From the Wolf Den: And So We Reach

This is a hard post.

Wolf is struggling, and as a result, so are we. We shudder when the phone rings, shut our eyes when a new email pops up, and our eyes fill with tearful uncertainty when someone asks about him.

There are so many reasons for Wolf's swings of emotion, and we purport to know only a few of them. Indeed, when he is raging at staff, his therapist, or us, he repeats the only fact we, and he, know with absolute certainty:

"You don't understand! You Just Don't Understand!"

We never could, and probably never will.

Our family will eventually come through this crisis as intact as we possibly can, but right now it is a painful reminder of just how tragic this "mental meth-lab" of behavior disorders truly is.

We are reaching up, and out, and all around, as far as we can, to find some way of helping Wolf.

I'm going to take a blogging break, hopefully returning soon. Please join us in praying, thinking, pondering, meditating; whatever you feel comfortable doing, for peace in our son's soul, and in ours.

Update From the Wolf Den: Today

It has been an impossibly long 24 hours for the whole family, and for the people to whom we are close. Here is an update as things stand at this particular milisecond (thanks to another blogger friend who provided me this appropriate word), and how amazed I am at the people who have wandered in and out of our lives:

Yukon and I completed intake procedures for an Anchorage-based inpatient treatment facility to stabilize Wolf and conduct some additional testing to investigate his current behavioral trend. Through the course of the day it was discovered that Wolf probably had not been on a consistent medication regime since his arrival at Arctic Manor.

Wolf found his way to a kindly older couple's house who fed him, talked with him, and encouraged him to call us, whereby we found transportation to the hospital's ER for a checkup and the beginning stabilization process. He is currently safe, warm, and sleeping after a traumatic series of events that, understandably, were exhausting for him. This older couple deserves our humble thanks and appreciation for using enormous amounts of grace to refrain from judging Wolf, us, or the organization. They probably saved his life last night.

Initial Arctic Manor House Parent N deserves our thanks as well for remaining in contact with our family even though he was under no obligation to do so. Without his support and obvious compassion, Wolf may not have agreed to go to the hospital.

Friends from Anchorage are visiting family in Fairbanks and blessed us with the offer to collect Wolf's possessions from Arctic Manor and visit him as he waits in the ER for transport down to Anchorage. This couple likely the people who understand Wolf the best outside of our immediate family, and we are so, so thankful they are helping take at least a bit of the worry from Yukon and I. Update: Wolf just called and said they were there, bearing McDonald's, which made him feel "pretty good." He was surpised to see them, and "very, very happy" they came.

New Facility's Associate Medical Director is the individual who first diagnosed Wolf with Asperger Syndrome in 2007, and is one of the few clinicians with whom Wolf had a rapport, and the only physician I trust thus far. That he is still at this facility provides me with a level of relief I have not felt in some time.

However, the bed that was initially available at New Facility last night is no longer available today, and now we wait. Wolf will remain in acute care in Fairbanks for the interim, which is hard, and is a constant issue among mental health providers throughout the State of Alaska. But he sounds rested, and much, much more at ease with himself than earlier in the week.

I am cleaning the house, because that's what I do when I'm stressed.

Update From the Wolf Den: Everybody Hurts

Changes are hard, even traumatic, for children on the autism spectrum. For Wolf, they are made even more difficult due his extreme impulse control problem. He's been struggling mightily this week after a transition into a strict, unbending, yet very loving new home (a good thing).

He's been running away almost every night. It's not safe, it's not appropriate, and it's hell on us.

And now our worst fears may be realized. Bringing Wolf home was a difficult decision driven partly by Alaska Medicaid and partly by us. Three years at CHYC was a long time, and something had to change. As initially positive the move back to Alaska was, and as beautiful our moments of reunion were, Wolf is resorting to primal reactions to basic interactions (and conflicts) with other people, and is manifesting his disorder(s) through running and all the absolutely negative behavior that goes along with it.

