Things in front of you are larger than they appear.

You want to know what makes my butt twitch? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. When people look at me and say (referring to Isabella), “She doesn't look like she has autism.” I have tried to give people the benefit of the doubt – they aren't educated, so they don't know that disability doesn't have a “look.” I want to be diplomatic, but sometimes I just want to say, “You don't LOOK stupid, either!”

Here's the thing – chronic illness and disability don't have a type. That's often why it makes it so difficult for people to empathize with our situation. I have had people very close to me tell me that I play a victim in regards to Isabella's autism, implying that I feel sorry for myself (I guess). Besides being one of the most hurtful things you can say to a person who is raising a child with a a disability, it just isn't true.

Almost two years ago to the day, Isabella was diagnosed with mild, classic Autism and Sensory Processing Disorder. She is high-functioning, which means she has an average or better IQ and not mentally disabled, nor does she have a learning disability. Her diagnosis was no surprise – I had known it myself for about 3 months prior, we were just waiting for the official code – 299.0

I remember as if it were yesterday. It was just me and Isabella in the doctor's office – at that point she said very little and didn't respond to much, stared off into thin air. Her neurologist and I talked about her as if she were a cardboard cut-out; she did not engage in any conversation. It felt so casual on the outside, you know? He diagnoses kids frequently – heck, maybe even daily. On the inside, however, I was crumbling. I was fighting so hard to not sob in his office in front of her, not even fully understanding the breadth or extent of how drastically different life would be from that day forward. Isabella, me, and Nick - our whole family – we all became victims that day, not by choice, but random selection.

On that day, and certainly many to follow, I grieved the loss of the dreams I had for my first-born daughter. But, also on that day, I vowed to kick the shit out of autism and made a promise to Isabella that I would never let her down, that she wouldn't fall prey to this disorder. I never once laid down or gave up. I quit my job to home-school her, I put her in aggressive occupational, speech and language therapy, I changed hers and mine entire food diet, I put her on a sensory diet, I researched till the wee hours of the morning, I read tons of books, I changed her schedule, I rocked her, I held her, I gave my life to her – I did everything she did to feel the effects she felt, to understand her body better. She spent a year in a charter school to learn social and self-help skills. I have lost hundreds of hours of sleep, I have grown thousands of gray hairs and gained many stress wrinkles, but I have NEVER once played a victim.

Nick was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes just a few short months before Isabella was diagnosed. He doesn't look like a guy who has to give himself insulin shots four times a day. When he first was diagnosed, he was dangerously close to a diabetic coma. It took months to get his blood sugar under control and it takes careful monitoring and proper administration of insulin, impeccable control of diet, low stress levels, and regular exercise to keep it stable. If he strays from it just a bit, it will take days for him to recuperate. But, if you look at him, you wouldn't say he is fighting a chronic disease. You can't tell that he has scar tissue on his body from constantly having to inject himself, you can't see that he has lost feeling in his fingertips from checking his blood sugar. But, he DOES.

Just like Nick, Isabella is in treatment. With her treatment, she has improved – immensely. She doesn't look like she has autism. But, that is the point! We want her to get well. I don't want my child, nor does any other parent of a child with autism, rocking in a corner, flapping her arms for the sake of people being able to identify with you. And, don't think for a second that she hasn't, or will go back to stimming if her treatment isn't under control. With our experience and with our own education and dedication to her, we all have learned to cope. But, everyday we are challenged; every day she struggles.

So, when you say, “Golly, gee, Bethany. She doesn't look like she has autism. She's gonna be just fine,” its you implying that you don't believe me. And three years of challenge flashes before my eyes, and I just sit there, lip shaking, thinking “but, but...but, but....ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION!!!”

Instead, I smile and nod, and pray silently that you'll be right.

*Note: Since her diagnosis, Isabella has not taken a single dose of synthetic medication. Not one prescription, no over the counter drugs. She is detoxing all the pharmaceuticals and vaccine effects; she is recovering through dietary restrictions, high-dose vitamin supplementation, amino-acids, minerals, therapy and conditioning. The only thing she sees a doctor for is blood draws to monitor her metabolic panels, blood counts and electrolytes. I have prescribed every single thing she has done through education and research, and she has never been healthier. So go ahead and tell me I'm playing a victim. You obviously need a new dictionary.

