musings

All posts in the musings category

DNA – Allowing My Boy to be His Own Dinosaur

Published December 1, 2017 by Jen Rosado from MyAlternateUniv

I can’t help it. It’s very much in my nature to observe, interpret, analyze, analyze some more, maybe over analyze a little, and then draw some conclusions. The teacher side of me wants to explain. The writer in me looks for the story. The dreamer searches for deeper meaning.

But I’ll admit there are times when my attempts to tease out the story or provide some kind of philosophical analysis only detract from the moment – times I say too much when I should just let the moment speak for itself.

Because my son is non-verbal, I am always speaking for him. I observe his behavior. I interpret and analyze it. I draw conclusions about what he wants and needs. I’m like the thought bubble above his head, providing context and meaning, as close as I can gather from the clues he’s providing.

However there are holes in the story, missing clues. He has no way to verbalize his internal world of thoughts and feelings – I can only make my best guess at them. And when his behaviors are interpreted through my brain they are sometimes tinged by my experiences, expectations, and biases.

It’s like when Jurassic Park scientists fill in the holes in the dinosaur gene sequence with frog DNA – they get something very close to a dinosaur, but it’s not really 100% dinosaur.

So I’m sharing another of my boy’s favorite YouTube videos. And, oh! How I wanted to analyze the crap out of it because of its profundity and timeliness and timelessness…fill in all the gaps with my parental pride and amazement and perhaps a little philosophical frog DNA about my boy being a “dreamer” like his mom.

But I thought this time I would just let my son be his own dinosaur with as little of me in the mix as possible.  Let him “speak” for himself.

The song is “Imagine” by John Lennon, performed by Playing for Change (my son’s favorite YouTube channel which brings together musicians and singers from all over the globe to “connect the world through music”).

Enjoy!

 

 

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Perspective – Stories Told By Trees in a Giant Forest

Published August 22, 2016 by Jen Rosado from MyAlternateUniv

As the saying goes, sometimes it’s hard to see the forest for the trees – you concentrate so hard on the details that you miss the big picture. By the same token, it’s possible to notice the whole while ignoring it’s individual parts – seeing the forest but neglecting to acknowledge the trees.

Then there are those moments when you see both at the same time. It’s all about perspective.

I remember it clearly. I was maybe 7 or 8 years old, sitting on the floor of my bedroom, deeply engrossed in my activity, carefully cutting pieces of cardboard and taping them together to make horses and farmers to go with the cardboard barn I had made.

I could play like this for hours in my quiet, safe cocoon, fully content to be alone with my creativity.

Carefully I drew a face and clothes on the farmer with a black magic marker then folded his legs so that he could ride his cardboard horse. My world consisted of just this activity at that moment – the farmer, the horse, the barn – a little cardboard world of my own creation.

As I began cutting out the next addition to my farm, my concentration was interrupted by music floating through the wall that separated my bedroom from my brothers’ bedroom, and with the music came a mind-altering realization: While I sat playing on the floor of my room, thinking my thoughts, doing my thing, my brothers were in the next room listening to music, thinking their thoughts, and doing whatever it was they were doing.

It was a weird, out-of-body moment, a new awareness that this was not my world with all the people around me playing a specific role in it – “brother”, “Mom”, “Dad”, “teacher”. Indeed, all those people had their own world, their own thoughts and likes and dislikes. Some had been alive and thinking thoughts and doing things before I was even born!

At that moment, my egocentric understanding of life expanded. This realization didn’t diminish my feelings of self-worth – it instead made me more open to understanding others and seeing different points of view.

I have had several of these “shifts in perspective” throughout my life, moments when I understand something on a cognitive level that on its surface seems completely obvious but for a lack of recognition – like suddenly seeing both the forest and the trees.

I remember being in elementary school, my teacher quietly asking if my parents could afford to pay for the field trip to the circus, the different colored ticket I carried to the cafeteria every day for reduced-cost lunch, the food stamps and government surplus food my family qualified for – all this fed into my perception that I must be poor. By the time I was a young adult I had built a mythology on the idea that I had worked hard to overcome humble beginnings to achieve my goals.

In my mid-twenties, I interned in an urban school in a section of the city known for socioeconomic challenges.

A moment of clarity came as I tutored a third grader who was reading at a first grade level. He was struggling more than usual this particular day, and he finally looked up at me and said, “Miss, my dad is in the hospital. He OD’d last night. The ambulance came and everything. I’m really worried about him.”