Who knows? Maybe I'd spend my life running, too, if inside I had no idea who I was or why my brain was telling me to do things I didn't understand, and if the world appeared to be a jumble of other people telling me to do things as well.

I have spent the day on both my cell phone and the landline, on multiple conference calls, to put together a plan of care for Wolf in both the short and long-term. Thank God I have a background in long term care, for the scenarios and paperwork and emails might otherwise swallow me whole.

Nonetheless, my kleenex box is as empty as my heart, right now.

Summer Love

Yukon and I had a date today. Like a real, adult, all-by-ourselves-do-what-we-want date. With other real adults, no less.

The Alaska State Fair is in full swing, and while I usually don't attend any of their special events, I did make an exception this year for Garrison Keillor's Summer Love Tour. Because I think Garrison Keillor is a writer's writer, a wordsmithing genius who makes me shut my eyes and let my mind slide over the gems that come out of his mouth.

Since both Keillor and his famous Prairie Home Companion show are due to retire in 2013, and since seeing/hearing the man live is most definitely on my List of Things To Do in Life, we went.

Brilliant blue sky (those of you not living here in Alaska must appreciate that the Fair is usually shrouded in clouds and rain and, at the very least, not-so-warm temperatures), cold beer, and a perfect spot on a warm, grassy slope to witness a master of storytelling and my literary hero reminisce and ruminate about Love for three hours.

There has not been so perfect a day in a long time.

"Love," Keillor mused, "Is not meant to be a neat and tidy thing. We are purposefully entangled in its hollows and reaches."

The Summer of Love. Yukon and I needed a little help to figure that out this year, if only from a funny-looking man in red sneakers who managed, somehow, to be speaking right to us.

Genius.

From the Wolf Den: The Shape of Things to Come

There was an abundance of drama yesterday as I made final preparations to visit Wolf in SLC. A situation was brewing that caused a lot of running around and fretting and contingency-planning, leaving me with a big old headache.

Seems that Wolf's dad was sending mixed messages about making a visit during the same time frame as I. Complicated. I spent the morning in constant contact with Therapist B, who showed superb effort in his creation of a plan. I flew out on a red eye from Anchorage around 1 a.m. and arrived in SLC by sunup (a lovely sunup, too, I might add), ready for anything.

Wolf looks great; another inch or so of height, another shoe size in length, and a decidedly more mellow attitude, save for a walk-about from the cafeteria yesterday that put him back on ReFocus and squelched our plans for outings (a good thing in the end).

It was only a few minutes into our conversation with Therapist B that Wolf told us his dad called and said he couldn't visit, after all; that the event he was attending didn't give him "any time". Wolf rolled his eyes as he said it and B and I saw a slight quiver in the now fuzzy upper lip.

My friend D. wrote a lovely post on her Urban Servant blog about the difficulties in managing not just a child with behavioral disabilities, but one parent, too. She used the analogy of a triangle to describe how I, at the top, must still exist in a this odd shape of caring after almost 15 years.

A triangle is an interesting shape, if you think about it, and an appropriate one to describe Wolf and his father and I. Sharp, angular, not at all comfortable, a triangle is a visual reminder of a, b, and c. Connected but not at all close.

When I visualize all the individuals who love and support our family, I think of a circle, with Wolf in the center. Everybody is connected to everybody else through words, deeds, or simple acts of compassion that continue, around and around, forever. Not one person in one place, but a never ending loop of loving.

That's the shape of Wolf's future, and that's the one we care about most.

Transitions and Tribulations

It's been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon...Oh, wait. That line has been taken already by someone far more articulate and funny than me.

It has been a quiet week, relatively speaking. Sure, the below zero temperatures have made for some interesting adaptations in how we spend our outdoor time, but everyone seemed to adapt and so far no major meltdowns have occurred. Not even on my part. For the record, however, I did manage to saddle up The Dog and run three days this week, cold or no cold. With four weeks without snow, I think we're doing rather well.

