A Sweatshirt

Two weekends ago the weather in this corner of North Yorkshire turned (with apologies to my American friends) to full-blast spring: high 50s/low 60s, mild breeze, bright sun, and a cloudless sky. We took to the backyard and stayed all day long, tidying up the winter dregs and throwing away debris.

Fun fact: when you have a public footpath behind your house and the wind in your area regularly kicks up to gale-force strength on Recycling Day, you routinely find everyone else’s empty crisp packets and Coke cans in your garden.

At some point I dragged out a bunch of books and was lying on my side reading to the girls. It was a bit cool so I put on a large draping-front wrap cardigan. It’s the sort of vaguely trendy yet shapeless garment I favor these days, worn over leggings, because it gives the illusion of having dressed without actually putting on real pants. Maggie got down next to me.

“I’m cold. I need a sweatshirt.”

“Okay. Yours are upstairs.”

“No, I need your sweatshirt.” With that, she pulled out the side closest to the ground to make a blanket to lie upon, lay down next to me, and wrapped the other side of the cardigan around her. “Hug me. Don’t squeeze me.”

I followed orders, and I’m not sure how long we stayed like that. It wasn’t long; maybe a minute and a half? Surely no more than two minutes. But it was so quiet, and she patted my face, and I hugged her but did not squeeze, and promised myself I would write it down so I would never forget that silent moment of perfect, miraculous contentment.

Amazing how ninety quick seconds on a lazy Sunday afternoon can turn into one of those moments you’ll want to come back to and live in forever.

It’s Nice

Last August, in the throes of helping my children through jet lag, new microbes, and the sensory onslaught of visiting family in America, I decided I needed a vacation to myself. Tom was booked to take one with his dad the following month, but I had nothing on the books. I began to fantasize about skiing. Growing up in Maine near cheap slopes, I skied frequently as a teenager with friends and it’s something I’ve dearly missed in my adult life (though giving it up was worth those three years we lived in Hawaii). I began to browse deals to ski resorts in Switzerland or Austria.

Then my friend M emailed me and said “I’m putting together a girls’ long weekend in Nice, France for February to get some sunshine. Maybe Monte Carlo. You in?”


Au revoir, skis.

England’s winter was comparatively mild, with almost no snow. I’m grateful for that, since most of our friends and family at home were dealing with the fallout from not one but two polar vortexes, but it was excessively rainy. Just endless weeks of mind-dulling 4pm sunsets over gray landscapes and frosty-cold horizontal rain. I’ll take the colors of the Mediterranean, thanks.

Yes, I am a soft, spoiled person. But I’m a soft, spoiled person who got to walk around with seven other fabulous ladies in the south of France sans children for three days.


See that coat? That is the much-lauded travel coat. Now, the entire purpose of the trip for 3/4 of our traveling companions was to run a road race. The remaining 1/4 of us are staunchly (and in my case, paunch-ly) lazy. One of the runners mentioned that her daughter wanted to see her run, so my non-running friend attempted to get a video only to find that her camera hadn’t recorded.

“Go!” I said. “I bet if we sprint we can get ahead of them–it’s just for a second!” So we did, and I pivoted into a running start…directly into the path of a bicycle that had been diverted off the usual bike path by the temporary bleacher seating along the road.

I swerved. He swerved. The coat flapped open, and one of the handlebars ran along the interior and punched through a button-hole, leaving a 3″-4″ gash. We gaped at each other for a second before determining that we were both okay and he pedaled off.

(She got the video, by the way. You can hear panting in the background.)

Later, my friend remarked “You could not have planned that if you tried.” I certainly wasn’t going to take it out on the cyclist–even if he spoke English that was such a freak occurrence that it couldn’t have possibly been any fault of his. In any case, 14 quid at the tailor later and all was right as rain, with a visible but as discreet-as-possible repair (and I have serious reason to doubt anyone’s going to be staring at my upper thighs for any length of time anyway).

Aside from the universe emphatically reminding me that I am ridiculous, it was a delightful trip. Nice is a pleasant place to spend a few days (just don’t tell the British guy screaming profanities into his phone about what a dump it was and how he’d be back in Monaco in a few days–from what I saw there were equal amounts of palm trees and dog poo on the sidewalks).


More than a few days would be boring (not to mention expensive–the food prices! Blerg!) but we snuck in a day trip to Monte Carlo too. The water was blue and fresh-looking, there were swaying palm trees, and while it wasn’t quite tank top weather it was certainly warm enough to enjoy a bread-based brunch outside with a dear friend and a glass of Sancerre.

