Joy and Sadness

via Pixar Wiki

I finally feel to the point where I can write again. I don't know if it will come again any time soon, but thank you in the meantime for reading here. This blog has been a great blessing to all of us.

I think I, and many of us, often mistakenly think that as soon as we do this or that, or that thing finally happens, we will be totally happy...and then what? Over the last several months, I've learned we have to take happiness when it comes, because waiting often doesn't yield any joy.

We watched Inside Out as a family recently. It was a great opportunity to talk to Bug and Bear about emotions and what to do with them. Surprisingly, it was a great lesson for me. I learned (and hopefully this doesn't spoil much if you haven't seen it!) so much about the important relationship between sadness and joy (both of which are personified in the movie). I have had the wrong definition of happiness and joy in my head for too long: I thought it was the absence of sadness. But without the sadness, we wouldn't know happiness. We wouldn't see the true beauty of life if we didn't have the contrast of its low points for comparison.

This is an eternal principle that I have known, intellectually, for a long time. But the way it was illustrated in the movie hit me personally and helped me see my depression in a healthier way. Sometimes the happiest moments of our lives are borne out of sadness. Sadness doesn't push joy completely out of the picture, and vice versa. It's normal for everyone to have highs and lows, and just because my lows may be lower and my highs harder-fought (and often shorter-lived) doesn't mean that I am weaker than those to whom happiness seems to come so easily. Happiness isn't a contest or a race, and our worth isn't measured by the amount of days we spend full of joy.

I realized I was waiting for my depression to be gone, forever. But I don't think that's in the cards for me, at least not yet. That's hard to accept, but it's getting a little easier. I've got a better handle on how my depression works and what I need at certain points in the cycle. I'm trying more consistently to enjoy the happiness when it comes and not worry about the next low.

Most importantly, I'm trying to see all the good things depression has brought me. I'm learning to have more empathy and patience with others. I recognize what is truly important and valuable in my life. I'm making stronger and more meaningful relationships. Just like autism, depression has brought its share of difficulties and heartache, but it's something that can also teach and improve me and my family in a way nothing else can.

As we continue learning, I hope to share some ways I'm managing parenting, specifically with a special needs child, and my depression. There's not as much written about that out there as I'd like. If you have some experience with that or something similar, let's do this together! The last several months have shown me I'm not as alone as I thought, and we can all be a huge support to one another.

Bug's 2014

Each New Year is a funny thing. It's just another day, time going by in its usual fashion, but to us with calendars and goals and things, it can be a big deal. I honestly usually don't think too much about the New Year holiday, but this year is different. I've written several entries the past few months about how blessed we have been in 2014. But today, I want to acknowledge Bug and all of the ways he has amazed us. In 2014, he:

• "Graduated" Early Intervention 
• Started speaking in full sentences (not just 2- or 3-word phrases) and asking questions
• Went from attending about 15 minutes of church on Sundays (usually walking around) to sitting and listening for a full 45-60 minutes, consistently, every week
• Became more flexible about going to new places and into stores he was previously uncomfortable with
• Decreased his meltdowns from 3-5 times per week to maybe 1-3 per month
• Completed a feeding therapy episode (three months) in which he about TRIPLED his accepted foods inventory and became overall better at eating meals and trying new foods (we eat meals together as a family now!)
• Showed us that he can memorize and recite books - which he can use in appropriate contexts to make text-to-real-world connections
• Learned to count to 25, and to count objects
• Started attending and loving preschool
• After over a year of take-out, is once again able to go out with our family for a sit-down meal
• Answered questions more often than repeated them (huge increase in using yes/no)
• Learned all the short letter sounds - without any help from us or preschool
• Started holding pencils/crayons/etc correctly and used them to draw shapes and letters
• Went on our first out-of-state road trip after about two years, and had a successful, fun time at grandma's for a week

I am so, so proud of Bug. The day-to-day can get tiring and discouraging for all of us: I think it's so easy to stay in the moment, focusing on the short-term goals and the baby steps - which is important, don't get me wrong - but we can overlook the major milestones. And look at all those milestones! Bug truly is our superhero. For all the work we have done this year, he has done exponentially more. We've only begun to scratch the surface on what he is capable of doing.

I'd like to challenge you parents (and remind myself), when you feel like you're not making a difference, or things are just too hard, or you feel like nothing has changed, to sit down and list all the progress that's been made over a period of time. Sometimes, I just make a mental note of the good things that have happened in a day. The time frame doesn't really matter; it's the reflecting and tweaking your perspective that can turn your attitude around. 