This weather has given me a little extra time to catch up on some of my pals' blogs, one of which is authored by one of my oldest friends, D., who has 11 children. Yep, 11. Growing up two blocks from each other, we got to know each others' personalities pretty well, and when she moved to Minnesota and became mom to this crew of kiddos, I wasn't too surprised. Then they moved to Colorado Springs, and now are moving back to Minneapolis. I'm not too surprised at that, either. She has kids with special needs, and sadly Colorado ranks near Alaska in the availability of resources for the issues her children face. She was dialed in to Minnesota resources, so has decided to pack up, head out, and re-establish the roots she left deep in the prairie soil. Her blog, Urban Servant (I could never call it "Sub" Urban Servant, so I'm glad it will go back), is full of interesting tidbits of life with 11 children, a husband, and a community of needy people. She and I regularly, by turn, praise and pout about our particular lives and often wonder at how two friends could possibly have ended up raising kids so similar. Or maybe it's not so strange.

One of these days I'm going to convince her to join me in a mom-week up here in Alaska, and one of these days I'm going to take her up on her invitation to do the same in Minnesota.

One of these days.

From the Wolf Den: All is Calm. All is Bright.

I've received quite a lot of questions regarding my last Wolf Den post in which I express a desire for my son to understand the meaning of Christmas in the practical realm of "quality versus quantity".

Really, I can't rationalize to him. I know that. The same brain that prevents Wolf from conceptualizing the idea of Jesus as a real human being but made by God is the brain that also stops short from understanding that giving and getting are different terms for the same holiday. I have struggled with this ever since Wolf first started understanding the boxes under the Christmas tree contained his beloved "stuff".

But here's what I do understand: Christmas contains magic and wonder and joy, even for this child, or rather, especially for this child. I hear on the phone mounting excitement as boxes bearing Wolf's name are delivered to CHYC, and as he outlines Christmas morning for Yukon and I. Special wake-up by staff with Santa hats and candy canes, presents piled up outside doors, hot chocolate in their jammies while the cacophony of 10 boys (all who love stuff) builds and builds until, at last, all the shouting and showing and jumping around winds to a hum of satisfied glee.

Christmas Eve, Wolf will go to bed with anticipation for morning and sleep, undisturbed by nightmares. If I know my son, he will wake early, with joy in his heart and undeniable tranquility in his soul.

He will have peace. He will be happy. And if one single night and one single morning a year of pure childlike contentment brings peace to my child, this must be part of God's plan, thanks to His.

And surely, surely, Wolf, and I, will sleep in heavenly peace.

Peace.

From the Wolf Den: It's Not About Me

My lifelong friend D. wrote an interesting post on her blog (Sub)Urban Servant today, talking about all the ways parenting a child with behavioral disorders is not about her.

The lack of sleep, lack of private time, lack of ability to dress up and go out and be a "normal" wife and mother and woman. But it's not about that.

It's also not about putting our kids inside the typical box of proper appearance and behavior. How many times have I taken Wolf somewhere and done a double-triple check to see what he is wearing, if his face is clean, if his socks match, if he looks "good enough" to go out with me, forgetting that the wiring in his brain allow him to forego looks for comfort.

It's so easy to want our children to conform, to fit in, that for some it becomes a desperate effort. I wrote yesterday about Wolf wanting to be someone else, and in a way, I wonder if I might have fostered some of that by wishing and hoping and begging him to act/dress/look a certain way.

Something to chew on, tonight.

Update From the Wolf Den: Love and Limits

I'm reading (again) a great book by Lewis Smedes called "Love Within Limits". A friend lent it to me about a year ago and I've found great comfort in its practical approach to love.

Crazy concept, isn't it, needing to read a book to learn about loving my child? But parenting this kid who does so many unlovable things sometimes causes me to look upon the word "love" in a different light, perhaps, than others.