Interrupting your mindset...

I took a long hiatus from watching the news. I mean, I take a peak at the local stuff – the weather, the traffic – but I have been trying to stay away from all the horror in the world. I can't stomach listening to stories about babies being beaten by their parents or children being sexually assaulted and it seems like that is all you hear about – that or celebrity divorces. So, I tried out the theory “ignorance is bliss” and I kept my TV on Disney channel and Nick Jr. for the past two months. Okay, so maybe I sneaked in some Bravo from time to time – but what episode of the Real Housewives won't make you feel better about yourself? Somehow, however, I got sucked back in and now I find myself internally enraged by the world that surrounds me.

Take Tattoo Barbie. The newest “doll” to hit the markets and currently the scapegoat for thousands of unaccountable parents, carrying the blame for their daughters growing up too fast. Really? I just can't get over this one. Let's break this down. Barbie is what, like 35? She has had a breast reduction, been in a 50-year uncommitted relationship with some dude named Ken and she drives a Corvette with no real job to speak of. I'm pretty sure the tattoo that she gets is not the decision that will cause the demise of girls' self-esteem across the globe. If you let your daughter play with a plastic middle-aged woman on a daily basis, you should consider yourself lucky that Barbie gets a tattoo – it might infuse some culture into them.

I'm pretty sure that these parents so upset by Mattel's latest release are probably the same ones who aren't even phased by real problems that might cause little girls to be disturbed, like having to choose between bikini, hipsters, boy shorts, or low-riding underwear for our newly potty-trained toddlers. Yes, that's right. You can not walk into Target, JC Penney, Gap – wherever – and just buy 2T plain white panties for your two-year old girl. Nope. It is like shopping at a mini Victoria's Secret – every undergarment marketed for lingerie models-in-training. Second-graders wear bras now and I wouldn't be surprised if they have matching thongs. This is ridiculous; this is sexualizing our youth.

Infant girls are wearing bikini's and tutu's and necklaces. Why don't you just hand them a Cosmo, too? 8-year old girls are touting Coach purses and 12-year old tweens are jamming out to Lady Gaga on their iPhones. Does this not carry any weight to why our girls have image issues or problems connecting with their parents? Do you think I am conservative? Do you think that I am too close-minded? Guess what? I have more than one tattoo.

Our society is so backwards. Breastfeeding is offensive, so let's all go eat at Hooters! Celebrate Gay Pride at a children's theme park, but don't you dare say a prayer before school. Limit your son's sugar intake, but inject your children with aluminum through vaccines. Occupy Wallstreet, but don't settle for a job at McDonald's. I just don't get it. Our world is one giant oxymoron.

NEWSFLASH PEOPLE – you are accountable for yourself. You are responsible for your children. Stop shifting the blame and start doing your part.

You may now resume your regular programming.   

Yes, I claim these kids.

My kids have been a wealth of comedy lately and I couldn't let the day go by without jotting some of this down and, of course, sharing them with the world – because that is how I do.

I will start with Maddie, whom I love to pieces, but this little kid is gross. And by gross I mean she picks her nose (she ignores my requests for her to stop), examines it, and then stuffs it back in her schnauz. Even worse, shoving her finger in her nose, examining it and the wiping it on the coffee table. She runs off to get a baby wipe, cleans it off gives it to me and says, “Eeeeewwwwww. Stink.” Ya think?

She and Bella were playing outside on the back porch, laying on the mini-trampoline, playing with toys. Maddie is lying on her stomach, head propped up in her hands and casually eating from the cat food bowl that sits underneath her chin. The OUTDOOR cat bowl. Gross. After she gets and earful from me, she proceeds to go over to a plant on the porch and begins eating the dirt out of the pot. What is wrong with this child?