Here's to a 2015 full of even more milestones!

Patience at Target

We had a great weekend. We went out, had fun, ate ice cream, made it through a good portion of church, and spent time with family. It tends to be easier to be patient and see the good in little things when the kids are happy and the day is going smoothly. Lately, my patience hasn't quite been where it should be, so I learned a lot and saw a lot of good this weekend.

The past few weeks, Bug has had a new thing to be particular about: going in and out of doors. At church, for example, he always goes in the far right door, then out the same one (so far left as we're leaving). He has decided he always wants to go in and out the same doors (the green "IN" doors) at places like Target, too. Usually, that's not a problem, but it's Christmastime and stores are much more busy and crowded than when we typically go out.

We've been working on this door thing, and the day was going so well, I was surprised when Bug stopped about 10 feet from the "OUT" door and silently started showing signs of agitation. He wanted to go out the "IN" doors - because green means go - but there were carts blocking the space between the two sets of doors and lots of customers. I tried talking him through it: "We go in the green and out the red!", "Look, all the people leaving are going through the red doors!", so on and so on. He wasn't having it. Dad tried some different logic, too. Still nothing. Still staying firmly in place, pointing at the green doors and wanting to leave against the flow of foot traffic.

It would have been easy to just pick him up and go to the car (something I've done before, with chaotic results), but we didn't want a meltdown and we weren't in any hurry. I started thinking about how Bug loves letters and is starting to recognize words, so I thought I'd try that - I felt it was a long shot, but couldn't hurt. And, wonderfully, that ("O-U-T spells 'out' and we need to go out!") got him to go, no problem.

Getting Bug through a door may seem like such a small thing, but it was a great lesson for me. First, as a parent (especially one to a child with special needs), you have to think creatively. What I thought would make sense to him, didn't. I had to try to see things from his perspective a little better and guess what track his brain was on. More importantly, for everyone to be happy and content, we had to do the hard thing. Standing in the exit of Target and trying to reason with a preschooler really isn't too hard in the grand scheme of things, but it's an experience that I need to remember. Instead of letting impatience and my feelings get in the way of things, we were patient and took the time to work through things with Bug instead of trying to change his thought process. We took the more difficult route, but the return was well worth the effort.

One Year

Wikimedia Commons

One year ago today, Bug was officially diagnosed with autism.

We weren't surprised. I remember clearly a Sunday months earlier when, instead of participating in church services, we were watching Bug walk laps around the church gym. We were reviewing the few words he had in his vocabulary in preparation to see his pediatrician and talk about the (little) progress he'd made in his development. It was then we both realized that separately, we thought that he might be on the autism spectrum. But that didn't make the day of diagnosis any easier.

I think I didn't anticipate how hard that day would be. I expected I would cry, but I didn't expect to hardly be able to talk about it out loud for a few days. Though we were somewhat prepared for what was coming, you can't ever prepare for the emotions that follow an official, life-changing diagnosis. We resolved to do whatever it took to make sure Bug got the best care we could provide. We spent weeks looking for houses and jobs in states with mandated insurance coverage for autism treatment. We researched everything we could about autism and potential treatments and potential challenges. All of the unknowns threatened to become overwhelming. In one day, our lives turned upside-down.

The first thing I learned after diagnosis was about love. No matter who I chose to share the news with, I just felt love from everyone. There was no judgement, no disbelief, no tension. I remember clearly everyone we told said some variation of, "We love Bug and all of you. We want to support you and help however we can." If you were one of these people, thank you. Everyone's support meant (means) the world to us.

We also quickly learned that although the diagnosis was difficult, it was absolutely worth it. Fear and stigma can surround any diagnosis, especially an "invisible" or psychological one. Believe me, we were plenty fearful about what life would be like for Bug with a diagnosis forever being attached to him. That diagnosis, and sharing it, has been nothing but helpful. We have been guaranteed help and protections under the law. Caregivers have an idea of what to expect and what treatment may work, all because of the diagnosis. 

As silly as it may sound, a diagnosis has been like a call number for a library book. Remember the Dewey Decimal System? The first three numbers always indicate a broad topic. Like language or history or philosophy. Within that topic, the books vary between more specific subject matter, length, and reading level, but they are all related. Bug's call number starts with "autism", and although that doesn't tell you everything about him, it helps give a general understanding of what to expect with him.