Wolf's behavior and the struggle of our family to maintain its sense of unity and hope within the storm of uncertainty is daunting. Sometimes I tell people I feel like two separate beings, each with a specific agenda and each possessing her own set of emotions specific to situations relating to Wolf. It is a survival tactic many parents of disabled children possess; we need it to carry on. So, clearly, loving Wolf is not so simple.

The book follows a passage read at umpteen weddings; the Corinthians love song that says "Love is patient, kind, etc. etc. Yes, you know it. But the part I read over and over and over again is the line that says "Love hopes all things."

I had hoped for years (and honestly, in some part of my brain probably still do) that Wolf would wake up one morning and decide to fly through CHYC's ladder of success, be discharged, come back to Alaska and head off to college, taking every part of his time away as a learning and growing experience. He'd be caring and empathetic to his parents and little brother and grandparents and the myriad of people who think about him every day. He would, in short, be all set for life.

That doesn't seem likely to happen. But hear me now, everyone, when I say that is okay. Wolf is who Wolf is, and will be, and ever could be. That kind of love frees us from expectations too high for him to meet, and frees him from feeling like a failure. That is the kind of love that hopes all things.

Smedes says in the book the paradox of love's power is that it sometimes gives new hope only as we let our fondest hopes go. And isn't our life with Wolf one paradoxical experience after another?

That's not always a bad thing. We can't replace what is not present, but we can work with what remains. So that's where we begin.

The New Header

Like the new photo header? Seasons change and so does Elituq: She is Learning.

I dig it, partly because it is the view from my home office, and partly because I like the perspective it offers.

Look close enough and you will see a delicate pattern of snowflakes upon the tree branches. Look beyond at the distant Chugach range and you can see a delicate shade of pink against the whiteness.

Gorgeous in a number of ways.

It's all in a point of view. There might be something to learn from that.

A Day Off, and Alaska Welcomes Winter

Ahhhh. Hear it? That's the sound of a mommy who is relaxing in her basement, coffee cup in hand, Good Morning America on television.

Today is a federal holiday to honor all veterans, so Yukon is home. Well, actually, he is not at home, since Bear really really really wanted his dad to take him to school. Must be some father-son thing. So I packed Bear's lunch, made sure he was dressed (you have to do that with kindergarteners) and in his snow suit, and trundled them both out to the car after giving Yukon specific instructions on the proper Morning Drop Off procedure.

Winter has officially arrived, so departure times are altered a bit to allow for slipping and sliding traffic that creates a red snake of tail lights from here all the way to the front door of

Rilke Schule. Of course, that's if no moose decide to create "commutis-interruptis".

Our Hour of Power with Wolf this morning was, as you can imagine, peppered with all sorts of interesting commentary and explanations and lamentations. Yukon and I quite admirably held our cool while trying to get the message across that enough was enough. All the more reason to allow each of us to spend the morning with some downtime.

Bummer

Next to Christmas, I can't think of a worse day to be sick than Halloween; or, in this case, Halloween weekend. But that is exactly what our Bear faces as a double blast of illness has rendered this usually active six year-old to the consistency of pumpkin guts.

Dealing with strep throat and an ear infection, Bear has gone between our two couches and his bunk bed these last 24 hours in an attempt to get comfortable, occasionally wearing his Army Man outfit for posterity, or perhaps wishful thinking. Not eating, barely drinking, and hardly sleeping, we spent a feverish, shivery night waiting for the clock to register the time for me to call our pediatrician and (thankfully) make an appointment for the old tonsil-tickling test that would affirm my suspicions.

A quick trip to Target for a prescription of high-dose antibiotics and a big box of frozen fruit bars, a call to Yukon and Wolf to update them on our day, and back home jiggety-jig.
I made a deal with Bear that he could try trick-or-treating tomorrow night if he stays in bed all day today, sweetening the pot with the promise of as many fruit bars as his little stomach could hold. A flavor-sampling later (that would be four bars), he mustered enough energy to help carve our big pumpkin with "angry eyebrows" before returning to the couch downstairs for a Scooby Doo zombie movie.