That was the moment I stopped congratulating myself for pulling myself up by my bootstraps.

Because I hadn’t.

Comparatively speaking, my upbringing had been idyllic, charmed even, with the opportunity to play, and be a kid, and create farms out of cardboard – without the burden of grown-up stresses.

Admitting this fact did not diminish the pride I had in my accomplishments – it instead made me more aware of disparity and how vastly different life experiences can be.

And here again, my son and his diagnosis of autism have pushed me out of my zone of comfort into this alternate universe and an entire community I previously never knew existed, a community familiar with struggle and need.

Autism does not discriminate. The workshops, seminars, and support groups I’ve attended are a mix of people of all races, ethnicities, religions, and social classes. We share. We listen. We empathize. Our commonality is that we are all parents of children with special needs, however each of us brings our own history, our own unique personalities, talents, and challenges.

Beyond statistics and numbers, beyond stereotypes – Each of us is a story.

A few months after our son was diagnosed with autism, my husband was laid off from his job. It was 2011 and “The Great Recession” was in full swing, so our story was not unique. But then again – our story WAS unique. The emotions, the fears, and the complications that enhanced them were very much our own.

After my husband found another job and the intense stress and uncertainty subsided, I became active in social media again, only to be confronted by a barrage of memes and comments aimed at shaming the poor, the unemployed, and anyone receiving assistance from the government, despite it being a time of great need. I pushed back, not just in defense of myself but in defense of all those nameless, faceless people comprising the statistics and stereotypes.

Because the people posting these memes were my friends, they responded apologetically – of course they didn’t mean me. But I understood – they didn’t mean me only because they knew me.

To anyone who didn’t know me I was part of those statistics, recently but also when I was a child.  So, too, was the father suffering from addiction and his son who loved him, the struggling parents in my support groups, and even my son with his special needs – all trees in this giant forest.

It seemed on the surface to be so obvious but for the lack of recognition: To have the complexities of each human life reduced to a number or assigned a stereotype, was to deny each unique history, each individual story.

Understanding this on a more global level does not solve the problems of the world nor deny their existence – but it has given me the perspective to view social issues through compassionate eyes, to dig deeper even when my first reaction is anger or judgment.

I’ll admit, I sometimes find this level of awareness overwhelming. So much suffering and need; so much inequity and injustice. It would be easier to retreat to a place of safety, ignoring the complexities of problems by dismissing them with sweeping statements of condemnation.

In an increasingly cynical age, when compassion is seen as naivety and pithy clichés seem to have lost their pith, it takes a surprising amount of courage to listen to the stories told by trees in a giant forest.

But I will listen, and I will continue to challenge perceptions with those stories in the hope that others might catch a glimpse of the world from another perspective… and maybe even be convinced to stay and share some stories of their own.

 

photo courtesy of Pixabay

photo courtesy of Pixabay

 

Nature – Surprising Instincts of a Praying Mantis and a Six Year-Old Boy

Published March 27, 2016 by Jen Rosado from MyAlternateUniv

About three miles from our house there is a white Congregational Church with a tall steeple, giant pillars, and huge, rectangular windows. And behind this church is a shady playground with swings and climbers and plastic houses and a sandbox and seesaws and those bouncy horses attached to giant metal springs in the ground. And around this playground there is a chain-link fence. And on this fence, on this particular summer afternoon, there sat a praying mantis.

I imagine this praying mantis was feeling pretty confident that day, sitting atop that fence, maybe hoping for a yummy insect meal to come her way. Sure there were predators about, in the skies and on the ground. But she didn’t feel overly concerned because her great mantis ancestors had passed on a clever adaptation that offered her protection – the camouflage of a leaf-like body shape.

She knew she wasn’t the foremost predator on the food chain, but in the insect world she was pretty hot shit. After all, praying mantises sometimes ate their prey alive. The females of her species had the reputation for cannibalizing their mates. Some large mantises could eat birds – BIRDS! Not that SHE was capable of that, but still… those are the instincts that demand respect in the world of nature.

She stretched her forearms, rotated her head to take in her surroundings, rocked forward and back a few times on her long, spindly legs, and sighed, settling in for a lazy, relaxing day in the sunshine atop the fence that surrounded the playground behind the church about three miles from our house.