We still face plenty of challenges and unknowns. But I can't help thinking about the difference a year has made. Bug tells us about what's going on around him, he shows interest in his peers, his diet has improved dramatically, and we can do things as a family we never imagined we'd be able to do again - everything from going to specific stores and eating out at a restaurant to trying completely new experiences. Discouragement is no stranger, but looking at the bigger picture and every little bit of progress gives us renewed hope. The past year has been a rollercoaster, but rollercoasters are still fun, aren't they?

Faith and Trials

lds.org, Hymn 105

This past year, my faith has been shaken. I didn't expect that. Like everyone else, I've been through trials before that felt never-ending. My trials had always ended, and my faith was always strengthened. When we started the months-long process of diagnosis, I saw the time ahead as another trial that God would pull me through and use to help me become stronger. That positive attitude didn't last too long.

The first few evaluations were okay. I felt a little discouraged, but at the time, we only knew Bug was delayed. A delay brings a sense of ending: if he's delayed, he'll eventually catch up, no big deal. But once everything was pointing more toward autism, I became more and more nervous. I didn't want my son to carry that kind of burden for the rest of his life. Like any parent, I wanted to be able to fix whatever went wrong in his life.

In October, the autism diagnosis brought with it a lot of sadness. We knew that many things would not come as easily to Bug as to almost all the other children we knew. We knew that for the rest of his life, Bug will face stumbling blocks and challenges that others around him may not be able to help or understand. I, of course, didn't want that for Bug.

After the sadness, the questions started to surface. Most of them started with why. Why does Bug have autism? Why him? Why our family? Why would a loving God allow individuals and families to be profoundly affected throughout their lives by incurable, sometimes debilitating, defects, illnesses, and the like?

I'm not the first person in history to ask these questions, so there were plenty of answers to them to be found. And, oh, what a range of answers there are, even among the members of my church. I eventually concluded that I needed to find my own, personalized answers. Even though I was hurting and lost, I knew that if I wanted to come out with stronger faith and testimony, I needed to work on my personal understanding of God and the gospel - not someone else's.

So I prayed, searched, and read, over and over. I found that I needed to return to basic principles, because so often we can get lost in the deeper searching that we let our foundation of faith crumble. Some of the basic doctrines that have served as a means to find my personalized answers are:

1. Not all trials have a reason behind them. In the New Testament, Jesus remarked that a man's blindness was not a result of his own, or even his parents', sin (John 9:1-3). James E. Faust expanded on this:

"The Savior’s teaching that handicaps are not punishment for sin, either in the parents or the handicapped, can also be understood and applied in today’s circumstances. How can it possibly be said that an innocent child born with a special problem is being punished? Why should parents who have kept themselves free from social disease, addicting chemicals, and other debilitating substances which might affect their offspring imagine that the birth of a disabled child is some form of divine disapproval? Usually, both the parents and the children are blameless. The Savior of the world reminds us that God 'maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.' (Matt. 5:45.)"

This is applicable to any type of difficulty; Boyd K. Packer said that "The idea that all suffering is somehow the direct result of sin has been taught since ancient times. It is false doctrine." 

So where do some of the difficulties of life come from if not from sin or from God? Neil L. Andersen explained, "Not all the whirlwinds in life are of your own making. Some come because of the wrong choices of others, and some come just because this is mortality."

It's also worth mentioning what the LDS Church Handbook 2 advises:

"Leaders and members should not attempt to explain why the challenge of a disability has come to a family. They should never suggest that a disability is a punishment from God. Nor should they suggest that it is a blessing to have a child who has a disability."

2. We can endure, and become stronger because of, any trial. Notice I say endure, not enjoy - that is a very important distinction to me, because I think we often falsely believe that we have to make it through every rough patch with a smile. It can help, and it is often possible, but we'll all undoubtedly face trials that challenge us to our cores, putting us in survival mode. That is okay. We can still learn and become better through (and maybe some time after) such trials. Thomas S. Monson said:

"Our Heavenly Father, who gives us so much to delight in, also knows that we learn and grow and become stronger as we face and survive the trials through which we must pass. We know that there are times when we will experience heartbreaking sorrow, when we will grieve, and when we may be tested to our limits. However, such difficulties allow us to change for the better, to rebuild our lives in the way our Heavenly Father teaches us, and to become something different from what we were—better than we were, more understanding than we were, more empathetic than we were, with stronger testimonies than we had before."