But, she is just as cute as she is gross. Maddie is a climber, and for the 20^th time today I told her to stop climbing on the end table. On the last time, I finally tell her “Get down now!” In a little chipmunk voice I hear a calm “okay” and then she does a somersault onto the couch, looks at me and says, “Tada!” Such grace. ;)

Maddie has an Elmo chair that she will carry from room to room – it's her TV chair (just like Dad). Today she was jumping on it, per usual. Only this time she was a little too close to the sliding glass door and in a flash I hear a THUD and Maddie disappears behind a sea of plush yellow and rainbow, her head slamming into the glass. I am fully expecting to see some tears, but instead she pops up from behind the chair, looks at me with surprise and says, “I'm okay!” Okay, Pee Wee. I guess she meant to do that.

And, then there is Bella who is really starting to develop some sass. As I was giving Maddie a bath, I ask Bella to get me a clean washcloth. She looks over at the one in the bathtub – hers – and says, “Yeah, I think that one has poop on it.” What?!? Nasty.

And, these are my GIRLS. Oy Vey. I wonder what is in store for me when the little dude is up and walking around. I. Just. Can't. Wait.

One in Five Trillion - Roman's Birth Story

I break out in hives when I breastfeed. True story. I am allergic to nourishing my child. Tell me that doesn't suck. And, yes it really happens. Like one in five trillion women suffer from an allergic response to their own production of Oxytocin and Prolactin, the hormones responsible for milk let-down. I am that one woman in five trillion. As if breastfeeding a newborn when you have two other children isn't hard enough, I itch and turn red and splotchy. Joy. Strangely, I only became allergic to myself with my son, as nursing the girls did not require an epi-pen or Benadryl. It really should come as no surprise, really. This pregnancy, birth and now lactation have been the antithesis of my every plan for bearing my last child.

Nick and I weren't going to have any more children. Madison made us a family of four and left me with a separated pelvis. Although life in a wheelchair had its perks, I was much happier walking. But, then SURPRISE! I was preggo. Honestly, I looked at the pregnancy test like it was in Spanish. I had no idea if I was reading it right, like I hadn't taken two dozen of these tests before. I will never forget that phone call to Nick or the two weeks of crying afterward. Literally, I was devastated. My oldest child had just been diagnosed with autism, my 15-month old was still not sleeping through the night, I was homeschooling and just quit my job. How in the world would I have time and love for one more little body?

God must really think I am a good parent, or have a great sense of humor, to give me another kid. So, I accepted it and told myself this pregnancy was going to be vastly different from my previous two. Like, no smoking crack or horseback riding. Kidding. Actually, I was going to be as active as possible, take the right supplements, all organics, gluten-free, natural medication-free birth outside of a hospital, breastfeed until he was 10, yada, yada, yada. Other than feeling sick 24-7 for the first 14 weeks, things seemed to be going okay. My ass managed to stay the same size for most of the pregnancy and I did not try to break my Twinkie-eating record from my pregnancy with Isabella.

Shortly after I spent the 250 dollars on my hypnobirthing class to accompany my natural childbirth, I learned I had polyhydramnios. Translation – a boat load of amniotic fluid. And, I mean a lot. Like three times the normal preggers. At 38.5 weeks, I was the size of a woman carrying triplets. No lie. This led to numerous ultrasounds that revealed my son may or may not have intestinal issues. It also increased my risks of things going wrong at birth, like bleeding to death. Less than thrilling news. Because my son had his own jacuzzi, he constantly did flips in my belly and couldn't make up his mind if he wanted to go feet or head first. He apparently missed the memo that birthing feet first is NOT ideal. So, all things considered, I decided it would be best to be at a hospital with a doctor. UGH, I dreaded it.

I was in labor for 14 hours with the maximum amount of pitocin to move things along and had not an ounce of pain relief and no epidural. I was pretty amazed at how well I was managing my pain. Those nights going to sleep with hypotherapy CD's telling me that I was a strong woman and to will my child out of my vagina actually worked!!! When 2:30 am rolled around and my breathing partner, aka my husband, was snoring to my side and my water still hadn't broke nor had labor advanced, I realized that once again, things were not going to go as a I had planned. So, I asked for an epidural, if nothing more than to get some rest. Wouldn't you know that I was the one in five trillion women (again) where the anesthesiologist hit a blood vessel – not once, not twice, but four times!!! What the hell. Can't I get a break? I am also that one in five trillion women whose blood pressure gets lower when they are pregnant. So low that my epidural had to be administered in intervals so I wouldn't crash. But, two hours later....relief. I think I actually fell asleep.

