judd scream, “I need a drink of juice!” I jog back up the stairs and grab him some juice. Jog back down. Fifteen minutes later I hear, "I need my blanket!" I jog up to his room grab his blanket and throw it on his head while I jog in place. He jogs in place while watching me. We jog together for two minutes until the timer beeps. We high five, and I head to the shower. Ten minutes until preschool. I skip the conditioner and tell myself I can shave tomorrow.

As soon as I drop Judd off at preschool, I peel out of the driveway. Two hours. Go. My tires squeal slightly, but the other moms rubberneck as they watch my perfect start to the Indy 500.
I squeeze in two phone calls on the way to Target and nail a top-notch spot right next to the handicapped in front. I jog through the front automatic doors, almost plowing into them because they don’t open fast enough. I think I hear my phone ring, but it’s muffled. I dig around in my purse until I finally find it, and as I yank it out, a tampon torpedoes through the air and skids down the aisle passed two ladies, an elderly man, and a family of four. Horrified, and still running, I snatch it up and continue to jog until I’m in the automotive section. I put on my big sunglasses and wander the store suspiciously eyeing any witnesses.

I compare it to several other moments that might have made me uncomfortable. Like when one of our young innocent sons rode to school with the neighbors one morning. The mother asked him how we were all doing. “Oh, fine.” He replies. "Except for the poop problems we’ve been having. You know...” as he continued to explain in great detail. Then I would compare that to the time a different set of neighbors came by with a piece of opened, doodled-on mail. Sheepishly, she said, “I’ve been meaning to drop this by sooner.” I take out the letter from our physician decorated with smiley faces compliments of their four-year old and it reads, “Your next specimen is due in our office by 10 a.m. October 12, 2007”. It was January 2008. Then there was the time when I was on a date in college, and I accidentally kicked the guy in the nuts with a soccer ball. He couldn’t breathe right for a few minutes, and he finally had to go home early complaining of a stomach ache or something. Then there was the time I accidentally made my blogger profile public (complete with drug of choice and love my husband to pieces) on the front page of my autism council blog for doctors and legislators to see at first glance. That was just last week. Or, like when Judd yelled in the grocery store a few weeks ago, “Hey Mom, is that a crazy grandma?” as he pointed to a lady next to us who was probably only 45, but looked hammered.

As I screech to a stop in front of Miss Cindy's house the timer is still loudly ticking in my head with two minutes left. And it occurs to me that after having three boys, nothing is really that embarrassing anymore, is it?

Books-a-lot

2008-09-15T23:30:00.000-06:00

I can blame it on the dog we don’t have, or my agitating ability to jump from one to ten thoughts within a ten second period forgetting all about the former nine thoughts and finally hyper-focusing on the third thought. But ultimately, the finger points at me (not the middle, just the index). Evidence of my piles are scattered about the house. It never used to be this way. Before my apparent reincarnation, I was described as a tight “a”, cleany meany, spic and spanner, white glove czar, and donkey. So why, when stumbling and knocking over my chest high pile of books I still haven't read yet, would my sweet ~~Edward~~ Sean, compare me to the “hoarder” -- you know that sick, oh-so-sick woman featured on Oprah a few months ago because her house was so packed with so much stuff, they found rat poop, mold, and rotten food hidden under piles of crapola. I reminded ~~Edward~~ Sean it is just a stack of 20 or so "virgin" books, and it has many important household purposes, like a launch pad for leaping into bed after a long day, bookmark organizers, and a quick way to act busy when the boys ask me the same question four times. Besides, I’m at least 10 pages into all of them. Just give me six more months on the treadmill, and it will dwindle, I promise. "Virgin books?" he says. "Let's read them together..."

I’m certain I’ve passed this crazy obsession onto my beloved offspring. Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Captain Underpants can be found lying in the hallway, on top of the washing machine, under the couch next to the hard piece of hotdog from dinner four nights ago, and my favorite -- on the top of the toilets (which by the way I consider dangerous since I read that horrifying news story about the woman’s hiney getting fused to the toilet seat. Folks, when using the toilet, read in moderation).

My little one has not been spared from this sickness. Bobby Banjo came to me the other day and said, “I want Diarrhea of a Wimpy Kid, Mom. Wead it pwease.”

Hey Jeff Kinney, if you’re reading, and don’t be shy please comment, my boys giggle when saying your name. You are a rock star with purple hair in this house. It is not uncommon for Drew and Clay to burst into fits of laughter multiple times, their heads bouncing behind the artwork on both covers. Two weeks ago Clay got in trouble for the very first time ever at school because he organized a rowdy game of “cheese touch,” a scene taken from DOAWK. We cheered him on for getting his first warning, ruffled his hair and said, “Atta boy.”

I want to know what books you have in your pile, even if there are rat droppings attached.

Bobby Banjo strikes a chord

2008-09-09T22:45:00.000-06:00

Some events are meant for celebrating with the whole world…women’s suffrage, the day Henry David Thoreau was born, the unveiling of the iPhone, religious freedom, Paul Potts's inspirational American Idol opera debut, the day the tooth fairy finally remembered to take the Whiffen child's tooth and leave a crisp $1 bill…and the day a certain someone who is three years old, and who also likes to be called Bobby Banjo, POOPS IN THE POTTY FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME!