The strangest part about all this is my expectancy. You see, each and every autumn of this child's life, he gets sick. Since right after his second birthday, when this very issue made Halloween a tenuous possibility, Bear has danced a fine line during the month of October. Last year, Swine Flu; year before that, ears; this year, ears and throat. I'm beginning to think his immune system has an automatic timer.

So, beyond my (nonetheless glorious) view from my eastern-facing windows, I have seen little of the outdoors this weekend. I did, however, capture this shot a few moments ago while watching clouds begin to move up from the south, blocking our last bit of sunshine. Nice. Peaceful.

When All Else Fails, Send 'Em To Bed

That's my solution.

Tuesday nights are always a bit out of sorts around here. Yukon accepted an adjunct teaching position at the University of Alaska Anchorage in their Master of Public Administration program, instructing 12 graduate-level students in the art of Introduction to Public Management.

As a result, he is off the family radar from Monday post-dinner to Tuesday post-bedtime, which is better than the first part of the semester, when he was on another planet altogether from Sunday morning through Tuesday night. Normally, Bear and I do pretty well, but tonight, oy.

Big OY. We hear that the 'flu is making its annual rounds through the schools of Anchorage, and if that is the reason for the wild behavior, I'll be glad to pin it on a microbe of illness. But after two days of defiant, tearful, obnoxious behavior emulating from my otherwise sweet and mild-mannered, albeit bossy kindergartener, I'm ready to blame it on anything.

It doesn't help that my brain is ready to emerge from my skull at any minute and I am in a writer's funk as deep as Davy Jones' locker. Part of me just wants to throw myself across my bed, sigh deeply, and moan, "What's the meannnning of it all?" The other part tells my psyche to suck it up and pour a glass of wine, already.

I did that, read Bear 'Georgie the Ghost to the Rescue', which through its nostalgic old-book smell and kind, gentle words returned some sense of sanity to my frazzled daddy-less world tonight.

Until Bear spit water all over the bathroom sink in a defiant gesture related to the brushing of his teeth.

He went to bed at 6:45 and was asleep by 7 p.m. and I'm not far behind. Maybe. There's still wine in the glass.

From the Wolf Den: Breakdown, or Breakthrough?

Our family's journey through Asperger Syndrome and the ancillary issues of our son have consisted of single steps into and out of agony and ecstacy. We are up, down, sideways and ass backwards by turn, wanting to know and yet not know what lies inside Wolf's head. Therapy has, after two years, accomplished little. And we didn't know why. Until Thursday.

Therapist B had taken a new tack with his kids, appointing them as chairmen of their own family therapy, hoping that the sense of control would lead to a greater opportunity for sharing information and/or communication. Why not? Nothing else had worked to this point, Yukon and I figured.

Ever heard the sound of silence over a phone line 3,000 miles away? Let me describe it to you. Crickets. Buzzing. Fingers drumming on the table. We were going nowhere. I gritted my teeth and sucked down some more coffee.

At five minutes to the hour, when Yukon had gone upstairs to ready Bear for school and I was pacing the room, phone on speaker, ready to open my mouth and let loose the receiving end of two years of not-too successful family therapy. I was tired, I was ticked, and I was ready to throw up my hands and say the almighty What.Ever.

With a swiftness I could hear in the air sucked into his lungs, Wolf yelled something that took the air out of mine. "AM I A MISTAKE?!" But it was not directed at me, or Yukon. It was directed at his father.


Apparently there have been conversations, discussions to which I have not been privy, between the two. Promises promised, statements made, and disclosures revealed that are not appropriate for a teenager with impulse control challenges whose relationship with the man who provided DNA has been tenuous at best since infancy. A man who, we now believe, has similar issues to Wolf but has denied responsibility.