8am. Still no progress. It is time to break my water. This is no small feat, as I have TONS of fluid, so it takes a team of four doctors to make this happen. Initially, it sounded like someone took a bucket of mop water and emptied it on the table. And, the doctor doing the deed was, for lack of a better term, sprayed with water. No lie. I saw it. The nurse said I easily lost 13 lbs (random) or fluid and it was the most she had ever seen. Sweet, I am record breaker! Let me guess, 1 in 5 trillion. Then they had to turn the baby inside. It took all four docs pushing and pulling. Let's just say the epidural was working and I was happy I made the impromptu decision to not go pain med-free.

Four hours later and it is time to push. One push, nothing. Two pushes, movement. Three pushes, stop. Nurse leaves the room, Nick has a strange look on his face. At least seven people come back in the room and docs and nurses are looking at my nether regions like they have never seen a woman give birth before. “Oh, wow!” and “That is not good” are phrases that are being said. My nurse says to the doctor, “Were done here, right?” What do you mean, “done?” I don't have a baby. We are far from done.

Done pushing is what she meant. Apparently, I am one in five trillion women who ruptures a blood vessel while pushing and I developed a massive hematoma in my crotch that needed to be surgically repaired to have the bleeding stopped. My nurse said she only heard of it in school. That was like 19 years ago. Saweet. My doctor calmly assures me that my epidural is apparently working well, because if it wasn't I would have been in a lot of pain from the explosion. Again, good decision I made at 2:30 in the morning.

So, off we go for a c-section. This is a far cry from my desire to have a non-medicated birth. Spinal in, sedatives take effect. I am terrified, by the way, and vaguely remember what happened in the rush to get me to the operating room. But, in short time my boy is born -all 10 pounds of him. Now it makes sense why I blew a valve. They put him on my chest, he opens his eyes and it is love at first sight. It is so amazing how you can be overcome with love that you never thought you had in a matter of seconds.

They sew me up, cut me open, sew me up, and ship me off to recovery. Wouldn't you know that I am the one in five trillion women where the spinal anesthesia wears off while in recovery and I am in the worst pain of my entire life. They have given me like seven shots of morphine and it does nothing. It is taking my breath away, literally. And, that dumb nurse keeps pressing on my stomach regardless of me begging, pleading with her to not touch me. What a stupid son of a ….

Dilautid. Morphine. Dilautid. Morphine. I am soooooooo out of it. But, my pain is finally manageable and I get to see my little boy. He has a natural white blond streak in his tons of hair – I think it is like one in five trillion kids that have it. And, he is just perfect. I get to see my girls and then I pass out.

I go home with my family two days later. I am swollen and sans the green color, I look like Shrek thanks to all the fluid that was shoved into my veins. Oh, did I mention I am in pain? We are home for one day when Roman starts puking green and brown. I remember the ultrasounds where I was told he may or may not have intestinal problems and I immediately think blockage, call the children's ER and they tell me bring him down there. He isn't peeing and pooping, and while normally I would be thrilled in the break from changing diapers, this is scary for a four-day old.

They start an upper GI series and we are given a consult with the surgeons for possible repair of his intestines if they are blocked. He is catheterized to extract urine, he is given a spinal tap where the hit a blood vessel not once, not twice, but four times! One in five trillion, and we have matching puncture wounds on our backs. He has an IV, he can't eat, he is admitted to the hospital. His kidney ultrasound reveals a duplex collecting system and hydronephrosis, whatever the hell that means. It is like 1 in 5 trillion. 4 days of antibiotics and a battery of tests later, we are discharged with no infection, no surgery and a clean bill of health. It is the day after Maddie's second birthday and my son is one week old.

All those plans I had to give my son the best start in life, the plans to have a calm birth, the plans for a healthy child – none of them mattered. I was that one in five trillion people who preferred to have a drug free birth and I ended up having the one in five trillion issues. I often joke that I am a sucker for Murphy's Law, and I think that this story lends some truth to that jest. But, all is well that ends well, and outside of some pending observational issues with Roman's kidney, he is healthy and we are adjusting as a walking circus. He pukes, he pees, he poops, he eats, he sleeps and he is perfect. And, even with this saga, I would do it five trillion more times if it meant the outcome was a perfect baby like him.