I interviewed Bobby Banjo afterward and this is what he had to say about it. “It’s easy to poop in the potty, Mom. See you just push it out and make a snake one.”

Popping the cork on the Martinelli’s and off for a game of mom sucking up Judd with the vacuum hose until he’s laughing so hard he has to go potty again.

Gotcha

2008-09-07T22:54:00.000-06:00

I see the red and blue lights flashing in the rear view mirror on top of the hot, deep blue mustang. I’m sure it’s for the guy in front of me, so I gladly pull over to the shoulder of the road. Angst rushes through me when instead of whizzing by the lights pull over behind me! The officer steps out of his car and yanks his pants up. With his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and as if he just dismounted a large horse, he struts steadily up to my window, peers over his mirrored sunglasses and asks in an unusually deep voice for “the usual.” I frantically search through the glove box tossing old receipts, an ibuprofen bottle, a plastic ninja guy, and an emergency throw up bag to the side only to find it empty. “Sorry officer. Can you look it up? Oh, and do you think I could just, you know…” I start to plead my case for a warning when he cuts me off.

“Stay in the car,” he bellows, as if I’m some hardened criminal. He swaggers back to his squad car. He shows up a few minutes later, just enough time to for me to waive at all the neighbors honking as they pass. He scrawls all over his notepad then rips the paper off the pad with way too much gusto and hands me the ticket. “But," he points out, “see here I wrote you were only going 5 over the speed limit instead of 12 over,” he say as if he’s vying for employee of the month. His crooked teeth peer through his bristly mustache.

“But officer, I really was just following the car in front of me, you know, going the flow. Gosh. I was seriously hoping to just get a warning!" I force a slight shake in my squeaky voice and put my hand over my mouth.

No answer.

Judd yells in the back, “My freakin’ bum hurts, jeez mom let’s go”. The officer pulls down his sunglasses and eyes the backseat.

“Yeah he’s buckled,” I say, feeling rather pissed off. “But my oldest in the way back, he’s been mouthing off a lot today, can you give him a good talking to?”

He stares at me. Then walks away.

I mumble something about a donkey’s butt.

“Mom, you’re a donkey.” I hear Judd say.

I open my mouth to say, yeah, well you’re Aunt Betty. But “shiz” comes out instead.

Weekend Warriors

2008-09-02T23:08:00.000-06:00

It’s Friday afternoon. Date night is two hours away, and I’m doing the Mambo #5 with the broom all around the kitchen. Drew and Clay pick up on my euphoric mood taking advantage of me in every way.

“Mom, can I skip doing my homework for the next week?” Drew says.
“Sure honey. I think that’s a good idea.”
“Mom, can I have that Michael Jordan rookie card I’ve been wanting?” Clay adds.
“How much?”
“$500 or something like that.”
“Well, ok. But just this once.”
Judd quicky says, “Mama, I want a twiple scoop of ice cweam wif a mawshmawow on top.”
“Coming right up. Do you want chocolate syrup drizzled over it?” I ask.

Suddenly, everyone is happy and we’re all doing the Mambo #5.

I skip lunch so that I’ll be famished when Sean and I arrive at our favorite local eatery in Park City – The Loco Lizard. After washing down two chipotle chicken mushroom cheese covered enchiladas with two Diet Dr. Peppers, I unbutton the top button on my jeans and heave my Mexican food stuffed self up and out of the booth. Sean and I do a giddy, watered down version of the electric slide to the car as we kick-off our night of kidless fun.

Our first stop – Gap outlet. I spot this and say, "Hmm, this isn’t bad."

Sean spots this and says, “Hmm this isn’t bad.”

We both spot this and say, "Hmm this is wow." Since neither of us have ever seen a grown up onsie, or is it a full body g-string?

Next stop – Zipline at Park City Mountain

I’m flying down the mountain at speeds that I’m certain changes the way my face looks. My nose squishes to the side; my eyeballs become closer to my ears; and my lips are flapping wildly with the wind. I’m fine with the new arrangement since maybe now I can cancel my upcoming cosmetic surgery. I let my limbs catch the air and tip my head back to enjoy the feeling that I’m flying when suddenly the thought occurs to me – I could have a serious head on collision with a bird at any time. And it would probably be one of those freakin’ magpies that have been square dancing on my roof! I jerk my head upright and grasp the cables a little tighter as I envision what might happen. The bird might fly right into head knocking me unconscious and spraying unmentionables all over me. The bird’s beak might stick into my forehead, and it might flap its wings uncontrollably trying to get free. Then I realize a bird probably won’t fly into me. It’s dark and birds usually aren’t out at night. But bats are. BATS!

Suddenly I come to a disturbing stop and fly forward in my seat. My hair is now completely covering my eyes and face. "Shiz," I say to the guy with the orange spiked mohawk operating the zipline. "I about lost my head."

Sean slides to a comfortable stop next to me. I brush my hair out of my eyes and unbuckle my seatbelt. I look over at Sean and say, “Hah. Beatcha.”

He chases me down the rest of mountain, but I don’t get very far because I think a piece of enchilada gets lodged in my ribs. I hop on Sean's back and we wrap up the night of crazy fun by doing the two-step the rest of the way to the car.