And really, isn’t having to break a meal into toddler-friendly bits and helping yourself to a glass of wine at 10am what traveling without your kids is all about?

I’ve already booked another girls’ weekend for October. Iceland (and its spas) is going to be AWESOME.

Talking About Bodies

In a completely age-appropriate twist, the girls have taken an interest in how bodies work. We’ve always had good luck with Maggie in regards to books in that we can put out books on topics and she learns really well from repeated readings. However, the echolalia got us in a spot of embarrassment when we were trying to explain the concept of pregnancy. The book My Mom’s Having A Baby was phenomenal, but its factually correct and technical descriptions led to this exchange at the grocery store:

Clerk: Your mommy is having a baby!

Maggie: Daddies have sperm.

Me: *dies inside*

My embarrassment wasn’t that bad (particularly since I’m recounting it to you and possibly to Margaret’s future romantic partners), but it highlighted the need for exact speech. This kid doesn’t do euphemisms.

So off I went to the library. My first grab was The Magic School Bus Inside The Human Body, which is very busy and packed but okay for Maggie and Moira as long as we don’t read EVERY sidebar. Main pro: comic-book format. Main complaint: their travels through the body required me to go back and re-explain the digestive system so the kids didn’t think that nutrients flowed back down the spinal cord. Minor quibble, since there’s a full body map near the end, and it’s a lot of fun to read.

Moira, for what it’s worth, really enjoys shouting “ACHOO!” at the end when the bus snot-rockets out of poor goofy Arnold’s face. Good times.

Speaking of Moira, we noticed her eyeballing Daddy rather curiously in the bathroom one day so we decided to also get Who Has What? This book is phenomenal. What I really love–aside from the no-nonsense technical terms–are the equality-based details. One is the emphasis that girls and boys are mostly alike (both like to play catch, both like to snuggle dolls and stuffed animals); the other is that mommies feed babies from their breasts or from bottles! No judgment! And daddies can feed their babies bottles of pumped milk or formula! No judgment! There are also a ton of little details that make me happy: a drawing of a woman wearing hijab with her daughter at the beach, one of a mommy breastfeeding and a daddy bottle-feeding. What I REALLY like is that the main sibling characters–a little boy and little girl, natch–are people of color and part of a multiracial family with a white dad and black mom. All the background characters are an assortment of cultures and colors. Everybody gets their represent on. I have heard a lot about the author’s book It’s Not The Stork and if Who Has What? is any indication, we’ll have to borrow that one too.

My only minor quibble was the line about how when you grew up it would be your parts that determine whether you’re a man or a woman, but I figure we’ll build on the basic foundational biology aspects of anatomy before getting into the gender-as-a-spectrum-and-a-cultural-construct/transgender topics/body dysmorphia discussions.

And for some hands-on discussion, we got the Hape 5-layer Girl Body puzzle. Loves: the layering, the opportunity for discussing different systems, the ability to manipulate the parts. Dislikes: as far as I can see, even for the boy puzzle counterpart, this comes in white skin-blonde hair only. Not so much on full representation, which is disappointing but I suppose unsurprising.

It’s been a heck of an education around here! Now hopefully Moira won’t break down the bathroom door to say “WHATCHA DOING?!” to her father. Again.

Packing Challenge: Accepted!

Over a year ago, I stumbled upon the ScotteVest company and promptly set about haranguing Tom for the 18-pocket trench coat for my 30th birthday. It was to be, I thought, a classy entry into my fourth decade of travel. Since he’s a man who can take a hint (particularly one dropped on him in Acme-sized anvils) I did receive it and have used it on two trips now (Paris and Dusseldorf). I love it. It’s ridiculous. It’s absurd. And it makes me so happy.

However, it came with a caveat. “Since you can use your trench for all the items you’d normally put in your carry-on, I expect you to go on your girls’ weekend in February with just the trench and the bag you got in Morocco.” 

…Hmm. Well. A long weekend in Nice and Monaco with just a coat and a bag. This is the bag, by the way. A perfectly ordinary handbag, no Tardis-like properties contained within.


“I can do that,” I mused to my friend. “I think, anyway. I’m sure I can!”

“Well,” said my friend. “You can’t do it dirty-traveler style. You actually need to bring multiple pairs of underwear.”