* * *

My son has non-verbal autism.  He LOVES to be outside. He loves nature. He runs with his face to the sky. He smiles and laughs at the wind in the trees. He lies back in the grass or mud or snow, just lies there – listening, feeling, being.

One of my son’s little quirks is that he likes to carry objects around in his hands. These objects can be small toys, or pieces of ribbon, cellophane, or fabric – anything that has an interesting texture. Outside he might carry a twig or a leaf or a long, dry stalk from one of the hundreds of tiger lilies that have taken over our yard.

I can’t say exactly why he carries objects; it’s just something he has done since he had chubby, saliva-covered, toddler fists. Maybe the objects are comforting to him, helping him transition from one space to another. Maybe they distract him from an overwhelming world, giving his hands something with which to “fidget”. Or maybe they just fascinate him. Who knows?

He carried an object out to the car on that warm, summer afternoon – a crinkly straw wrapper from a Capri Sun juice pouch. He dropped it as soon as he climbed into his car seat, trading it for a green, satin ribbon he found on the back seat. I buckled him in as my husband started the car, and soon the three of us were on our way to the playground behind the Congregational Church in town.

This playground had become a favorite of mine since the first time we visited it with one of my son’s therapists. For one thing, a gigantic maple tree shades a good portion of it, which is unusual for playgrounds in our area. It has a wide variety of equipment for children to play on. Although popular on the weekends, it is often empty during the week. And best of all, it is completely fenced in, meaning I can actually relax when I bring my son there instead of hovering close by and chasing him every time he bolts. Here, he’s free to roam and run as he pleases, without Mom cramping his style.

He sprinted through the gate, dropping his green ribbon as he stopped to examine the bouncy horses with their huge metal springs. Then he took off again, heading for the swings. I stooped to pick up his ribbon, sliding it into my pocket for the car ride home. My husband and I slowly followed our boy, with no particular desire to move too quickly in the heat. We watched as he flitted from one area to another, making happy, excited sounds, occasionally finding a new treasure to hold – a small scrap of paper, a sandbox toy, a blade of grass.

A few minutes later, he slowed his pace and drifted toward the perimeter fence. Even though there were no other children around, he was still drawn to this place of safety. He made his way along the fence, keeping his eyes open for anything of interest on the ground or in the skies.

Near the back corner of the playground, I saw him reach out and pluck a leaf from the top rung of the fence. He walked a few steps then opened his hand to examine his leaf with a look of surprise. After a quick glance, he gently placed his other hand over the leaf, walked back to the fence, and put the leaf back on the exact spot he had taken it from. He scrunched his nose a little, brushed his hands on his pants, and hurried away to find a new activity.

Suspicious, I strode over to see what had prompted my boy to return the leaf from whence it came. And there it was, teetering unsteadily on the top rung of the chain link fence – a large praying mantis.

My voice shot up an octave as I half-breathed, half yelled to my husband, “Holy crap! Praying mantis! Honey, he picked up a praying mantis! Did it bite him?! Do they bite?! Check his hands!”

The mantis appeared to be in shock, and although my son had been very considerate in placing her back on the fence, he hadn’t quite gotten her completely balanced before letting go. Now she was slipping off the side, her legs desperately clinging to the wire links.

Not wanting to freak her out even more, I grabbed a stick and used it to push her body onto the bar at the top of the fence where she could position herself better. And there she stayed, posing as I snapped a few photos with my cell phone.

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My son was fine. The praying mantis was fine.

And an interaction that had amounted to no more than a few brief moments had left me with a feeling of great respect for my son. Because I know what I would have done if I had accidentally picked up an insect instead of a leaf – I would have made a high-pitched yelping sound, dropped it on the ground, and backed away whilst shuddering and carrying on in a ridiculously embarrassing manner. I’ll admit it. I’m not proud.

Besides those like me who would react with fear, consider the fate of that praying mantis in the hands of a more thoughtless, more reckless human.

With all his anxiety and impulsiveness, meltdowns and outbursts, my son’s instinct was to be gentle, to protect, to correct his mistake. He exhibited amazing self-control in that moment, given that he had no idea what he held in his hands and if it posed a threat to him.

Praying mantises are so bizarre, so alien in appearance. I wonder what flashed through my son’s mind as he beheld this strange creature, with its triangle shaped head, bulbous eyes, elongated thorax, and long, serrated, multi-jointed forearms. He had no way to ask; he could only search his own memory for a category in which it might belong and, in a split second, decide what he should do with it.