Intestines twisting into knots

2008-09-01T14:10:00.000-06:00

There are few things in life that make me laugh so hard that I forget that I recently saw a new ding in the side of the car door, or that Judd still isn’t pooping on the potty, or that I’ve spent too much money at Target this week. But this is something special.

So sit back, plug in your headphones (so the boss doesn’t come running, or so your kids don't inadvertently hear) and get ready to shoot that diet coke you’re drinking right out your nose.

Da Vinci? You decide...

2008-08-25T10:07:00.000-06:00

Clay drew a picture of me in church yesterday. After about 30 minutes of him staring at my face, sketching, staring at my face, and sketching, he handed me this.

I took the paper from from him and turned it to one side, then the other. Still not right. I rotated it once more. Got it. I turned to the side, gasped, then showered his glowing face with unadulterated praise.

That night I dreamt that I was a giraffe.

This morning I called a cosmetic surgeon in Salt Lake for nostril reduction and botox in my lips. And I pinky swore with myself to wear cucumbers over my eyes for the rest of my homely life.

Next week, I’ll ask him to draw Sean.

Part 2 Dead or Alive

2008-08-19T17:16:00.000-06:00

It’s 6 a.m. and I’m woken by scratching of magpie claws on the roof above my irritated head. My eyes pop open when I suddenly realize I’m the only adult in the house. I storm into the garage intent on protecting our family and grab the BB gun from the top rack of the pegboard. I safely hold it pointed upward and make my way to the back yard in my robe and flip flops. I sneakily peek around the corner of the house, and when I see the swarm of black and white feathers dancing on top of the roof leaving annoying white droppings with every step to the hokey pokey, I raise the barrel and spray BB’s in every direction sending the magpies into a fluttering frenzy.

“Try to wake me up tomorrow,” I say in a raspy voice under my breath, eyeing the small, yet potent, shiny barrel. I walk back into the house feeling like a bit of a feminist, or maybe just an industrial-strength woman.
Determined not to let a flock of mangy, skunk-colored birds ruin the Whiffen family week of fun, I make the kids do their daily jobs, throw several towels in the trunk, then take them to the grocery store where we buy three big blocks of ice. We drive to a park with the biggest hill in Utah County. Judd starts quoting Kung Fu Panda lines in the car. I hear him say, “What are you going to do, big guy, sit on me?” I repeat it and we laugh. He starts to call me “Dad” and then he asks jokingly, “Are you Mom or Dad?”

I say, “Who do you think, silly?”

He says, “Dad”.
I turn to look at him. “Then you’re Aunt Betty.”
“Well, then I think you’re stupid,” he replies.

My self esteem tanks as I remember earlier that day an email I got with the subject line that read, “Leeann you’re a moron.” Lucky it was a spammer.

As we arrive at the park, we carefully place our towels over the shiny, cold sleds and buzz our way down the hill. One bloody elbow, some torn ankle ligaments, and grass stains so deep not even the oxy-est of oxy cleaners seem threatening later, I decide to turn in my frosted bottom cheeks for a seat on the bench at the top of the hill.

As I watch the boys crash into each other, shards of ice flying in every direction, I overhear Judd say “Clay you’re my best friend, and Mom’s my best friend too.” For a minute I forgive him for not pooping in the potty, and for calling me stupid, because at least on this day, at this time, on the steepest sledding hill in Utah County, I’m my three year-old’s best friend.

Part 1 Three men and a lady…

2008-08-07T00:10:00.000-06:00

As Sean “does his business” in Singapore for a week, I take my job as man of the house very seriously. I decide not to shave my legs, and I’m not getting near my armpits for quite some time. My bras are sitting in a pile at the bottom of the bed, and it’s a lucky day if I make it in the shower before 5 p.m. Bon Jovi “Dead or Alive” plays on the iPod in the background. I gather the boys around me in our usual football huddle and whisper, “This is going to be the greatest week ever in the history of Whiffen family fun.”

“What? Mom? I can’t understand you, can you talk louder?” Drew says, instantly ruining the inspirational moment. “But Dad’s gone.” says Clay.

Suddenly my resolve grows stronger.

I rush the boys into the car for swim lessons yelling orders for towels, snacks, and “don’t forget your Crocs.” I worry that they’ll sink mid-swim because they didn’t eat the scrambled eggs I made them for breakfast. Clay swore he saw the fly that landed on the yellow mound throw up before flying away. Drew and Judd left the table shortly after.

Over the course of the 30-minute swim lesson, Judd has to go potty (just number one) twice. Since I have to take him into the women’s dressing room, I cover his eyes to avoid seeing any naked parts he shouldn’t see. In those visits, we pass the familiar hairball and used band-aid. Just as we flush, I hear the whistle blow signifying the end of the lessons. The boys, wrapped tightly in their towels, baby step it to the car for our marathon day of jubilee not even The Wiggles could endure.