I didn’t tell her I was just planning to borrow hers when she was done using them.

KIDDING. That’s disgusting. But, honor slightly impugned, I realized she was right: I needed to fit multiple outfits for a warmish-but-not-that-warm destination in February, and it’s for a Girls’ Weekend. For those of you who are not closing in on double-digits in your partnership, let me enlighten you: you’ll probably dress better for your girlfriends than for the person legally obligated to put up with your nonsense ’til death or packing challenges do you part.

I used my birthday and Christmas gift money to get some cute day-to-night dresses, some cute walking shoe-to-evening flats, and decided to renounce the 12th Commandment: “Thou shalt not wear leggings as pants.” (The 11th is, obviously, pack multiple pairs of underwear and don’t borrow your friend’s, or even joke about it.) This is what I had to fit in the bag:


Clothes in a packing cube, toiletries in the government-allotted quart baggie, extra shoes, electronics charger (for point-and-shoot camera and Nexus 4, which contains all the media I like to travel with–the charger is a 4-port USB hub/current converter that came with four different electrical outlet prong configurations that snap on and off as needed, and it is easily the best $20 I’ve spent for our electronics), and an assortment of lady products that I shant be bringing home with me, if you follow. The packing list laid out like this:

2x leggings

1 tunic top

2 sheath dresses in wrinkle-free fabric

Undergarments for every day

Suede flats

Going on my body on the plane and in the coat: pair of black leggings (will double as pajama pants), black and silver TOMS, tunic top over tank top (tank top will be used as pajamas), a travel hot-air blowdryer/brush, passport, wallet, camera, other vital docs.

Even Maggie observed the process with incredulity. “Why? Why are you doing that?”

(Did I mention she asks “Why?” questions now? Every time she does my heart does cartwheels and I have to pause before answering because holy huge BFD Batman.)

“Because Daddy dared me.” 

“Daddy…dared you?”

Then I had to explain what “dare” meant while clutching my satchel between my knees to force the center compartment shut, which is more breath than I’ve expended on exercise in some time. Here’s the final result:


Sure, it looks like it’s going to pop and I had to dig out the cross-body strap because there’s no way that sucker is going to fit on my shoulder, but there it is! Packing for a trip without my children is an odd experience (“Hmm, I don’t actually need to pack wipes…”) but it’s fun to try it now and then. I’ll miss them terribly but it will be fun to travel and have occasion to wear clothes that are not to be drooled on or used as a napkin.  

…But if you hear about a woman in England who got stopped for carrying hair styling implements in her coat pocket, you’ll know where to send bail.

The Ghost of Travel Future

It’s been a long time since I shared a proper hotel failure. While few things can top Miss Chippy, we had an experience over last Easter break that made me think back to my very first travels.

Long ago (I allowed 30 to come and go without mention here last fall) I participated in a high school travel program. This sort of trip is an excellent and cost-effective way to get very drunk indeed under the auspices of mind-broadening travel.

Our trip was called “Shakespeare, Dickens, and Scott.” It hit the literary high notes of England and Scotland over a seven-day period. After being issued our tour-logoed day packs and instructed not to let the guide’s umbrella out of our sight, we were educated about the masters. We were also learning what it meant to navigate a hotel carpeted and wallpapered in mismatched plaid tartan whilst totally bombed on cider.

For the record, it’s possible to see plaid in triplicate.

That trip was on my mind as our family ventured back south to Warwickshire, one of the old tour stops, to take the (largely uninterested) girls around Shakespeare country. We saw pretty and pretty awkward young things touring Stratford and bearing the same backpacks I once did. How nostalgic! Like looking at the Ghosts of Travel Past!

Except, booked in a fit of frugality, our lodgings now were no better than mine were then. It was a beat to hell and stained old Travelodge, with crumbling structures and plank-hard beds. I wouldn’t let the girls play on the bare couch.

It was also overrun by teens on their spring break, sans chaperone, glorying in their Travel Present.

I had a hard time resenting them. Had I not been an obnoxious young guest once upon a lagered time? But as the first night wore on and it became clear the staff had lost the plot, as the teens woke the girls again and again with stomping and screaming, I started to get irked.

The second night began promisingly. The hotel brought in additional security to cope. But by 7pm the hijinks were back on, and slurring voices roamed the halls.