I admire his decision. I admire his instincts.

How sad it is that kindness, gentleness, and compassion are often viewed as weaknesses. In the natural world, the predator is feared and respected. In the human world, it’s the biggest show of force that is respected, the loudest voice in the room that is acknowledged. Power and dominance are associated with strength.

However, I will argue there is a different kind of strength, a deep, sometimes quiet strength, required to resist those predatory instincts,

to do the right thing in spite of fear,

to be kind and compassionate in an unkind world,

to listen and feel and be, without the desire to dominate.

* * *

On a fence surrounding a playground behind a church about three miles from our house sat a praying mantis recovering from a harrowing day. As the sun retreated leaving a warm, damp dusk in its wake, the introspective, humbled insect put her forearms together and thanked her mantis god that she had survived her ordeal. Her leaf-like appearance had been a disadvantage that day, but she had gotten lucky. She was a changed mantis and promised to pay it forward, vowing to never again bite the heads off her mates in the future. She swiveled her head, sensing night’s arrival, as the skies turned pink, then purple, then a deep, deep blue above the chirping playground behind the sleepy church about three miles from our house.

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photo courtesy of Pixabay

Liebster Award – A Post-Thanksgiving Word Workout

Published December 3, 2015 by Jen Rosado from MyAlternateUniv

liebster-award-sticker

I haven’t published a post in a while. Honestly, the past couple months have been personally challenging, and on top of that I’ve had writer’s block. Oh, I’ve had plenty of stuff to say, even jotted down notes and mapped out chapters. But when I sat down to write, the words didn’t dance lithely from my fingertips to the computer screen. Instead they plodded and slogged and stumbled onto the page, collapsing into a clumsy, discordant lines, and no amount of poking and prodding on my part convinced them to rouse and arrange themselves in a more suitable, artistically engaging fashion.

So I took a little break. Rearranged my office. Cleaned my house. Reconnected with some old favorites from my CD collection.

Naturally, my words felt neglected and ignored, and they petulantly reminded me that I HAD been nominated for a Liebster Award over the summer and couldn’t I at LEAST put them to work fulfilling my requirements as a nominee?

It’s true. What better way to whip my lazy, bloated, uninspiring words back into shape than to answer a few questions? It’s a bit like a long, refreshing hike the day after Thanksgiving.

Before I begin giving my words a workout, I’d like to thank Brandi at Destination Enlightenment for nominating me for this Liebster Award and for providing an inspiration to kick-start my writing again. Brandi is a fellow curious traveler on the journey of life, and her blog is thought provoking and meaningful. I highly recommend checking it out!

The Liebster Award rules:

  • Make a post thanking and linking the person who nominated you.
  • Include the Liebster Award sticker in the post too.
  • Nominate 5 -10 other bloggers who you feel are worthy of this award. Let them know they have been nominated by commenting on one of their posts. You can also nominate the person who nominated you.
  • Ensure all of these bloggers have less than 200 followers.
  • Answer the eleven questions asked to you by the person who nominated you, and make eleven questions of your own for your nominees or you may use the same questions.
  • Lastly, COPY these rules in your post.

(OK. You probably noticed the third rule about nominating other bloggers. Because I have not been actively blogging the past few months, I have yet to complete this task. I will be on the look out for bloggers who meet the above criteria and announce my nominations at a later time. My apologies!)

  1. If you could meet one famous person, who would it be?

I’d be lying if I said there were no celebrities I would be interested in meeting. I can think of lots of actors, musicians, and dancers with whom I’d love to sit down and have a cup of coffee. However, when I imagine such a meeting, I can’t help but think of the initial breathless, starry-eyed handshake, me stammering something about being a REALLY BIG FAN, then the inevitable awkward silence followed by the painful small talk one might expect when two complete strangers meet but one just happens to know, admire, and hold the other in high esteem while the other one…doesn’t. The days and months following such a meeting would be filled with worry and embarrassment about the stupid things I said and why I asked that question and what their tone of voice meant when they answered the question and so on. I would never be able to see their movies, hear their music, or watch their dancing again without being reminded of my self-consciously awkward social inadequacies. No sense creating unnecessary angst.