We head to Classic Fun Center fully equipped with water slides, a bounce house, and a jungle. Forty five minutes after entering the B.O. barn, a worthy name for a wet dog smelling, fly attracting fun box full of kids seemingly on speed, Drew yells, “Mom, Judd pooped in the ball pit!” Suddenly the place falls eerily quiet. Every parent looks in my direction, as if I have the scarlet letter painted directly on my forehead. It’s the same response we had last Sunday when we were in church and Judd yells, “What stinks! Ewww, Mom it’s your breath!” I eye Judd deep in the ball pit, three monkey swings, and a zip line away, his swim trunks sagging in the middle. I travail the American Gladiator-like course to rescue him and take him to the restroom. I duck and dodge kids and swinging objects until I finally zip-line my way across the crocodile pit landing on my monkey cheeks next to Judd. I proudly stand up wondering if I should try out to be a navy seal. Just as I bend down to grab Judd, I get whacked in the chest by a kid falling backwards. As we make our way through to the restroom, I hear a child say, “Mom, what smells like manure?” I walk a little faster. We find an empty stall so tiny, my bum presses against the door when I bend over to help Judd get his swim trunks off – my head so close to the toilet seat I see things that I hope aren’t really there. I’m grateful for the mach 2 (may be hydraulic) flushing toilet that cleaned the trunks nearly perfectly in three flushes. I’m happy to say we were “green” about the whole thing. Now, what to do about the SUV…

Alas, what does it take to train a 3-year old to go number 2 in the potty! Apparently it’s not tootsie pops, hulk hands that make growling and smashing noises, Indiana Jones action figures, a trip to Jump On It, a favorite book read-a-thon by mom who is sitting on the big potty next to the trainee on the little potty, pink, glittery jellies with a small heel, or a pleading, desperate mommy claiming she’ll give up her new 3G iPhone just to hear the coveted plop.

We praise the heavens and all the surrounding angels that our bodies weren’t made to go number 3.

Two days in the Life of a 3-year Old

2008-08-06T23:38:00.000-06:00

I’m making tacos for dinner. I just finish grating the cheese and I put the rest of the block on the counter. I start browning the hamburger, and when I turn around I see this…

I walk into the bathroom and Judd is frothing at the mouth. I kick myself for forgetting the number for poison control. Bubbles continue spilling out as he talks. "Mom," he groans, a purple-hued bubble escapes his lips, "I ate this." He shoves the bottle of baby shampoo in my face. "I’m going to frow up. Please fix me.” He burps. Another bubble swims free.

Later that evening I tell Judd to go brush his teeth. I fully intend to help him, but I get distracted which seems to be happening a lot lately. He is gone for fifteen minutes, and when I find him, I see Drew’s eczema prescription cream out on the counter. “Eww, that’s bad Mom. Smell my bref?” What was that poison control number? I write a quick doodle on the back of my hand complete with skull and crossbones… “Add poison control to speed dial.”

The next day I find this

And this

And then I wonder, how can I get mad at this

So instead, that night before bed, we read this

Summer -- to love, or not to love? That’s the easy question

2008-07-05T21:37:00.000-06:00

Judd pries my eyelids open with his spindly fingers at 5:30 a.m. three and a half hours after I went to bed. “Mama, wake up!” He shouts one inch from my ear. I squeeze them shut; he digs them open. Squeeze. Open. Squeeze. Deep, agonizing groan. Back to sleep. He climbs up on the bed and jumps next to me before plunging straight in the air and cannon-balling on my midsection, making it impossible for me to suck in any air (or squeak anything out for that matter). I flop out of bed and trudge to the bathroom with my eyes squeezed shut, just to spite him. I lock the door and sit on the toilet with the side of my head pressed against the wall. I catch two minutes of zzzz’s until I hear Drew pounding on the door. “I really wish it were my birthday today. I can't wait five more days. Will you lend me the money I'm going to get in my birthday cards so I can buy some NBA basketball cards today? I promise I'll pay you back. Please? I'm so so so so bored. Maaahm?” His voice whines in my head like the F chord on Clay’s electric guitar.

I manage to let out a weak grumble. Something about how this is the 15th time he's asked me this question in the last two days.
“Mom, when are you coming out?” Drew presses.

But I don’t hear the last part because I’m busy editing where I left off at 2 a.m. earlier that morning. The following bubbles pop up in my scrambled head…

~~If Drew's birthday were tomorrow he'd be happy and life would be exciting.~~.
~~NBA basketball cards are Drew's ticket to a blissful summer.~~.
~~Did I get hit by something? Because all of a sudden my stomach really hurts…my head too…~~.
Drew's swindling me into thinking if I buy him the cards, he'll stop bugging me for the rest of the summer…

“Mom! I know you’re in there!” Drew’s shouts are like a thousand straight pins being launched at my head. I involuntarily hop up and blast through the door. Drew jumps back three feet bracing himself against the wall. My voice is quivering now, “I…just…need…a…minute…k?”

“Sure…Mom.” Drew says. I see Judd pop out from behind the door, “Mom, are you a donkey?” he says with crooked eyebrows. Most mothers would have immediately said, “no way!” But not me, I had to think about it. Because technically, I was only 14 when my dad first called me a jackass. But don't worry Dad, I haven’t told anyone. Sometimes I feel like one, but I certainly hope I don’t look like one too.

“What?” I say, feeling my ribs, still sore from the sudden 3-year old dead-weight drop earlier. Still in the bathroom, I look in the mirror. My hair is sticking up on both sides…donkey ears.