Finally, one of them started drum-pounding on our door looking for his buddy… five minutes after both girls had fallen asleep. I leaped from the bed and charged the door to present the little jerks with the Gorgon visage of the Ghost of Christmas Future: a nearly-30 pudgy Mom of two little kids, sheathed not in robes but in old yoga pants and keening with the shrill banshee howl of death foretold.

I forget what exactly I said to them; I just know there was a lot of cursing. The shocked teen boys (between 15-18) recoiled as if I had come bearing a water cannon. The staff heard me a floor below at reception and came inquiring about the unhinged woman. Tom calmly explained that if they couldn’t get the situation back under control (he had done his yelling the night before during wake-up number five) we wouldn’t be paying for our stay. They readily agreed. Tom clucked after “That is the maddest I’ve ever seen you!”

Ultimately we left a night early and with our stay totally refunded, having had our Murtaugh “I’m too old for this shit” moment. It made me far more patient on our cruise two months after, though: one day I too will chuckle at campy lounge humor and wear sensible polyester slacks that zip off at the knee and lose my bifocals before dinner.

It was, in a way, like looking at our Ghosts of Travel Future.

I’m a Flake

I apologize to the email subscribers, since this is the third post of today and I’ve deleted two.

So…I think the thing to do is to spend a few hours (days) going through post-by-post and locking some of it down, and leaving others open. If some of this is helping people (and I’m beyond honored) then I feel like there’s meaning to it. But I can fix some of it so it’s not all raw and weird and hopefully the kids won’t be *too* embarrassed later.

I apologize again for the huge seller’s remorse. The earlier decision to post a “Hey, I’m done here with public stuff” was floating around for a while but the decision to hit “Publish” was a complete impulse. Sorry everyone. Now you know how Tom feels.

Closing it out

January: Malta
February: Brussels, Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp
March: Warwickshire
April: Amsterdam (me), Lincolnshire (Tom and the girls)
May: Aalborg (Denmark), Stockholm, Helsinki, St Petersburg, Tallinn (Estonia), Copenhagen
July: Cambridgeshire
July/August: Portsmouth, NH; Boston, MA; southern and central Maine
October: Marrakech, Essaouira, Ouarzazate (Morocco)
November: Paris

And tomorrow we’re closing out 2013 with Düsseldorf and Cologne.

Merry and bright, indeed.

November Blue

Dear Moira,

With a labor that began in the morning and ended at lunchtime, I never did walk outside on the day you were born. The curtains stayed drawn so you and I could rest. The midwives told me it was a dull, gray day with intermittent rain. That’s typical for northern England in late fall, but so wrong for you. The week we’ve just passed is more like the days I remember leading up to your birth, and more like you: sunny with the golden, brief light of autumn’s end; full of wind and bursts of wild weather; brilliantly blue skies giving way to fierce sunsets.


My heart is dancin’ to a November tune 
And I hope that you hear it singing songs about you 

You sparkle. You are effervescent, ebullient. You drive me absolutely barking mad, and even as I am howling “MOIRA! STAAAAAAAHPPPP!” I can’t help but hide my face so you won’t see me grin. You have two sides: the winsome charmer who makes friends with everyone, and the hooligan who will spit milk out in an arcing fountain if dinner is too quiet for your liking. You’re a pop song with a twist, snappy and catchy and fun until somewhere in the middle you get hit full in the chest with a devastating bass line.


I don’t know why I have to, but this man must move on 
I love my time here, didn’t know ’til I was gone 

You’ve moved fully into capital-T TWO, and there is so much that I miss and don’t miss. I don’t miss waking up 3-4 times a night and I just adore how hard you sleep and play now. I can count on you for a) a three-hour nap, b) a generally easy bed time (puncutated by the odd “Moira! Get back in bed!”) and c) to appear either at my bedside or in the doorway of the bathroom after launching from your bed like a jack-in-the-box. You don’t get out of bed in the morning; you spike the day like it was a volleyball. You have a pacifier now because you were biting, which is why I cheerfully forced you off the breast at 19 months, so every morning is punctuated by your constant low-level “mrrrrrrrrr mrrrrrrrr” engine-revving around your binky. You’re so full of life and full of a toddler’s curiosity. It’s wonderful, but cradling you in my lap on our flight back from Morocco, I realized that the only future guarantee I’d have of you falling asleep on me ever again was if you were sick. The little sleepy sack of newborn who happily conked out in my arms was gone; only a little bit of her remained, mostly in the smell in the fold of your neck. We–mostly I–were ready for you to stop nursing and to start sleeping without assistance, but I’ll never nurse another child again. You were the last.