I'm too sexy for my Porsche 911 GT3.

Okay, so that isn't my GT3.  In fact, I don't even own a Porsche, but this title seemed a little catchier and interest-grabbing than "Really Cute Stuff My Chubby Toddler Does."  At least I didn't use some sexual innuendo like most marketing ploys to suck you into readership.  I have kids.  I would NEVER sink to that (wink, wink).

So, through autism and pregnancy, it occurred to me that my youngest, Maddie Reese, rarely gets any pen time in my blogs or journal, even though she is a great source of much comedic and insightful material.  Maddie (short for Madison) is 18 months old and my Valentine's baby; she even looks like a cherub with her chubby porcelain cheeks and sandy blond locks of curls.  She has hardly the sweetness of one, however, as proven by her just chucking the TV remote at the coffee table in a fit of rage.  I would like to blame that trait on my husband, but we both have Italian tempers and neither of us can lay blame. Besides her penchant for throwing things and her hot temper, she is genuinely inquisitive and extremely smart.  She is learning words by the dozen, even if there is no rhyme or reason to the order in which she obtains them.  She says the obvious, like Mommy, Daddy, baby, kitty, sissy.  And, then there are random words and phrases - get down, yo-yo, gimme, ready, okay, mickey mouse, car, shoe, juice, go, no, mine and thank you.

Maddie also has a weird obsession with shoes (gets that from Nick) and the desire to put things on her head and body...underwear, shorts, shirts, goggles, hats, headbands, jewelry, purses...you name it.  Not really sure where this one comes from.  She helps herself to the pantry and usually goes straight for the Craisins, her favorite snack.  She will eat almost anything you put in front of her, and she is no stranger to grabbing a bag of chips, pulling her yellow plush Elmo chair up to the TV, grabbing the remote and relaxing with some cartoons.  She's like an old man.  And, her signature trademark - the Maddie scowl.  She can give you a look that will melt icicles.  It is mean and jarring and she has been doing that since birth.  It even was seen in her 4D ultrasound when I was still pregnant with her.

Maddie takes after my Dad's side of the family, at least as far as height is concerned.  She is just under 3 feet tall which just so happens to be 14 inches shorter than her 6-year old sister.  At this rate of growth, she is predicted to be 5'9" or better.  I am 5"5".  Her fair skin and icy blue eyes stem from my mom's Norwegian roots, but her boisterous attitude and LOUD voice is all Nick - 100% Sicilian.  But, so is her sweet nature and cunning smile.  She is a handful already.  She will truly be a force to be reckoned with as a teenager.  Can you hear the excitement in my voice?

But, she is my baby and we share a special bond.  I don't want her to grow anymore; I want to keep her a baby forever.  Plus, my arms are tired and I need a break.  :)

The side effect of pregnancy is a baby

 I am pretty sure that I felt the baby move for the first time today. I would be referring to the one inutero and not the one currently suffering a rice cake coma. The subtle somersaults of my soon-to-be third child put things into perspective for me. These past 16 weeks, I have been preoccupied with nausea, gagging, gas, constipation and bloating (don't get all offended – if you have intestines, you have at some point in your life experienced such niceties.) I have had sleepless nights filled with multiple trips to the bathroom, headaches, overwhelming exhaustion, aches and pains, water retention and expanding body parts. But, when I feel that little flutter in my stomach I realize that the only side effect in pregnancy that matters is the baby. And, immediately I think – Cheese and Rice! I am going to have three kids! Am I gonna have to get a mini-van?

Don't get me wrong. I realize the tremendous miracle that grows inside of me and how superior women are to men because of this simple fact, but there is a bone I need to pick with my body about this whole baby making thing - the phenom of body memory. This is my third child and because of body memory, my belly button has already “popped.” I am four months pregnant. I don't need to be reminded by my body that this is my third kid. I have two kids and hundreds of pictures of me gray and swollen after hours of hard labor. Why can't my body remember the good 'ole days of my honeymoon with my tight little toosh, zero body fat and track star metabolism? In my twenties, I would get compliments to my navel from complete strangers. Keep in mind that was back in the day when it was cool for only skinny girls to wear midriff tops. (And, yes I just went there). Now my navel looks like a a deflated tail from a balloon animal. Okay, that was a slight exaggeration, but ladies – holla if you hear me! Add to that diastasis of my stomach muscles and my once natural six-pack has become an alienesque cone. My (male, of course) doctor actually told me to remind him to sew them back up should I have a C-section. Okay, Doc. That is the obvious thought of a woman who is having their insides set on a steel table on D-day. I will get right on that.