I turn on Sponge Bob, whom I’ve recently included in my will, and sprint to the shower, knowing I’ll get 30 minutes of uninterrupted lathering, except for the kids occasional side-splitting laughter at Sandy ripping Patrick’s head off. As the warm beads of water splash off my body, I reach for my razor, but it is missing. I finish up and dry off looking around the bathroom for my razor. I spot Sean’s sexy, three-rotating head piece-of-technological-work glistening on the countertop next to the sink. I wonder…

Three hours later, I’m walking around the house with my arms in the air wondering who lit my armpits on fire. Lesson learned.

Later that afternoon, the boys, Martha Stewart and I gather three empty water bottles and make them into sailboats by wrapping them with duct tape and adding makeshift sails. We take them to the park and float them down the ditch. I watch Judd and Clay run along the ditch bank racing their boats before they’re swallowed by the iron grate. I smile and nod my head, secretly awarding myself the coveted self-imposed title, “Mother of the Week”. I haven’t even crowned myself when suddenly from the furthest edge of my eye, I see a sudden surge of water shooting in a fine stream, much like a sprinkler. I follow it to the source; my eyes come to a screeching stop at my proud, 10-year old son standing on a rock, whizzing for the world to see, like some water spurting statue. I immediately strip myself of my title, and try to say something, but nothing comes out except words like, Di…, Uh…, Wha…, Sto..., Aaagh! Drew…why?

And with that I’m back to my regular title.

Leeann W.
~~"Mother of the Week"~~
Mother of three boys – in training

Everything I need to know in life, I learned on our trip to Disneyland

2008-05-19T15:45:00.000-06:00

Zig-zagging our way through whiplash-like LA traffic prepped us for some of the scarier rides like Space Mountain and Matterhorn. The only difference is on the rides, our fellow riders didn’t cut us off and give us the middle finger.

But it didn’t prep us for the beach. I tried not to stare at all the men in speed-o’s (something a cowgirl from Idaho isn’t usually privy to)—especially the two men in speed-o’s who were having their photo taken with a white bearded man in a multi-colored G-String. For a moment I thought we were on the wrong beach, but then he turned around to face me, and I realized that yes, in fact, we were in Southern California.

Loads of snacks and bottled water were squeezed into even the most obscure of places in the car. The water especially came in handy when Judd kept barking out that he was thirsty. I gladly obliged, congratulating myself for being so prepared. The sound from his lips suctioning off the top of the bottle after he managed to gulp down the entire 16 ounces kept him entertained until we pulled into the Disneyland parking garage. The wide parking area looked equal in size to our 1,000 acre cattle ranch in High Valley, Idaho, except instead of dense forest, there was acres of concrete. I was just about to comment on the large pond I saw in the distance on the concrete, but then I realized it was just a mirage.

I looked back and noticed Judd’s legs kicking back and forth fast enough they could paddle a small boat around Deer Valley Reservoir. “Have to go potty,” he managed to squeeze out in between agonizing groans. His whines quickly morphed into panicked squeals, and I knew we had to do something right away because we were at least one trolley ride and a 100-person line away from the nearest restroom. As I eyed the empty Slim-Jim can I debated. Should we? Is it legal? What if someone sees his naked bum out the window? What kind of mother would take a child out of their car seat with the car in motion? Judd’s screaming in my ear drowned out any other logical question and instead declared exactly what I needed to do. I stood in the backseat carefully holding the empty Slim Jim can in position. Judd looked at me with raised eyebrows. I looked at him and winked. “Go for it.” I started to panic as it looked as if we may need another can. I looked at him, then at the can, then at him again, then at the bottle of water he had sucked dry. Just as I was about to say, “wow,” my face slammed into the back of the headrest. “Sorry,” I hear Sean say. “But I really think this spot is closer.”

After spraying each child with enough sunscreen to burn a hole in the ozone directly above us, we march our way into the place that guarantees our dreams will come true. In one hand, Judd’s tiny fingers, in the other, the Slim Jim can, held six inches from my body. I was positive that everyone around us knew what that Slim Jim can held, their sunglasses really x-ray vision lenses.

As we walked through the pearly gates of fun, we were met on one side by a band with an exuberant tuba player (I still can’t hear middle C in that ear) belting out tunes that made me want to dance like no one could see me. On my other side I discretely watched a lady yell at her 7-year old son, “Are ya gonna cry? Huh? Are ya? Are ya gonna cry?” I wanted to say, “Look lady, it’s Disneyland.” But she wouldn’t have been able to hear me above the band. Besides, I’ve reached that point many times in my motherhood career.

As we muscled our way through the crowd to Space Mountain, a large, curly headed man in front of me sneezes. One second later I feel a mist of wet droplets cling to my face and nearly hyperventilate until I spot a string of misters above my head. A close one for this germ-a-phobe.

We screamed all the way down Space Mountain and for a moment I questioned if I was really seeing stars, or if my head just got jerked in a weird direction and I was “really seeing stars.” As we reached the bottom of the ride and slammed to a stop, Clay and I tripped over each other trying to get out fast enough that we could get in line for another try.

Clay and I shared an interest in the “head jerking, give-me-whatcha-got” rides. And since Sean felt sorry for me that I had never been to Disneyland, he agreed to take Judd and Drew (phobia of heights) on the more delicate rides. Let’s just say, Clay and I danced with death itself. Or at least that’s what Clay thought. Images of Clay and I jerking our way down Thunder Mountain Railroad are indelibly etched into my memories. I looked to my side grinning as I watched him throw his head back. His eyes closed and his mouth wide open in euphoria. The wind ripped through his short, almost white hair as his extended arms flailed in the air above his head. His giggles and shouts of “this is SO awesome!” tickled my emotional funny bone as no longer am I his mom, 24 years his elder, but his partner in daring fun.