And that’s why in the end, I loved every second of babyhood with you. Even the parts I hated, and even the parts at 3 a.m. that were so exhausting that I cried. I loved it because it goes so fast, and you were the last one. Now we’re moving on, and a full-blown child has taken that baby’s place.


November shadows shade November change 

And wow, that child is powerful. Strong. Emotional. While your speech has come on considerably your consonants are still a bit muddled. When you get passionate and agitated–which is often–we can’t quite make you out, which leads to flat-on-the-floor explosions. You scream like you’re being cut with razor blades, and throw yourself into my arms. On the last occasion you did that, you visibly passed the point of no return–I could see that you knew this was ridiculous, and the panic in your eyes when you couldn’t rein it back in. Instead of scolding, I cradled you up and told you it was going to be okay, that everyone had Very Big Feelings sometimes. Once it was over, I asked if you felt better. “Uh huh!” you gulped. The twinkle–the gleam that lights your perfect, sparkling, cheeky eyes–was back.


November spells sweet memory / the season blue remains 

And you are so cheeky. You’re sassy. And you’re usually quite remorseless. Just a few weeks ago you were my buddy at a charity event, and you snuck one of the lollipops meant for donors despite being told no, not for you. “Moira Autumn,” I said, in my best warning voice. “No lollipops.” In a flash you ripped off the wrapper and licked the pop, and fixed me with an enormous “Yeah? Tainted now! Whatcha gonna do?” grin that went ear-to-ear. You remind me of the last line of Good Omens, the line about Adam and how the apple was always worth the trouble you got into for eating it.

But despite the cheery defiance and the utterly irreverent grin you paste on your face when you’re busted in the act, you’re a born caretaker. No one is as tender to her baby dolls as you; nor as kind to the sad and sick as you are. You stop and consider people and you reach out to them. You try to make them feel better. You see what they need–a blankie, a hug, a fallen leaf, a few Cheerios–and you give.


Your yellow hair is like the sunlight, however sweet it shines 

What an incredible combination, Moira. The potential and power of you, which is equal parts sass, sensitivity, defiance, and consideration wrapped up in a fiercely independent (“No, Mama! I DO!”) package, is breathtaking. You’re the power of a mid-November day: changeable, flashing, full of possibility and warmth and an errant chill. You and I share a birth month, and I never really thought highly of November before now. November isn’t an attractive month in a lot of places–bare trees and raw, cold rain. Maybe November just needed a Moira, because now all I see is warmth and color–I see the leaves in your red-gold hair and the power of an autumn sky in your brilliant dark-blue eyes. My not-so-babyish baby’s eyes, now two–my November blue.


Bit by the cold of December, I’m warm beside your smile  

Thank you for being our little girl, Moira. Your radiance warms our lives. Life would be so unbearably dull without you. We adore and love you so.


Happy birthday,


(This structure again. I know. Sorry. I like it–helps me organize my thoughts. Italicized lines are from The Avett Brothers’ “November Blue.”)

Fear, Loathing, and Autism Speaks

Trigger warning: fear-mongering, ableism, othering of autistic people.


A little more than two years ago, I began to wonder.

A little more than a year ago, we pushed beyond our initial pediatrician response and reached out to specialists.

On Valentine’s Day, 2013, Margaret received an official diagnosis of classic autism.


Ten days prior to Margaret’s diagnosis I watched a military doctor at RAF Lakenheath administer the ADOS test, the final component of the diagnostic process. I had, I thought, made peace with the idea–we had been told months earlier by a developmental pediatrician that we should “begin to prepare” ourselves for a diagnosis. The occupational therapist we saw prior to that was relieved we had said the word “autism” because that meant “I can say it too. We can’t mention it unless the parents do if there’s no official diagnosis. Parental reactions are too incendiary.”

Too incendiary. Remember that.

Because Lakenheath is hours away from our home and we had an early appointment, no babysitter was possible. It was agreed that I would be in the room while Tom wrangled Moira elsewhere. The doctor looked at me with very kind eyes as I asked “You’re SURE? You’re SURE this isn’t just a speech delay? This is the diagnosis you’re recommending? YOU’RE SURE?!” She was sure. She was right to be.

The world went white. It buzzed. I couldn’t make out anything else she said through the giant, booming voice in my own head, drilling through the buzz and taking me by the shoulders and getting into my space and shouting, BELLOWING, in my brain:

“Do. Not. Screw this. Up.”