Yes, I jest. But, in actuality, this has been my best pregnancy thus far as pertaining to rapid body change. I gained 70 pounds with Isabella, wore men's velcro sandals and was affectionately dubbed Krusty the Klown by my brother-in-law. I once polished off a box of Twinkies in under 5 minutes. I was a glutton and a tank. With Madison, I gained 40 pounds and my pelvis separated, which was as painful as it sounds. I was in labor for 24 hours proving to the most excruciatingly painful experience of my life, rendering me crippled and in a wheel chair for quite some time. With baby number three, so far I have gained 4 pounds and am losing hair. But, I can deal with that. And, now that the baby is moving, who cares if I have to get a van? With the help of God, I am making my third child and no matter what happens to me, he or she will be just perfect.

Surf's up, dude...

I am generally a sarcastic person.  In fact, there is very little that comes out of my mouth not tinted with the sweet undertones of sarcasm.  Except for this weekend, of course.  Sarcasm was no where to be found and in its place was a huge dose of humility.  We just got back from Daytona/Ponce Inlet where Isabella was introduced to a full day of surfing through Surfers for Autism.  I am here to tell you that I witnessed one of the coolest things I have ever seen...not just with Isabella on the surfboard, but watching all the volunteers, other kids, parents, and vendors put together an amazing event.

I met some of the nicest people all at the beach for one purpose: to help autistic kids surf.  Isabella was somewhat of a natural attempting to stand up on her first ride out.  She fell almost immediately after standing, but she tried two more times before she just gave up and rode on her tummy - over, and over, and over again.  She did stand later, although I did not see it. She swallowed quite a bit of water and volunteered to take a break.  Isabella would live in the water if she could.  She loves the ocean - and pools, and showers, and sprinklers, and rain.  Anything to do with water has a therapeutic effect with her, as it does with almost all kids with autism.  The reason for this remains to be seen but, who cares?  She is so happy and that is all that matters.

The surf was pretty intense; the waves were well above my head and the rip current was a tad strong for my liking.  But, these guys (and girls) were amazing with helping her - riding on the back of the board to keep it weighted and guiding her in all the way to the beach.  It was really cool.  She went surfing with the president of Christian Surfers, the owner of Inlet Charley's Surf Shop and an instructor from Pure Life Surfing school.  Not to mention the many surfers who just gave up a good day of awesome waves to see some good kids have the best day of their lives.  They could have been doing anything, yet they chose to help kids - happily.  It was really a great feeling to be part of such compassion.

Surfing does not make autism go away.  There were hundreds of kids there - some typical and most autistic.  The typical kids were playing with each other, while the autistic kids played near each other, yet by themselves.  None of them interacted.  It wasn't something that really stood out for me because she was having such a good time talking with other parents or adult volunteers.  They had a puppet show where a group of about 20-30 kids sat in the sand to watch.  None of them were watching - all of them were pouring sand on their bodies, including Isabella.  Madison was watching it and dancing to the song, but the other kids were lost in the sensory effects of beach sand.  I asked Isabella today why she was doing that.  I thought maybe she was cooling herself off.  I was wrong.  She said "it just felt really neat and it was really soft."  Duh.  I should have know.  She loves soft stuff.

Madison, contrary to Isabella, had no interest in the water unless it was from the tide line.  She just wanted to roll in the sand where it remained on her face, in her ears, in her hair for the majority of the day.  It was quite comical and yes, she did eat some.

Isabella had the time of her life.  Grins from ear to ear most of the day and only a couple of instances of fleeting problematic behavior.  We had a great time watching her...hot, pregnant...it didn't matter.  I would do it again in a heart beat.  In fact, I will be doing it again next month in St. Augustine.  Mahalo.