But the question doesn’t say “celebrity”; it just says “famous person”. And the famous person I immediately thought of that I’d love to meet is Pope Francis. I very much admire him because he is someone who leads by example, with wisdom, kindness, and humility. Although I’m not a church going, religious person anymore, I’m in the midst of a spiritual journey of self-discovery. So it would be pretty amazing to meet the Pope, benefit from his wisdom, and get all deep and philosophical talking theology over a cup of coffee (or tea, as the case may be). Besides, being the Pope I’m sure he’d be forgiving of my social foibles.

  1. What is the simplest thing that makes you smile?

This one’s easy: My son’s smile. He has the most beautiful, infectious smile…seriously, I’m not just saying that because I’m his mom.

  1. What is your favorite season and why?

Autumn is definitely my favorites season. The colors, the smells, the fantastic weather, the free admission to beaches and parks, the far more flattering and comfortable fashions (at least for some of us), and pumpkin flavored everything. Most of all – it’s “back to school” time!  Woo-hoo!

  1. What is your all time favorite food?

I love pretty much any food I do not have to prepare myself. My mom has said that I was born too late because of my love for Big Band era music and movies, but I’ll argue I was born too early because the food replicator from Star Trek’s Enterprise has not been invented yet.

I guess if I were to pick one specific food I would say “taco pie”. It’s a dish my husband invented to use up leftovers from taco night. Layer all the leftovers – rice, corn, meat, sauces, avocado, cheese, shells, etc. – in a pie plate, and heat it in the microwave. So yummy and easy! (Almost as easy as saying, “Computer! Chicken taco pie with low-fat cheese, please.” Almost.)

  1. What song gets you pumped?

I notice this question says “pumped” – not a song that inspires you or gives you chills or you can’t help but dance to or makes you cry every single frickin’ time you hear it – I can name oh, so many of those songs. This is a song that gets you “pumped”. If I want a song that makes me feel strong and powerful and loaded with adrenaline for an ass-kicking workout, I dive into my collection of old, heavy metal CDs and pull out Prodigy “The Fat of the Land” album, the song “Mindfields”.

  1. What was the most inspiring book you have ever read?

Being an elementary teacher in my previous universe, I had the pleasure of reading fabulous literature by children’s authors. One of my favorite books is “Morning Girl” by Michael Dorris. I read it to my 5th graders every year. It’s simple in its story lines, yet exquisitely written in such a way that it elicits empathy in the reader without hitting you over the head with sentimentality. I have also read other stories by Michael Dorris, and he has inspired my writing by painting beautiful images with figurative language and by allowing his characters to work through their emotions to discover deeper meaning.

  1. Any other interests other than writing/blogging?

Swing dancing! That’s how my husband and I met. We danced several times a week, belonged to two performance groups, and although we are horribly out of shape now, we can still break out the Lindy Hop and Charleston moves at weddings. (However, our days of lifts and aerials are over, I’m afraid.)

  1. Do you believe in love at first sight?

No. But I do believe in the idea of being on the same wavelength as someone. It’s kind of like the sound waves produced by music notes. Each note alone is beautiful. When combined with another note it can produce harmonic resonance or jarring dissonance. My husband is easy on the eyes, for sure, but I could sense an immediate connection when we actually talked for the first time. Our notes “blend” well.

  1. Are you multi lingual or do you know parts of another language?

Je parle juste un peu le francais. I learned a little French in high school. I remember enough to order food and to ask where the bathroom is.  Right now I’m learning sign language with my son.

  1. Who do you look up to or who inspires you?

My husband and son inspire me. They are the source of my writing material, the brightest stars in my galaxy, the light shining through my dark matter, the pull for my gravity, the action for my inertia, the chocolate center for my Lindt ball, the wind beneath my wings, and all that. They’re pretty awesome.

  1. What do you enjoy most about blogging?

I love connecting with interesting and amazingly talented bloggers from all around the world!!

 

So now my words are feeling useful and reinvigorated, all stretched out and ready for blogging again.  Thank you to my readers for not completely giving up on me!

 

 

Luck – The Humbling Unpredictability of the Dinosaur-Filled Island of Life

Published August 4, 2015 by Jen Rosado from MyAlternateUniv

I’ve written about fate and destiny and cosmic conspiracies, but luck? Luck was something to which I hadn’t given much consideration.

In fact, I used to bristle if someone said I was lucky. Saying “you’re lucky” makes it sound like you’re undeserving, like good things had come your way by chance rather than through hard work and perseverance.