The next forty-five minutes are a blur. We were handed the American Pediatric Association’s book about autism and sent on our way. We went to the RAF commissary for snacks for the drive home. I staggered around the aisles, still buzzing (“DoNotScrewThisUpDoNotScrewThisUp”) paying for the food, somehow. Going back to the car and lasting maybe 15 minutes, maybe 15 seconds, maybe an eternity–maybe, in a way, I’m still there–until I broke into great whooping sobs.

“It’s so big, Tom.” I wailed. “This is so big.”

It is a small comfort to me that I didn’t, even in the white-noise depth of the moment, say that it was too hard, or too sad, or too bad. It is a small comfort to know that even then, way down deep, I knew the truth of the matter was not that this–not that autism–was tragic, but that the enormity of what I really needed to understand meant that the ice-cold, brutally reptilian voice of my maternity had to leap over the doctors and the rhetoric and the fear to speak the loudest:

You have been given a beautiful, rare, intense, precious responsibility. Do not screw this up.


But why the wait? If the diagnosis was so certain, and we knew and had educated ourselves and surrounded ourselves with a community of autistic adults and teens, people who filled us with hope and pride and joy, why did we wait? Nearly 13 months lagged between our first questioning and our first serious action.

We were afraid. I was afraid. The conflated rhetoric surrounding diagnosis, decrying doomed marriages and bankrupted futures and finances, was as immense as the confusion we felt. The biggest organization of them all was the first we turned to: Autism Speaks. Some of what they wrote was useful, but some of it was clouded in language that unsettled me deeply (discussed here in this fabulous, must-read post by Jess of A Diary of a Mom). I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt for so long. They are the largest. They have the biggest reach. Awareness surely counts, yes? Surely with enough work they’ll grow to include autistic people more and more in their upper echelons, yes?

Last night I read Autism Speaks co-founder Suzanne Wright’s Call to Action DC. My blood boiled and my head buzzed as it has not done since that cold, cold February day when we became sure that this thing–this condition that people spoke of in the hushed tones saved for the sick and the dying–was going to touch our lives. An excerpt from the introduction, the tone of which does not improve over the length of the piece and which, if you read the post from A Diary of a Mom, is sadly indicative of an alarming linguistic trend:

This week is the week America will fully wake up to the autism crisis.

If three million children in America one day went missing – what would we as a country do?

If three million children in America one morning fell gravely ill – what would we as a country do?

We would call out the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines. We’d call up every member of the National Guard. We’d use every piece of equipment ever made.

We’d leave no stone unturned.

Yet we’ve for the most part lost touch with three million American children, and as a nation we’ve done nothing.

We’ve let families split up, go broke and struggle through their days and years.

Now that, my dear friends and family, is what should call for an incendiary response.

Margaret is not missing; she was never lost. She is not ill. My family is not broken, we are not a tragedy, and the enormity of my rage requires that I have to, HAVE TO, resort to incendiary language here to decry this steaming pile of utter horseshit in the strongest terms I can muster:

Autism Speaks: my child, our children, our friends, our family, is not a crisis.

HOW FUCKING DARE YOU declare that we are?

Autism Speaks, you may not speak for us. You may not speak for me. You may not speak for my child. Your blue lights and puzzle pieces may not cast shadows on my home. Autism does not destroy families. They are destroyed by fear. This is why children suffer: because their families become convinced that their children are inevitable ticking time bombs of incomprehensible burden. Futures are bankrupted because nobody believes in presuming competence and investing in real, genuine, dignified accommodation; we are too busy being told to be afraid to see what is possible.

I hope like hell that Margaret never reads anything like what Suzanne Wright has written. I know that this is an impossibility. The actual words change, the people change, but the attitudes don’t change as quickly. Much as it sickens me, she will lose her innocence. What terrifies me–what shakes me to my very core–is the utter loathing in Suzanne Wright’s words. Oh, how I dread the possibility that Margaret may internalize that loathing; how I dread that her joy may crumple and her hope may shrivel from the core out. We must, MUST not support these attitudes. We must turn away from fear-mongering, othering, and martyrdom.

We are turning away from Autism Speaks.

Our family gets one chance. One chance to raise our daughter to adulthood. One chance to make a difference. One chance to turn to joy.

And we cannot–we dare not–screw this up.