The one hour turned into two as I answered questions as best I could during the emotional storm that followed, knowing full well the time had come to collaborate with CHYC staff on any future communication with Wolf's dad.

It was a beautifully tragic moment. Tragic that our child feels such painful awareness of the abandonment of his biological parent. But beautiful in that Yukon is there to pick up the pieces and bind them together with grace. He is, in fact, going to take my place on this upcoming visit. Wolf needs his forever dad. And as much as I would love to hold my own son in my arms, I know Yukon's are the ones he needs more right now.

Not a breakdown. On the contrary, a breakthrough. A big one. No mistake.

Bear Time in the Berries

Our lives have been so here-and-there lately I worried we wouldn't get a chance to pick any berries this year. Going on our fifth autumn, berry picking is a late-summer ritual I am not willing to give up no matter how busy life appears. Yukon is off to Washington for a week, and in a burst of inspiration this morning, I took Bear.

Weather has affected our berry timeline, too. Officially the rainiest, gloomies, dreariest Anchorage summer on record, nobody has felt much like picking berries in drippy conditions. But yesterday dawned without rain and with a tiny bit of sun, so Bear and I hurredly dropped off Dad at the airport, came home to grab the berry picker and buckets, filled up the backpack with lunch, and drove off.

Arctic Valley is our favorite spot, still. I always enjoy the alpine feel of things that high, where autumn comes quickly and views are endless. We pick crowberries, mostly. Their juice is dark, dense, and extremely yummy in syrup form. So that is what Bear and I were after yesterday as we climbed up the hill to our secret berry place.

It was kind of nice, just the two of us. I'd pick, Bear would create hiding places for his two-headed dragon, and we talked. Kindergarten begins next week, and while he is excited, there is apprehension, too, and as I found out with his older brother, talking to boys is easier when at least one of us is doing something else. I want to establish a rapport for serious discussions now, before he decides I am totally uncool, and the side of a mountain seemed a good place to begin.

Bear has become a good help, too. No longer just a spectator, he applies the berry picker with occasional vigor and is also a good scout for the best patches. Two hours later, we had a full bucket. Bear led the way back, across a little stream he had discovered during his free-range roaming (another advantage of Arctic Valley; I can let him explore safely), up a hill and through some brush. By the time we reached the car the parking lot was exploding with would-be pickers anxious to get started.

I'm glad we began early. All of it.

So This is What It Will Be Like....

Kindergarten starts in 21 days. With a six-hour, four-day-a-week (school is out early on Fridays) time void staring at me from my Mom-Calendar, I'm torn between doing the Happy Dance of Freedom at putting my second and last child into the halls of higher learning and bursting into tears.

I got a taste of a school day today, when three meetings beginning at 9 a.m. forced me to wake up the Almost-Kindergartener by 7:45 (let me tell you those tears I mentioned in the above paragraph could also be due to the difficulty I had in doing that). I thought I was organized and ready; breakfast, juice, clothes, and backpack all waiting in their appropriate areas, dog fed, I was dressed. Off to a good start. Only trouble is the child wouldn't wake up. Ended up throwing the stuff in the car, the dog into the kennel, and the kid into his booster seat because someone refused to get out of bed. Life is tough, sometimes. Whew.

Once down the road a block or so things evened out and we were one our way to a friends' house where Bear spent the day enjoying his buddies and not eating lunch. Can't have everything.

I, on the other hand, returned home after Meeting #1 and found myself with three free hours of uninterrupted anything-I-wanted. Coffee? Check. Loud music? Double Check. Hey, wait, I can walk the dog; no, I can take the dog for a run, in the middle of the day without an accompanying bicyclist who makes me push him up the hills. Now this is living.

I appeared a the radio station by 2 p.m. relaxed and smiling, causing my co-host to wonder what had happened to have placed such a cheery demeanor upon my mug. I told him I had a day to myself and he said, "Ah, must be the sun."