James E. Faust also taught about how trials can change us:

"In the pain, the agony, and the heroic endeavors of life, we pass through a refiner’s fire, and the insignificant and the unimportant in our lives can melt away like dross and make our faith bright, intact, and strong. In this way the divine image can be mirrored from the soul. It is part of the purging toll exacted of some to become acquainted with God. In the agonies of life, we seem to listen better to the faint, godly whisperings of the Divine Shepherd."

3.  There is always at least one who knows the depth of my pain and sorrow. Through the Atonement and His time on earth, Jesus Christ has perfect empathy. Dallin H. Oaks explained this beautifully:

"The Savior teaches that we will have tribulation in the world, but we should 'be of good cheer' because He has 'overcome the world' (John 16:33). His Atonement reaches and is powerful enough not only to pay the price for sin but also to heal every mortal affliction. The Book of Mormon teaches that 'He shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people' (Alma7:11; see also 2 Nephi 9:21).

"He knows of our anguish, and He is there for us. Like the good Samaritan in His parable, when He finds us wounded at the wayside, He binds up our wounds and cares for us (see Luke 10:34). Brothers and sisters, the healing power of His Atonement is for you, for us, for all.

"…At times we may despair that our burdens are too great. When it seems that a tempest is raging in our lives, we may feel abandoned and cry out like the disciples in the storm, 'Master, carest thou not that we perish?' (Mark 4:38). At such times we should remember His reply: 'Why are ye so fearful? how is it that ye have no faith?' (v. 40).

"The healing power of the Lord Jesus Christ…is available for every affliction in mortality."

I could go on (and on) about the ways my faith has been strengthened these past months, but most of them stem from these three basic principles. I'm grateful for each answer to prayer, each new gospel truth I learn through study or experience, and look forward to growing in faith even more in the time to come.

Climbing Walls

Before Bug ever had a diagnosis, I felt like one might be coming. Mother's instinct, maybe. I'm a big reader, so I read articles and stories from and about other parents who went through referrals and tests and diagnoses with their own children already. One thing stuck out to me: every parent, at some point or another, goes through the stages of grief when their child receives a life-changing diagnosis. I knew that, and yet, after diagnois, I had no idea how those stages of grief would affect me - because they affect everyone differently.

You see, I thought I went through them pretty quickly. I thought I was ready to be optimistic and make oodles of positive changes and roll with the punches and not let the difficulties get me down....

But then they did, over and over. Week after week and month after month. And it wasn't until recently, when I felt a definite, remarkable change in my mood and our home environment, that I realized it took me much longer to grieve. To say the months since October have been a roller coaster is an understatement. I've changed and grown in so many ways I can't describe, and those changes and growth are still happening.

I think I'm finally at a point where I can do my best to share some of my changes and growth with you. I've wanted to share for so long, but it just never really felt right until now. Until today, actually.

I've split this post for length, so click on through to read more.

The Big Question

I'm bursting at the seams with posts to write. I want to tell the whole world all about our life with autism. But it's so hard to know how to break that down. So, I'm starting with the basics.

What is autism?

Leaving the medical explanations, speculations, and gobs of research behind, here's what autism is for our family, in the 3.5ish months since diagnosis day.

Autism is energy. Bug is under sensitive to proprioceptive and vestibular input (the two senses you didn't know you have), meaning we have lots of spinning, jumping, running, crashing, etc. in our house. He once took grandpa for an hour+ walk around beyond the neighborhood, then came home and jumped on his trampoline for at least 15 minutes.

Autism is a roller coaster. Some days Bug seems like any other toddler. Others, the difficulties that autism brings take over the day completely. All toddlers have good and bad days, but autism amplifies those highs and lows a few times.

Autism is tears - from everyone. Sometimes the hard days make Bug cry a lot. Sometimes Mom and Dad cry from pride at Bug trying or mastering something new. Sometimes Bear cries because he has to hang out in the safety of his crib alone for a bit while we pass through a meltdown. Sometimes we just cry for no reason!

Autism is nonstop learning. Every day brings us new lessons in what Bug feels and needs. Bug's therapies include Mom and Dad learning different strategies and activities to help him learn and grow. Beyond Bug, the autism world is a big one that I feel I've only barely caught a glimpse of.

