Leisa A. Hammett

I'm Not Yo Mom..But Could be. Damnit!

He strode up to the fire. Bluejeaned and cowboy booted. And a hat to match. (We were at a hat party.) (I wore a Santa cap.) I couldn't take my eyes off him. The Boyfriend standing next to me was no inhibition whatsoever for my lustful gaze. I made small talk. Where was he from? North Dakota. He had to have been a model once upon a time? I noticed the lush, full lips. The day's growth of black beard matching the shine of the curls peeking from underneath his white straw hat. He had toyed with modeling back, he said, when he was a wee tyke. (Like three seconds ago when he was still a teen.) You came here to be in music, didn't you? I taunted. He had tried his hand at that, too. I assured him, I didn't know what he sounded like, but he had the looks that Music Row was after.

At some point, The Boyfriend had stepped away. Not a jealous bone in his body. God love him. And I do. And he knows it. This cowboy was just eye candy and conversation curiosity. I say to the cowboy,  in reference to something or another: "I'm old." (One of my Gemini Twins knows it's not so.) He looks at me curiously. Flatteringly, he guesses "31?" [Ego noticeably palpitates.] No, 48....I don't remember much else from that point on except at some point I realize the conversation died after that. But while we chatted, ever the multi-tasker, I collected data for this hottie I was talking to by the fire. I surveyed the women gathered. Her. Her. Her. There were three pretty ones just his age. I glanced at them, glanced at him. "Are ya'll taking this in?"I'm trying to telepath. "Hey, look, there's a girl over there. She's pretty." I don't think he hears my mind mimed message because we say our goodbyes and he passes by Girl No. 1. But I mouth to her, shaking my head no and pointing to myself: "Too old." I point to her and nod my head "yes." I wink and give her a thumbs up. Then I point to him and hold my hands up, the palms as if they are feeling the heat. "Hot!" I mouth. The Boyfriend sees all this and laughs.

I go in. Dance a little. Eat a little. Well, a lot. And I come back to the fire. I see that Mr. Hottie Cowboy has found Girl No. 3. Seems I haven't lost my ability to send signals to sexy single men. Only problem: in the aging process I've morphed into a waspish version of Yente, the Matchmaker of "Fiddler on the Roof" fame....

Great.

I Am Not Growing Older

Having kids will do it to you.Offspring will remind you in the blink of a quickly crinkling eye lid that you are...Aging. The first rude hint came when I hired my daughter's first series of sitters. That was 15 years back. Suddenly I had flashbacks of sitting on plastic upholstered backseats in large,terra cotta-colored sedans. This was the gas guzzling 70s, preceding the gas mongering SUV 90s. Clearly, my mind's eye recalled the bouffant-ed do of the bespeckled, polyester-ed Sunday's best and heels, complete-with-matching-clutch-grasping-mother in front of me. The whole family would tool over to pick me up for a night of babysitting.

I know. I just know those women had to be older than the age I was when I hired my first sitter. But reality check told me I, as a new mother at 34 then, was probably older than those mothers of blossoming broods for which I sat back in the 70s. ICK! And reminded AGAIN was I of this startling truth when I began working with the youngest, hippest return student from the local university grad school program. We'd crafted a deal for her to create a much needed makeover of my daughter's website: www.GraceGoad.com. (Still under construction at this writing.)

Poor dear. I made her drive all the way out to the burbs with a promise of lunch out and a plea that I might need assistance in transferring my art files from my desktop to her thumbdrive. Like a buzzard with no brain, I forgot the steps of the transfer process after every repetition. Patiently, my high-tech tutor says to me: "I know. My parents are the same way. Your generation was not raised on technology like mine." What? NOW YOU LISTEN TO ME, YOU PIPSQUEAK. YOU...YOU...YOUNG WHIPPERSNAPPER, YOU!: I am not your parents generation! Reality check. Mom's just a few years older than me. But, wait! I am not old. I'm hip like you! I'm 25 or 6, too! My quarterlife crisis was yesterday. Really. Grrrr.

Last Friday I sat elbow to elbow with N., my long-time neighbor and writing bud. Together we have been navigating our way into the foreign waters of the blogosphere. She gets a call from her freshman college student son. She chats. Hangs up. And then announces he and his younger sib think it's funny that we are creating blogs. I don't see the humor.