At the end of the day, I reflected on our time together. I laughed out loud at the funnies and teared up at the tenders. It was one of the most healing times we’ve ever experienced as a family. Pure fun together. As we walked arm-in-arm back to the car, Judd chased Sean’s shadow, jumping on it as if he were trying to stop it somehow, giggling and squealing after every jump. Laughter that would surely please Walt Disney himself.

The Big Princess

2008-04-08T08:13:00.000-06:00

I’ve decided that being the only girl in the family isn’t so bad most of the time—like when I told Clay the other night while tucking him into bed that he’s my star. “Mom, you’re my angel,” he replies with a grin magical enough to instantly transform me into the celestial being. I guess it was redemption for the insulting comment he made earlier that day when he boldly stated, “Girls brains are made from toothpicks and their heads are made out of rocks!” Drew quickly agreed then added his thoughts, “Yeah, they’re just so dumb.” I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, yeah? Well boys are just smelly, and they make gross noises.” They looked at me blankly with their heads cocked to one side. Then one of them belched.

Once in awhile we insult the grandparents, like when we were in Malad a few weeks ago and he asked Mom and Dad “So what do you do when we're not here? Do you just sit around doing nothing?” He redeems himself once again as we’re driving off and he longingly looks out the window at Grandma and Grandpa waiving on the front porch. With his nose pressed to the window, he sighs and in a low whisper says, “I wish we didn’t have to go. I’m really going to miss them.”

I have to admit, there was one day in March I had toothpicks for brains, and most likely a large boulder for a head. It all started one snowy morning after a long night with Judd throwing up every two hours. I forced myself to get up and make breakfast for the boys before school. As I flipped the pancake, I felt something ping me in the back of the head. I turned to see Judd hurling his apple slices at me, one by one until none were left on his plate. I glanced at the calendar on the fridge to see what other damage might come that day, and noticed Sean had written that he was going to be out-of-town the entire next week. This was fine until I noticed he would be gone the day I was in charge of a big meeting that required significant time and preparation. I looked at the apple Judd had thrown at me on the floor next to the counter. Anger burned up my neck and into my toothpick brains, catching them on fire. I cocked my leg back and swung as hard as I could, imagining I was aiming for the corner of the goal in a soccer penalty kick. Apparently it has been over a decade since I’ve played organized soccer as I completely missed and kicked the leg of the island. I immediately heard a pop followed by searing pain through my foot. (I’m sure it was nothing compared to the lightning that exited Blake’s butt). I mumbled something and hopped to my room on one leg.

According to the x-ray, I chipped off a piece of the bone that was still partially connected to the tendon next to the first joint in my right big toe, so I had to have surgery. The podiatrist took out the bone fragment and sewed up the damaged tendon. During the two weeks I had to wear the nursing home resident boot with three wide Velcro straps, my healing toe was only stepped on twice and stubbed three times.

In an effort to sharpen my toothpicks, I enrolled in a couple of courses at the university to hopefully finish up my Bachelor Degree within the next few years.

Ode to Potty Training

2008-02-27T14:12:00.000-07:00

Potty training. Groan. Whine. Gnashing of the teeth. It stirs even the most deeply buried of animalistic emotions. Somehow your mind optimistically tricks you into thinking it might be different this time--he might only have one accident before completing the potty training course perfectly. The pee-soaked stains emerging from ten different spots in the carpet quickly fade from your memory.

Judd did quite well for the first seven days or so averaging only one or two slippages the entire time. Then, the dam broke, and we have been reaching our hands upward, mouthing the word “why”, in desperation ever since. One accident in particular was a large, camouflage puddle on the wood floor (its size would embarrass Lake Powell) sneakily hidden next to the side of the fireplace. Drew, an innocent bystander apparently unaware of the potty course Judd was taking, careened left, then right, then skidded out of his hydroplane landing softly on the rug, both hands out like an airplane.

Then there’s the supposed magic potty seat, aka donut, covered in Sesame Street characters. It is a vain attempt to somehow coerce the child in training to crave going potty so they can sit on the beloved Elmo. One cold, miserable day, I finally got Judd situated perfectly on the cushy seat. I turned my head in distraction only to feel a fine, wet spray, shrapnel from an errant missile, graze my face and the side of the wall. We can drop to our knees, we can scream, we can shake our fists. Or, we can trick ourselves into thinking some day we might miss these days of intense frustration and infinite elation.

Drew has let only one swear word slip from his tight lips this entire school year, and we believe it is due to his phenomenal teacher, Mr. Moser. So we nominated him for the KSL Teacher Feature Award, and he won! (for a look at the entire letter and the real reason we nominated him, please go here http://www.ksl.com/?nid=428&sid=2495929). So KSL's very own Amanda Dixon and an "Extremely Important Person" from Zion's Bank came to Legacy Elementary and presented Mr. Moser with the prestigious award at a large assembly. The kids hopped to their feet and proudly gave him a standing ovation. Drew wasn't sure about all the hullabaloo, but seemed to survive with a hearty grin that never left his face.

