In warmth, in green, in love…

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

• 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

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...

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

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

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

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.