And then B's Dad says to me and J. the other night as our children rode tall horses in a chilly horseback therapy arena: "Folks. I hate to say it. We are getting left behind." No! This can't be true! I am not behind. Well, actually, I woefully am.

But now really, I wouldn't trade this growing older thing. And just remember. I may be growing older. But. I. Am. Still. Hip.

Am TOO! And the proof: I am not your mother! I do not sport a bouffant. And I do not wear cat-eye glasses. Although last time I was down in hiptown, I noticed more than one twentysomething sporting a pair....

Crockpot Carrot Cake Muffins

WAIT! This is not a recipe post! If cooking is not yr thing, please keep reading. Ummm, well, maybe I lied. I guess it is a bit of a recipe post. ONLY, it's an autistic kinda recipe. We have a lot of those in our weird version of the world here. And, I guess my daughter, Grace, got caught up in all the discussion with The Boyfriend -- the Real Cook -- his mother and my sister, who drove in for Turkey Day, about all the eats and takes on how to prepare them.

Actually, it was simply sheer determination to have some muffins, Damnit! It had nothing to do with overheard conversations about cranberry relish, dressing, sweet potato casserole, etc. For at least a week now, my refrain was an unrewarding "no," each time she pulled one of our three whole food box mixed varieties. An unusually compliant child, she'd put them resignedly back on their upper shelf. Other times, she'd move them down to eye level, next to the frequently visited crackers. There was never enough time, we'd already gotten our carb allotment plus another week's worth on a given day. "No."

Finally, today while I showered, Grace had made up her mind. The time was right. Carpe Diem! Rushing out the door per usual, I never noticed anything unusual. It wasn't until we'd come home hours later after our school holiday cavort about town that I saw the evidence. A box of carrot muffin mix, ripped into as if a raccoon or some other primitive creature had hit pay dirt. Grace is a bit of an animal of sort, in her most loving way, and who needs lids and tabs? She'd ripped that sucker right in two. Where?! Where was the bag of muffin mix?! Not in the trashcan with it's matching now mangled box. Not in the pantry. I demanded an answer. From a child who can't talk all that much. Silently she lifted the lid to the trashcan, fished around and sheepishly showed me an empty bag. Had she eaten DRY mix? It would not be out of the question for my little rodent offspring. 

Minutes later, while puttering about the kitchen, I saw it. I'd left the crock pot out after making black-eyed pea soup that morning. (I had finally made corn muffins with Grace's help to accompany our tasty hot fare. Apparently, that wasn't good enough.) I've got the removable ceramic pot variety of this American kitchen staple. And, I'd left the metal heat unit portion on the counter. And. There. Inside. Yep. The Carrot Cake Muffin Mix. She'd been inventive even. Something that looked and tasted like vanilla soy milk had been added. Lots of it. Like a lake's worth of it. And that, my dear readers, is the recipe for Crockpot carrot muffins. You decide on the temperature and the amount of baking time. Me, I dumped it down the drain. And then, I had no choice. I had to wash the part of the Crockpot that the Manufacturer always warns: "Do Not Wash!" 

So, I'm thinking...Maybe I should rename my daugther's little inventive recipe Crackpot Carrot Cake Muffins. Yeah. Crackpot. That's more like it. That's life in our household alright.

Thanks to All Those Who "Get it"

We have a saying in our community about people who inhabit Planet Typical Earth. And it's simply this: some of you get IT. And some of you don't. Wednesday's rant was about the community fitness center and other service organizations that fail to get IT.

Umm. Oh, yeah, what is "IT"? "IT" is some level of understanding of this life on Planet Autism. If only to figure we are different and we could use a little compassion. You don't fear us. You don't exclude us. You even go out of your way to include us. And on this day of Giving Thanks, I say Thanks.

Thanks to the pretty young things who greeted us at Frothy Monkey (www.frothymonkeynashville.com) and Fido's (www.bongojava.com/fido.html) coffee shops Monday. Your beautiful, young faces, unmarred by age, lit up with surprise and genuine joy in your eyes and your demeanor. You said you'd missed us. Errr, and I'm sorry, I barely remember one of you from our summer stops at your hip shop. But, you remembered us. And by reaching out to us with your eyes, your smile, your voice, you gave us a gift for which I am grateful.