Autism is a battle. In Utah, autism treatment isn't covered by insurance. Period. There are a few lucky privately funded insurance plans that cover treatments (that's something!), but most of us are on our own. If a child has another condition or diagnosis that is covered, awesome - there's a way to get some help. But Bug doesn't have another diagnosis. Then there's the whole battle against ignorance. We're fortunate to not have faced this much so far. But it's still so sad how many people think autism is made-up, or a plea for attention, or a conspiracy by doctors and drug companies fueled by greed (yes, people actually think this).

Autism is joy. Even with all his difficulties, Bug is the happiest, sweetest toddler we know. His smile and laugh are infectious. He finds joy in the simplest of things. We find joy with every improvement he makes, whether it's a baby step or a leap forward. We can see the joy the boys have when they are together, even though they don't understand each other very well yet. We see Bug bring joy to his family, friends, and even random people he meets in passing.

Autism somehow just makes the sweet things in life even sweeter. Autism makes Bug sweeter. That's why he's our bucket of sugar.

Lessons from a Meltdown

One of the first things you quickly learn about a toddler with autism is that sometimes they go beyond the realm of tantrums into a Meltdown. Yes, capital M Meltdown. We saw these before we ever had a diagnosis, but didn't have a name or explanation for them.

The basics: toddlers often have tantrums, we all know them: the child doesn't get his/her way, and starts yelling/screaming/kicking/whatever it takes to try to manipulate the parent into a desired outcome. The key here is that the (neurotypical) toddler knows what he/she is doing. The toddler is actively trying to change things. A toddler with autism may start with a tantrum, but eventually gets to a point of no return where it's not even about a desired outcome anymore. He/she loses conscious control of the situation. Read a better explanation of a Meltdown here . 

Today's Meltdown: Bug wanted yogurt. We were out. He still wanted yogurt. I made some suggestions, none of which were yogurt, and therefore were not acceptable. I could sense the impending Meltdown, so I tried to redirect, but Bear started crying and I think that's where we crossed the line. Goodbye event horizon, hello black hole.

Bug's choice of calming behavior during a meltdown is chewing on his fingers. Not biting his nails, not nibbling on the tips, but sticking as much of his hand as he can in his mouth and chewing like it's a snack. Obviously, we don't like this very much and it hurts him. 

So, the Meltdown has commenced, and with it, the hand chewing. I tried giving him other sensory input: rubbing his hands, soothing noises, massage, offering his chewy tube...nothing was working. The unfortunate reality is that the best you can do during a Meltdown is minimize damage and wait it out. So I tried to keep him from biting and tried to keep myself from going into Meltdown, too.

I'm not very good at keeping myself from going into a Meltdown. All I can see is my child hurting. Thinking about how scary it must be for him: all his senses are sending unpleasant messages and he doesn't know how to cope, how to escape the neurological barrage. In these moments I often think, "autism has taken over, this isn't Bug", because it's the only thing that keeps me from getting mad at him.

Instead, I get mad at autism. I yell and scream at it in my mind. I demand to know what right it think it has to take over my son and cause him pain. Because the Meltdowns aren't Bug. He's made up of more than sensory issues and communication delays and social deficiencies. He's smart, loving, imaginative, adorable, and my little boy. He's amazing! And I hate that autism can sometimes overshadow those things or keep them hidden from the different people he meets.

But I know Bug wouldn't be Bug without autism. Since the diagnosis, learning more about autism and watching Bear grow up, we are starting to see just how much it's been a part of Bug since birth. I think that's the hardest thing to accept. Sometimes I may hate autism, but it's an integral part of Bug, of our lives, and it isn't going anywhere. If there was a cure for autism, would we take it? No. Because I know that despite the Meltdowns and all the other challenges Bug faces, autism has given him something that I can't yet put into words. I suppose it's like someone being born blind: they don't know what a violin looks like, but they can listen to orchestras and symphonies and maybe even enjoy music in a way that the rest of us can't because we're too busy watching the music being made instead of really listening to it.

That's my daily challenge - trying to enjoy the music, listen to its little nuances, and find ways to be thankful for autism. Because I am beyond thankful for Bug, and autism is a part of him.

Where To Start

Where do I start?! This little guy is our Bug. He just passed 30 months and has taken our little family of four on quite the ride the past 7 months. We also have Mom, Dad, and newborn Bear.

Let's first rewind to March. Bug's annual well-child appointment was coming up, and we knew the doctor was going to be asking about his speech. We talked about how he was slightly behind at his 18-month appointment, and we'd follow up when he turned 2. Here he was, a few weeks away from 2, and we knew he hadn't improved much. We sat and made a list of the words Bug had. We even included animal sounds. It was a very short list. We knew that at 2, he was supposed to be starting to use two-word phrases. We were so far from that.