Of course, when “bad luck” struck and things didn’t go as planned, I used to comfort myself with the belief that everything happens for a reason, and there was a significance I might not understand for years or even a lifetime. The comfort was in the knowledge of a larger purpose – everything would work out in the end.

But I understand now that some things just…happen. There is no reason.

Whether you want to call it luck or chance or happenstance, some things in life are random and unpredictable. The very thought of this makes a wild-eyed, breathless, hand-wringing control freak like me break out in a cold sweat.

Honestly, in the grand scheme of life I still believe in a higher purpose – the gifts we were born with that, with hard work and perseverance, lead to what could be considered our “destiny”. But I’m struck by the reality of just how many things in life are determined by mere chance:

At birth: your genetics, innate talents and intelligence, who your parents are, and where you are born – all beyond your control. As a child: your health and nutrition, socio-economic status, and the opportunities available to you to learn and develop skills – again, beyond your control.

It is not until we reach adolescence and young adulthood that we begin to realize some semblance of control. At that point in our lives it’s easy to attribute our achievements only to things that are within our power (like good-old hard work and perseverance). Although luck is all around us in different forms – from fabulous blessings to miserable misfortunes, it’s easy for this fact to be lost in a youthful sense of destiny.

Through experience, I’ve lost a bit of that self-assuredness. There are times when life is less like a box of chocolates and more like a dinosaur-filled island after a tropical storm has knocked out the electricity to the T-Rex and velociraptor paddocks with the supply ship having already departed for the mainland leaving you at the mercy of genetically engineered, carnivorous beasts.

It is, indeed, humbling when there’s a humungous T-Rex eyeball staring in through your window in the form of a pink slip or medical diagnosis or any of a million unforeseen challenges life may throw at you.

It might be mental and emotional fortitude, a soaring intellect, an amazing talent, athletic ability, or quick-wittedness that saves you from being devoured by life’s monsters…if you were indeed lucky enough to be born with such attributes and lucky enough to have had the opportunity to hone such skills.

But even then, you might need help.

I’ve written about my son being on the autism spectrum. The truth is we’re all on a spectrum of sorts, with different levels of abilities and assets to utilize and disadvantages and deficits to overcome.   It’s how we take advantage of the good luck and how we adapt to the bad that sets the course of our lives. It helps shape our character – a character that is ultimately defined by our words, our actions, and how we treat our fellow human beings.

Looking back I realize there have been times in my life when victories came from battles long fought. And, yes, there were times when good things happened seemingly by chance. But it strikes me that, especially in my most anxiety-provoking, dinosaur-filled moments, my good luck came from the kindness of others.

You can’t always be airlifted off your island, but a much-needed supply-drop, the guidance and advice of experts, or even just some words of support and encouragement can make a world of difference.

So I guess you could say I’ve been lucky. I’m grateful for the talents I possess and for the opportunities that have presented themselves along the way, but mostly I’m grateful for family and friends and people in my community I’ve never even met who have helped and supported me when I needed it most.

I truly have an amazing village helping to raise my son.

Whether life is a Whitman Sampler or Jurassic Park, the significance of our struggles and sorrows is their ability to connect us to others, to build understanding and empathy.

And the beauty in this colorful spectrum of humanity is our ability to use our gifts as a positive force in the lives of others – to be a source of someone else’s good luck.

 

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Autism – Delusions and Denial

Published April 28, 2014 by Jen Rosado from MyAlternateUniv

“There are as many atoms in a single molecule of your DNA as there are stars in a typical galaxy.” – Ann Druyan and Steven Soter, Cosmos – A Spacetime Odyssey

Babies are frickin’ amazing.

Oh sure, I know some of you are thinking, “No way!  They scream and cry and spit up and sometimes smell poopish, and they don’t DO anything really.  So what makes them so frickin’ amazing?!”  Well, I mean they’re amazing in a more scientifically, philosophically cosmic way.  Think about it:  Biology, chemistry, and physics combined with the genetics of a mother and father handed down from all their ancestors who came before them to create this unique individual – the only one of its kind in the whole Universe. THAT is frickin’ amazing.

And what’s more, each child is their own person, with likes and dislikes, personality, and talents that sometimes seem to come from neither Mom nor Dad. From the moment babies are born, their minds are full of electricity – experiencing the world through their senses, making observations and connections about what they see and hear and feel, combining these sensations with emotions – building understanding and creating memories.