Thanks to the pretties at Jon Alan Salon (www.jonalansalon.com) who seemed so sincerely excited to see us come through the door Tuesday. Well, yeah, I know it's your job. But to be so personable to my odd little girl. To come over and sit on the bench beside her and to try to engage her in conversation as she scrunches her face and covers her eyes. She was so happy to see you, Rebecca. Thank you. You gifted me.

We live in a world that expects perfection and well, we aren't so perfect. I love our imperfection. But it really means something when you -- even the stranger who was so gracious after Grace bent and sniffed your frappacino -- to show us such kindness despite our differences.  For you, for all those on Planet Typical Earth, I say thank you. Life is Good. And we are Blessed.

Happy Thanksgiving. Thanks for making the world a kinder place.

A couple of friends sent this ray of cyber sunshine for the day and I beam it toward to: http://www.thanksgivingmovie.com/info_thxgiv.htm

Can U Help?

The steam of emotional frustration I felt yesterday evening coiled my blond curls into tighter ringlets. I love my challenged life. I really do. But there are elements about special needs parenting that make me want to cram a comforter within my chops and SCREAM.

Instead, last night, I practiced the familiar state of resignation. Mentally text messaged toxic vibes to the detriment of my precious DNA. And, employed the ever popular and ineffective passive aggressive maneuver.

The latter tact came when I practically yelled at the community gym employee behind the desk that NO, I could not go out and find and hire a sitter to watch my daughter with autism in the pool while I stole a 20-minute commune with the elliptical machine. (Exercise that I'd missed because of the morning downpour and it being a school break.) I just shelled out $140 in childcare since Thursday, I told her. Never mind part of it was so I could go help other parents learn about autism. (My choice.)

I live in a complicated world. Okay. We all live in a complicated world. But anyone traveling the special needs journey knows just how complication is compounded by more complication. And. I. Just. Need. A Little. Extra. Help. Please. And, I'm not the only one. I need others who are on the outside looking in...if you are looking (You-Who?) to shed a little empathy. To think how they might help a challenged special needs family.

But this rant is not really about you. It's about organizations. The service variety. Or the corporate kind wanting to flex their servitude consciousness. Organizations like churches. Synagogues. Community Fitness Centers. I've needed you so badly the last 12 years. And mostly you've not been there for me and my peers. Instead, we families do it alone or 2nd mortgage the house to purchase help. (I kid not. Common practice in the autism community.) Sometimes we don't go out. We limit our lives. Or, we venture and then suffer the consequences such as the 75 percent of special needs families that would attend a house of worship don't because you're not physically or attitudinally accessible.

A new year's coming. Think about it. Where can you make a difference? You may not see us, but we are there. One in 150 of us have autism. We need you to care. Please. I'm tired. Don't ask me to create, innovate, originate one more thing than I'm already creating, innovating, originating for my child on a daily basis. As Miss MaryAnn of the Vanderbilt Bill Wilkerson Center used to tell our newly diagnosed, not-yet-verbal children during instructive play speech therapy: "NOW: YOU DO IT!"

Rant over.

A Consciousness Rising

Up-turned noses and feisty, divisive bi-partisanship sneered and smeared with accusations of "Pretty Words." "Warm Fuzzy Rhetoric." And, "Feel Good Speeches." Guess what? The guy who talked pretty won. But, hold on. I'm not here to rub it in anyone's face who voted otherwise. But I do want to talk about something more than pretty words and why the message of Barack Obama sunk deep and took hold of 53 percent of our country...I know. It's been three weeks. This post would have maybe been more timely had I of made the time to write it sooner. But life intervened and it took me time to process the significance of where we are and where we are potentially going.

First let's look at the symbolism. A man named Ba-whhhat? O...Who? A man born of an African father and a White American woman. A mother who, early on, became a single mother. Barack Obama would spend the majorityof his growing up years in a single-parent household like so many since the 70s. He is a man whose maternal grandparents hailed from the country's heartland. Who once lived in Indonesia and finished out the rest of his formative years in the cultural soup pot mixture of Hawaii. Barack Obama is America. Vintage 2008. We are no longer White Folks. And Colored Folks. And then them Foreign Folk. We are blended just like Obama. Observe the genetic and cultural patina of the generation who just arrived at the cusp of voting age. They do not look like the undiverse waspishness of my 60s-70s segregated Southern youth.