Or maybe it was the son. I think I can hold out on those tears for a little longer, but ask me in 20 days and 2 1/2 hours...

Extended Family Travel and the Effects Upon Children

The Harrison family is still at our home, preparing for the final leg of their 7,000-mile journey across the U.S. on their quint bicycle. If all goes well, tomorrow morning Yukon and Bear will escort them through the winding bike trails of Anchorage to the Glenn Highway, where they'll head towards the Matanuska-Susitna Valley and then north to Denali National Park and Fairbanks.

The more time we spend with this family, the more we are learning about them and their style of parenting and simple living. I have asked them how others respond to their trip and the questions and/or comments, both positive and negative, they have received. Since we, too, are involved in family travel as a lifestyle rather than an occasional occurrence, I was curious to hear what people say to and about them.

Comments apparently range from overwhelmingly positive to desparingly negative. Not surprising, of course, but surely hurtful to parents who truly believe they are doing right by their children in offering them an opportunity to pioneer their way across America. People have accused them of abuse, neglect, and false pretenses.

The question of "Why are you doing this?" has followed them from Kentucky, hanging over their heads like a little gray cloud that just won't go away, and people consistently want to know why in the name of heaven would you take three little girls, plop them on a bike, and take them away from their home and security for more than a year. I will admit I, too, first looked for a "cause" when I first heard about the Harrisons; after all, people just don't hop on a funny-looking bicycle without a mission to change the world, right?

Here's the answer: Because they can. And that's all.

I have discovered, these past five years in Alaska, that life is unbelieveably and remarkably short. Travel as a family is our way to connect with each other and our environment in a most intimate way, separate from the daily flux and fuss of everyday activities, jobs, and other distractions that while necessary, manage to take away some of the meaning behind "family time."

Yes, this family is tired. Yes, the girls get on each other's nerves and might need some adjustment time upon arrival in Fairbanks to regroup after their family's 12-month nomadic lifestyle. But is it harmful? I don't think so. On the contrary, I think it is the most valuable experience a child could have, and one of the best gifts a parent could offer.

From the Wolf Den: Finding the Good Stuff

I read a lot of blogs written by a lot of powerful, insightful, and loving moms, some of whom I've known most of my life, and all of whom face their own challenges when it comes to parenting their children. Lately it seems as if those of us with special needs kids and teens are going through a rough patch. Maybe it's the season, maybe it's that our kids are all growing and changing and entering new phases of their respective disabilities, I don't know.

Reviewing my own blog last weekend, which I do once in a while just to check in on myself, my characters and sometimes in-your-face posts, I noticed one theme noticably absent when it comes to our oldest son; positives.

Not like the "accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative" sort of stuff; that would be unrealistic. But I admit that for all the bitching and complaining I do about my teenage son's behavior, I sort of overlook the good stuff that is, without a doubt, still present and for sure makes up who Wolf is as a person as much as the Asperger's or OCD or whatever the heck is going on inside his head.

This has followed me around for the last few days as our family of Three Minus One took a break at a local ski resort. As we skied, ate, and played in the hotel swimming pool I became acutely aware of other teenagers' behavior, their mannerisms and modalities, and wondered, if just perhaps, I had buried the Good to manage the Bad.

What is it I miss?

I miss a barky sort of laugh that comes with little reservation at a Pink Panther movie. I miss stacks of science fiction novels beside a bed that is no longer in this room. I miss an incredible mind that can process facts and history's important dates with the efficiency of a PC. I miss the boxes of Legos and K'nex and nuts and bolts. I miss a boy who somehow became a man with little help from his mother but who still, somewhere, possesses enough of my personality to remind me of me.

Perhaps instead of burying what is good, I should take a lesson from Therapist B. and remind myself that there is always positive to reflect upon, every day. And to celebrate it with as much fanfare as necessary until we all believe it.