As the grown-ups tasked with their upbringing, it’s easy to become spellbound by how talented and advanced our child seems in intelligence or physical abilities compared to their peers. Parents can’t help but brag! (Scroll through your Facebook newsfeed – you’ll see what I mean.) When you really think about it, it makes sense to be proud of this incredible little person you created, to boast (or even be somewhat delusional) about their talents and abilities. And it’s natural to acknowledge how special they are to you and to recognize their potential to go far in life and achieve big dreams.

It was really no different with us. We were amazed and enthralled by our boy. What a little athlete, far ahead in motor skills! He was always on the move, with an energy that could not be contained. Shortly after he was able to pull himself up, he spent his time making his way around the play-yard gate looking for a way out, like a velociraptor in Jurassic Park, testing the electric fence for weaknesses and plotting an escape. As soon as he could walk, he was running. As soon as he could run, he was sprinting down the hall and diving into a beanbag chair as though he were a gymnast performing a vault exercise. It wasn’t long before he was bouncing and jumping on cushions and balancing on the wooden beams around the garden.

At 12 months, my son said his first words: “clock” and “car”. What a smarty-pants! Most babies say “ma-ma” or “da-da”, but not our boy. Soon after, he no longer said those words…or any new words, for that matter. But the parenting books said that if your baby is focused on learning new skills, they often put other skills on the backburner for later. And our little guy was MUCH more interested in running and jumping and “being a boy”. Besides, boys speak later than girls anyway, right?

Man, he was hard to entertain! He seemed completely uninterested in the toys that were appropriate for his age group. Well, naturally! He was far too advanced to interest himself in such silly toys. If he did show interest in a truck, it was to examine it closely and observe how the wheels moved. If he played with a puzzle, he never put the pieces back into the frame but instead lined them up, one corner or side of each shape carefully touching the shape before it. When he was absorbed in these tasks, or any task really, he was so focused that he wouldn’t even respond to his name. “He’ll definitely be an engineer,” we said confidently.

Even as a little baby, our son was very visual and highly observant. I was so impressed when he became fascinated with the shadows that I cast on the wall as I changed his diapers. I would make shadow puppets for him and move my hands dramatically as he watched, mesmerized. When he became an active toddler, he noticed lines and shadows everywhere we went. He seemed almost distracted by them, walking the painted lines in a parking lot, running back and forth along a long crack in the driveway, getting on his hands and knees to examine the lines of grout in between the tiles of the kitchen floor. I remember the uneasy feeling I got at a “mommy and me” art class/playgroup, watching other boys and girls, all the same age as my son, painting pictures at the table and playing tag, while my boy wriggled from my lap and laid down with his head on the concrete floor, gazing at the contrast of light and shadow created by the sun as it streamed through the window blinds. “Maybe he will be a scientist?” I wondered, a hint of doubt creeping in.

Could it be that there was something a bit different about my child’s development? Something not-quite-right?

Everyone reassured us that he was fine. He’s a boy! Boys have lots of energy. They talk later than girls. He’s super-intelligent – that’s why he’s so observant. So what if he plays differently…that just shows he thinks outside the box! I wanted to believe them. So did my husband. We both wanted to remain spellbound by our boy’s uniqueness, by his brilliance.

In a way, our delusions became a cover for our denial.

The truth is, it is unusual for a baby to say the name of objects before saying the names of the two most important people in his life: Ma-ma and Da-da. And a baby should be far more interested in his mother’s face than in the shadows her body casts on the wall. And while finding another use for a toy may show innovation, it may also show a rigidity of thought and an inability to observe and imitate others for the purpose of learning. And what about his advanced motor skills? Was his need for almost constant movement masking some underlying developmental issue?

These clues remained vague, these questions, unanswered, until a possible explanation was offered by an unlikely source…my mother-in-law, my son’s Abuela. She said the word that my husband and I had been avoiding: Autism. And with that one word, I knew that there was no going back. I was in my alternate universe to stay. eagle-nebula-11174_640

Sleep Spiders – And You Thought Sleepwalking Was Creepy…

Published April 9, 2014 by Jen Rosado from MyAlternateUniv

One night, months after my son was born, I awoke to find a very large spider working its way down an invisible thread right over our bed. I shook my husband and said, in a strangled whisper, “Don’t move! Spider!”