This man, Our president-elect, is Harvard educated, yet brushed aside six-figure starting salaries to community organize the grassroots of Chicago. Community Organizing, Smamunity Smorganizing said the detractors. Yes. That's right. Community Organizing. It equals building consensus. Constructing coalitions. Organizing the People to accomplish the needed Good. And it's already being put into action for the next presidential administration.

A perfect lineage. A perfect resume. In the dream of a future whose time has come. I hope. I yearn. My soul pleads the Greater Force.

I am reminded of the classic-in-the-making, Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth. While Tolle wrote of a global shift, I think America is perched on no less of a cliff of change.

Consciousness. That is what Barack Obama awakened within us. Some of us. A rekindled or a never or rarely-lit Hope that we could return to the ideals of being about the business of Greater Good here in America and within out wide-wide world.

For nearly three decades, we've suffered from the fissure-turned canyon of Great Divide instigated by the polarization planted during The Reagan Revolution. Congratulations. We hate each other now. And the world hates us, too. But maybe...Wait! I think I see a light. And others see it, too. And, did you catch the news coverage from around the world where countries were celebrating this election? 

Along with America -- at least some of us -- they are Sick. And. Tired. Of Cowboy Politics. Of playing shoot 'em up Bang-Bang.  Of "Us" vs. "Them." Of "Enemies," "Evil Forces" and "The Great Big BoogeyMen." Both at home and over there....Democracy does not come at the edge of a bayonet. Or, as my neighbor's bumper sticker reads: "Be nice to America or we'll come take over your country." 

But just as Tolle predicts, resisters of Change will and are a' kickin' and a' screamin' and would rather cling to their Rush-hate-spewed-radio-rhetoric and lies-perpetuating social media generating labels of divisiveness. Much cryin' n' a'bitichin' and gnashing of teeth going on. The Politics of Fear sprung forth deep, deep tentacles into our collective psyche.

Despite. Meanwhile. I believe that our country/world is on a precipice of REAL Change. Of Transcendence. Of...Evolution. Obama is a consciousness raiser. A voice. A Portal for moving beyond where we've been stagnating. Will we move beyond where we've been? Will we be able to move forward into a greater, wider, more open existence? To embrace a more Peaceful World View?

Ever. So. Anxiously. My Heart Hopes So.

Kid Flicks R Really 4 Adults

Sure. Hollywood wants to extract a chunk from parents' wallets when they market all-too-infrequent, in my opinion, kid movies. (And why is it that they are so few and far between and then come out AllAtOnce?!) But, ever sat through one of these wonders of animation? They're really not about the tykes watching them. They are intricately layered with innuendo and laced with subtle humor that hurls over childish minds and has the potential of landing and sloshing joyfully within adult brains....

I say potentially, because: WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?! On a good day in the theater, I might be joined by ONE thinking adult who GETS IT. Usually I'm the only one laughing. Occasionally there will be another adult guffawing with me. Do other parents not get it? Have their ipod on? Snoozing? Yesterday, there were two people who got it: The Boyfriend and his mother. (They had decided to join us for our comedic venture.) And then there were two adults up behind us. But more about them later.

The movie was the new "Madagascar 2." Lots of puns on New Yorkers. And little hilarious, almost miss-able tidbits like the plane piloted by birds that cannot fly. (Penguins.) But the thing that got The Boyfriend and I and those two adults above us was the political humor. One piercing jab at the outgoing (Thank. God.) administration of George W. (1.20.09. WOO-HOO!)

A rakish raccoon character holds the would-be lion king's scepter in his spinely little fur-backed paws and fantasizes. I paraphrase. "The one thing I'd like to do is take over another part of the world and force my ideologies on everybody." [SNORT!]

Hollywood: I'm not your biggest fan. But, a Sarah-wink to ya. YOU got it! YOU betcha! Good for you, boys! (And girls.) And I hope you make lots of money while you are at. I gave you a quarter of a hundred bucks out of my skinny billfold yesterday, bad popcorn included.

igbok

From all appearances, it seemed that I'd been solicited. I approached my car in the parking lot after this morning's service at the spiritual center I attend. A white business card with blue print was wedged into the bottom of my driver's side window. As I drew nearer, I could read the company moniker included the word "Foods." Had all the cars in our lot been blanketed by someone advertising a last minute Thanksgiving special? I looked around. My car appeared to be the only one. As I removed the card, I read the black cursive handwriting: "Autism: Please call me!!"