Kristine and I went snowshoeing up American Fork canyon with views so beautiful it would make any super model look ugly, except for maybe Ben Stiller’s “Blue Steel” in Zoolander. Despite talking about avalanches the entire time, how terrible it would be to be buried alive and discussing in scientific detail what it might be like to die in such a way, we made it out refreshed and vowing to do it again before spring.

Seasons Greetings Delayed

2008-01-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

We escaped the holidays unscathed—save the broken vase over Thanksgiving and the holes burned into the backsides of our snow pants from skidding down the sledding hill after flying off our saucers. I haven’t felt the thrill of barreling down a hill that fast since I was probably five, six, or seven, and I’m turning red at having to admit I was trembling in my skivvies at the top looking down.

Judd careened down the hill in his green mini toboggan faster than any almost three-year old should probably go, his head bouncing so hard his teeth chattered all the way to the bottom. His red cheeks glowed through the icy snow that stuck to his face as his lips parted into a smile so big it rivaled the moon behind us. I looked up to see Drew, almost in orbit, slam into a young woman who was obliviously standing in the sled path, knocking her off her feet. I was sure she was unconscious since she didn’t get up for what seemed like a really long time. I lean over and mumbled something like this to Sean, “Helmets might be good next time,” wincing as I witnessed near collisions all around me at speeds of 30+ miles per hour. Ahh, though, the sound of plastic slicing through the snow is a good one. Unless, that is, when the plastic happens to be your front bumper…

I was in a big time hurry, and I couldn’t find a parking space. Finally spotting what looked like a winner I wasted no time. I whipped into it going a little too fast and slammed into the snow bank in front of me forcing the car in an upward position. I attempted to back up, self-conscious now strangers were gawking as the engine revved to over 5 RPM’s. Yet the car still wouldn’t budge. Images of the car stuck on the mound of snow with all tires spinning freely in the air sent taser-like currents swimming through my limbs. Then I looked down at the dashboard and realized I was in neutral. I smiled while nodding at the onlookers, then gently slid it into reverse.

On a more serious note, I enjoyed catching up with family on Grandma’s funeral and took comfort knowing that she’s with Grandpa. Brian and Blake get the “Good Guys” award for traveling so far in one day and being there even though it was at a great sacrifice. Mom gets the “I Can Stay Stoic” award for putting up with so much sh** which seems to pile up in suffocating amounts. Kristine and Julie, I don’t know what awards you get. I don’t have enough for everyone.

December 2007

2007-12-11T23:11:00.000-07:00

Halloween screeched through our week like an 18-wheeler swerving to miss a large animal. Sean decided Las Vegas would be much more thrilling than hauling an old man, a green slime bucket, and a skunk around the neighborhood--all greedily begging for treats. So on Monday, he slipped quietly out the back door, suitcases still swinging at his sides, claiming he had some VERY important business meetings that would take the entire week. Make no mistake, I was the lucky one this year.

I woke up early the morning of the morbid day, and strapped on my Ghostbusters backpack, poised to tackle the early morning school costume parade. With one spray foam can clutched one hand, and one green hairspray poised in the other, I was equipped to create the greatest slime bucket costume in the history of slime bucket costumes. Clay stood before me strategically placed inside a black, Rubbermaid garbage can, with a hole on each end for his head and feet. His duct taped suspenders hung over his shoulders. “Close your eyes,” I said in monotone. “Mom, I’m not sure…” But I couldn’t hear the rest because the “psssssss” from the spray can drowned out any other trivial words. “Hold your hands up!” I shouted while busily covering the entire top of the lid with foam. I giggled under my breath as I watched it expand to twice its size. Soon, the “psssssss” was drowned out by Clay’s crying, “I can’t hold my arms up any longer! I just can't...” The “nooooo” lingered on my lips in slow motion as I watched his arms droop and come to rest into the unset goop. As he lifted his long sleeve covered arms, webs of gooey, unsolidified, spray foam connected his arms to the lid of the garbage can. I frantically turned the can to the side where I read, “Caution: Always wear gloves, takes 10 minutes to set, and turpentine needed for clean up. I turned and said dammit so soft, only the ground and me could hear it. I whirled around and looked at him so long and in so many different ways, I thought it might actually change what I was seeing. I checked my watch. Ten minutes until the costume parade. I stripped him naked, slammed on a clean shirt and gloves and sprayed the foam all over again. This time the garbage can was on the ground--without Clay inside. I waited as long as I could possibly wait, approximately 500 jumping jacks later, and careened two miles down the road to the elementary school just in time for the big show. Another close one for the memory books.

As Thanksgiving draws near we gobble with the anticipation of spending three days together, shoveling down more calories than a one-ton dump truck can haul, and grimacing as the kids run around Blake & Kate’s table in dizzying pursuit of the chosen one holding the wishbone. Our expectations aren’t unrealistic; we just hope our boys remember to put their clothes back on after their showers, and to close the bathroom door before unloading their holiday delights. If not, you can’t tell me you haven’t been cautioned not to look.

Here's to happy holidays!