My mind was racing. I had to prevent the spider from reaching the sheets, but how? I remembered easily moving a small spider hanging from the living room ceiling by gently gliding my hand above the spider, catching its sticky thread, and moving it to the safety of a houseplant. I decided to try that with this much larger spider, at least to get it away from the bed. However, I underestimated the weight of the spider, and when I ran my hand above it to catch its thread, the spider plummeted into the waves of the bed sheets below. I shrieked in horror and started patting and flicking the sheets, hoping to either squish the spider or catapult its giant, hairy-legged body out of our bed.

Meanwhile, my startled husband moved to the edge of the bed where he sat watching me, confused. When I asked with exasperation, “Didn’t you see the spider? It was HUGE!” he just shook his head, rubbed his hand over his eyes, and sighed deeply. (You know – the way people do when it becomes clear that you are nuts, and it’s too exhausting for them to even try to find logic behind something you are doing.)

Slowly, my mind cleared. There was no spider. I sheepishly apologized and told him that it was ok, he could go back to sleep.

That was my first “sleep spider” visit.

Sleep spiders are a relatively new phenomenon for me. Sometimes I wake up to see one skittering across the wall, or poised on the ceiling right above the bed, or hanging from a thread over me, like that very first spider. Naturally, I find them threatening and scary, but, in a way, also fascinating. For those first five seconds or so, the spider seems real to my senses. If I blink and focus on it and tell myself it’s not real, it doesn’t disappear right away. Instead, it fades gradually into the shadows as I become more alert or evaporates as soon as the lights come on.

How strange it is to have your mind play tricks on you, to be briefly caught between two plains of existence – the dream world and reality. Strange, scary, but kind of cool, if you think about it.

Writing this post got me wondering – why a spider? Of course I find them creepy, but I’m not terrified of them like I am bees and hornets. What was the significance of a spider?

In my quest to figure out my sleep spiders, I did a Google search of “seeing spiders in your sleep.” A few sites had a medical explanation about being deprived of REM sleep, how your mind continues the dream state as you are waking up, causing you to see things that aren’t there. That made sense – even after six months, our boy was still a terrible sleeper, and I was woken up repeatedly at varying intervals every night by his crying.

That explained the reason I was seeing things in my sleep but not why the things I was seeing happened to be spiders. So I looked up the symbolic meaning of spiders in dreams. Now I must say, there are many interpretations of what a spider means, but most books and sites agreed that the spider often symbolizes a feeling of being stuck or trapped (like in a web).

Aha! Ever since our son was born I had felt trapped in an endless loop of feeding and holding and rocking and diaper changing. Of course, there was my ever-present anxiety about being a mother (like something to be feared is lurking in the shadows), the disappointment that reality did not match my expectations (like a fading dream world overlapping reality), and the perception that things were beyond my control (like being stuck in a sticky spiderweb, unable to break free).  More than that, I felt like I had lost my identity. I longed for a sense of direction and purpose, a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day, a sense of self again.

My sleep spiders are so wise.  Mystery solved!

Well, perhaps not entirely.  There is one more explanation for my sleep spiders, and it is my least favorite: The spiders (at least some of them) might be REAL.

Before you shake your head, rub your eyes, and sigh deeply at that suggestion, I have one more story to tell. And, by the way, I was fully awake during this spider encounter.

Not long ago, my son (now older) was playing on my bed, while I stood by making sure he didn’t do anything that would result in an ER visit. As I pulled the curtain closed over the window at the head of the bed, the biggest frickin’ spider I have EVER SEEN fell onto my pillow. So humungous was this spider, that I actually HEARD the sound that its legs made as they impacted with the pillow. I pulled my boy from the bed and screamed something high-pitched and unintelligible to which my super-hero husband responded, leaping into the room with a “what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you?” look on his face. I pointed at the spider and only left the room when I was sure that he did, indeed, see it and that it was not a figment of my imagination.

After about fifteen minutes of thumping, banging, cursing, and moving of furniture, I heard the toilet flush and my husband emerged from our bedroom victorious. He guessed the spider had probably made its way in through the window and had not been living in our room for long. He also reassured me that although the spider was big, it was not dangerous. Pssh…who cares?! I slept with the light on for about a month after that.

Now when I awake to see a spider, I wonder – Is this my subconscious telling me that I’m stressed out and feeling trapped in my life? Or is that just a really big-ass spider dangling threateningly from an invisible thread over my head?

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