My bumper bears an "Autism Awareness" puzzle design magnet. Two stickers also bear autism messages: in the common white and black oval, "Aut" appears, as in the foreign country of AutismLand, where I live. And, then there's the faded "I love somebody with autism."

Before I left the lot, I dialed the number. It seemed to be a general company mailbox, but I hesitantly left a message with my name and number and also left the number and website address of our local Autism Society of Middle Tennessee. I phoned the society and told them to expect a call and the circumstances. And then I wondered about the person who saw my car's stickers at Center that day. The person who felt the urgency to leave a note with those four words, punctuated with two exclamation points.

Who are you? Are you a desperate Dad searching for answers for a young child? For an older child who might have Asperger's syndrome yet undiagnosed? Do you have an adult sibling and you've heard that Asperger's, a form of high-functioning autism, just might explain their lifetime of struggles?

You are not the first person who has spotted those stickers and left me notes. Peppered me with questions. Here's what I have to say to you, whoever you are.  Get help. Reach out. Make our local society your ally. Come hear me in January at the society's bi-monthly Autism Orientation http://tnautism.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=24&Itemid=39. And: igbok.

First, credits go to talented Nashville artist David Arms http://www.davidarms.com/ for the term igbok. It stands for "its going to be okay." So you, dear, whoever you are: igbok. It may not feel like it right now. It may not feel like it for a long time. But you had the gumption, the drive to reach out to me and you will find the help you and your loved one needs. Will it be perfect? Rarely...at least in the world's definition. Will it be frustrating at times? Yep.

If you continue to reach out for help and for answers, you will find people who care for your child and your family. Caring professionals. You will find friends that you never expected to meet. With intervention and armed with proper information, you will see progress. It may seem like baby steps, but then you may also come to realize like I and many others on this challenging journey do, they really aren't so small. They are GIANT.

You may hear that this is a bad thing. Please don't believe it. Your loved one came wrapped in a different package. Sometimes the wrappings are clumsy and can be exasperating in your attempts to open them. But you've still got a gift in this loved one of yours. I hope you will know that. I wish you well in your journey...

And: igbok.

The Intelligence in Everything

"Silently witness the intelligence within every living thing." -- Deepak Chopra, The Seven Spritual Laws of Success

Five Quarters a Day

In tough economic times like these, it can be easier to focus on what's going wrong with our wallets and world than it is to focus on what's going right. Through job loss, the autism diagnosis of my daughter, a divorce and more, I've learned that focusing on what I DO have reminds me that I am blessed even when the forecast may look cloudy.

I am a paid moderator for a social media site in my town. A participant shared on out site an idea whose origins I've been unable to track: http://nashville.momslikeme.com/members/JournalActions.aspx?g=247002&m=2836785 The possible source could be Samaritan's Purse. It's an activity per day for families to focus on what they do have and then set aside change for those who don't have.  For instance, one day children count all the light bulbs in their house, donating two cents per light bulb to a collection jar or bowl. The emphasis that day would be gratitude for electricity. The exercise is paired with statistics about children living in poverty and lacking clothing. Participants in the project give two cents per pair of socks or tights, for instance. At the end of the month, the funds are donated to a charity of choice.

I've decided on my own version. It won't involve as much participation on my daughter's part. I'm not sure the comprehension for the project's purpose is possible for her, but she will enjoy dropping the coins into a jar with me. I've already gone to the bank and cashed in $43 of my Christmas savings for this project. That's $43 dollars in rolled up quarters and some spare. I intend to feed the charity kitty five of those quarters a day.

For about a dozen years now, I've kept a gratitude journal. Actually, it's more than a gratitude  journal. When I awaken each day, ideally I dump my thoughts and feelings onto paper. I include affirmations for the goals I am actualizing in my life. And, I end with five things for which I am grateful. If I miss my journaling for a day, I list them in my head. Since my divorce five years ago, it is difficult for me, even in the dead of winter, to open the blinds and feel the kiss of nature and not be grateful. Even on the bleakest of days. I am alive. And usually, there's sunshine seeking me for a warm embrace. (And, what I mean by the reference to divorce is that the experience taught me once again that all will be well and that amid the emotional challenge and difficulty of sometimes just living, the sunshine of life does come again.)

Now that is something for which to be thankful. And I am. And I am looking forward to giving my quarters to a deserving charity come January 1. And then...the gift will continue. Again, I will be blessed. This time, from the act and the gift of giving.