October 2007

2007-12-11T23:10:00.000-07:00

My birthday was filled with surprises and even more surprises. Sean (and several other contributors) bought me a shiny, red full-suspension Diamond Back mountain bike. I’m not sure if he was more excited about the great deal he got, or giving it to me for my birthday as he jubilantly pointed out the upgrades and squishy gel seat he handpicked for my oh-so-delicate tush. He urged me to test ride it before “the big ride” he had planned for the following morning up South Fork Provo Canyon. I took off before he could change his mind and rode a mile or so on the canal trail not far from our house. I met up with a boy who I thought was treading water without the water, but quickly realized he was rollerblading. I passed him widely in the weeds as to not get beaned by his flailing arms. I smiled and giggled like a young girl as a bug splattered between my two front teeth. I could hear the wind spray past my ears even as I slowed down to cross the street. I quickly realized it wasn’t the wind, but the air seeping out of both tires that were speckled with goat heads (thorns). I knew one of Sean’s favorite jobs was changing flat tires, so when I explained what happened I was surprised by his lack of enthusiasm and the sounds of clanking tools and swear words seeping through the garage door.

Manipulating Drew’s and Clay’s sports schedules can test even the most savvy juggler—of which I’m not. Throw in a fever and a seal-like barking cough, and one kid that “can’t hold it any longer” with no bathroom in sight, and you have the recipe for pure glee—and sports spectating at it’s finest. Add tears of just missing that touchdown pass and the screams of joy for unknowingly shooting and swishing it in the wrong basket and it’s family fun unmatched.

Parent teacher conferences almost parallel the anticipation of fall sports. Teachers rave about Drew and Clay being good students. Then their voices turn low and raspy as they lean in talking through clenched teeth, “and if they could just shut up, they would be even more amazing” as if they have just shared the coveted secret of success. I nod and smile, the light glints off my eye.

Judd likes to whack people in the head when they least expect it. Then he makes it up with a sweetness only a double scoop of earnestly chocolate ice cream with a cherry on top can match. As I busily talk on the phone one morning, he leans over and whispers in my ear. “Mom, tell ya secret?”
“Yeah, babe,” I whisper back, covering the phone.
“I wuv you sooo much.”
I drop the phone forgetting what I was talking about anyway, and we hug and dance around the room. I wonder how I got so lucky.

I’m also reminded how lucky we are when Drew tells me he feels like he was sent to our family for a reason, and that even though he doesn’t know why, he is grateful because he loves us so much. In the same lucky day, Clay asks me if we’re going to have another baby someday. I tell him “no”, but thanks anyway. “Good mom, because I like our family just the way it is.”

Somehow during these tender times, our whiplash-like schedule seems to stop for a fleeting moment, and I’m engulfed by their love for life and the frank simplicity of their words.

August 2007

2007-12-11T23:08:00.000-07:00

Today is the first day of school. It is a happy day. The quietness surrounds me like a warm blanket.

We’ve had a great, yet busy, summer. Clay, who turned seven in June, continued his guitar lessons—complete with a three quarter size metallic blue electric guitar. He also moved up a level in gymnastics where, here comes the bragging, he’s the only boy in gymnastics that can do the full-on splits (ouch). When we have guests over he’ll unexpectedly drop into the splits followed by a gasp from the crowd. I’m sure he’s shown most of you his Circ De Soleil-like acrobatics. He certainly doesn’t lack confidence. Just yesterday I complimented him on building an amazing lego structure. I asked him how he did it. He explained, “I just have a terrific mind, of course. I bet if you had a terrific mind, you could do it too!”

Drew is nine years old, perfect for babysitting Judd while I mow our new lawn. Yes, we’re thrilled we finally have grass to replace the sea of 4-foot weeds that nearly overtook our dwelling. No more stickers in our socks or, if we wore flip flops, twigs between our toes. Judd loves a screaming underdog in his swing on the new swingset, while Clay carefully scales the top of the 10-foot monkey bars, then drops into the splits. Ok, I lied on the last part.

Drew has been my big helper this summer, yelling at the other boys if they’re not doing their jobs so I don’t have to. No, really, it is nice to have a child finally old enough to carry their weight around here. Drew will start piano lessons again with the start of the school year. I’m anxious once again to hear songs played three times as fast as the normal rendition, then trying to name that tune while I busily attend to my housework.

Judd, two years old who will be three in February, likes experimenting with different ways to say “No!” or “That’s mine!” The other day I caught him watching cartoons with his potty seat balancing perfectly on his head. His red hair has been replaced with more of a blonde rendition for the summer, which goes better with most of his outfits anyway, and the hot pink toenails we painted together several weeks ago.

Sean joined a city softball league with his brother. He likes to boast about his multiple home runs, just to me of course, and his amazing “diving behind the back catches” in the outfield. I’m glad he’s having fun. I guess the $200 D. Marini bat he bought on Ebay is a justified expenditure. Work keeps him busy, not busy enough to not continue having his daily bowl of BYU Creamery Earnestly Chocolate ice cream, but busy.

Did I tell you I wrote a book? Oh, you’re thinking, I thought I was reading it. No. My real book is 400 pages. Hopefully I’ll get a publisher. If not, I’ll have to find the nearest cliff. It has taken me three years and a lot of research and practice. I’m still working on the autism council seeing some great efforts develop into solutions and resources for family members and those affected with autism. It’s a rewarding outlet.

I’m really looking forward to Thanksgiving. I hope all of you are planning to mooch off Blake and Kate along with our family.