Time for the appointment...the doctor said Bug is healthy and such a smart boy, but we should get a speech evaluation done. No problem, that can be done right across the hall at the children's rehab office. Hearing assessment done first - perfect hearing, like we thought. Bug loved the speech evaluation: he got to play the entire time. We did a lot of talking about Bug's behavior, habits, likes/dislikes, on and on, in addition to details about his communication. The therapists loved him.


After just a few days, we got the full report. We knew he was behind, the evaluation was just supposed to determine how far behind. Severe mixed receptive/expressive language disorder. Definitely more far behind in expressive. Age equivalencies, percentile rankings, suggested treatment, good prognosis.

The two words that stuck out in the five-page report: Severe. Disorder.

We couldn't believe those two words would be associated with our sweet, smart, adorable Bug. That's when the blaming started. Maybe we were doing something wrong, not doing enough, and that's why his speech was behind.

Luckily, we have a wonderful family who helped us get over that. It's nobody's fault that Bug is behind in speech. It's just something that happens to kids. Him needing speech therapy is not a negative reflection on our parenting. If anything, the fact that we were looking into therapy was a sign that we're being good, caring, supportive parents. All of us will work together to get him caught up.

Next up, a feeding evaluation. The speech therapist felt that with his very limited diet, we should get that done to see what was up. More guilt. Another report, this time six pages. Significant feeding difficulties. He didn't have motor issues impeding his eating, just behavioral, and maybe sensory, so guess what? let's get that checked out, too.

Want to know something fun about insurance? When a child is delayed, without a medical diagnosis (like a chromosomal abnormality, physical disability, etc.), insurance doesn't have to cover treatment. They cover evaluations to a degree, so you can know what's up, but if a kid is just delayed without a "good" reason, that means they'll catch up on their own!! You don't need therapy coverage if they'll eventually catch up!! (Sarcasm exclamation points.)

Back in February, a friend gave us the contact information for Early Intervention, a state agency that offers therapy services to every kid in the state who needs them. Since it's significantly cheaper (as in free, compared to hundreds of dollars per session) than private therapy, we needed to check them out. We were so worried that Bug wouldn't qualify, that he wouldn't have a strong enough need for their services.

Evaluation day for EI came one week after Bear's delivery. By that point, we knew exactly what questions they were going to ask about Bug's development, and what sorts of assessing they were going to do with him. We'd already done it all with the speech and feeding evaluations. We handed over those results. And, surprise, Bug was being cooperative and showing off all his strengths. It may sound weird, but we were hoping they would get at least a small glimpse in person of what his behavior can be like every day, instead of us looking like fools saying "he's not always this happy! or cooperative! he really does need help!". Finally, he lost patience and started melting down. Our service coordinator said "You all certainly need the help we can offer. You are the most patient parents I've ever seen. We'll make sure he qualifies, no matter what his tests right now say."

The EI evaluation left us feeling nothing but relief. We were finally going to get Bug the therapy he needed, and we'd get the tools we need to help him be happy, healthy, and developing as he should. EI planned to get Bug an occupational therapist, who would work on feeding and also assess his sensory needs, and a speech therapist, who would work on developing his language skills.

We had the feeling that maybe his sensory needs were the root of many problems, and we were able to get in a last-minute opening with a private OT to do a sensory evaluation. Why not, the more we know about what's going on with Bug, the better. No big blows with those results, Bug definitely has sensory processing disorder. This is all along the lines of what our EI OT found, and what we had guessed after lots of Googling and reading.

Through Mom's work at schools, she was able to work with some special-needs kids. Inevitably, she'd get a question from one of the other students, something like "Why doesn't he have to sit and do this activity? Why is she doing that, I thought it was against the rules?". Her go-to answer was always "His brain just works differently than mine and yours. He needs different things." Kids are amazing, and most of them, of a variety of ages, understood and accepted this explanation.

Bug's brain works differently than Mom's, and Dad's, and Bear's, and that other kid who is his age and talks in full sentences. That's just how he is. We have learned now, more than ever, just what that means. It means we have to change the way we act and parent and teach him because his brain just works differently. It's different, it's not wrong. We won't lie and say it's easy, because it's the hardest thing we've ever done. But it's worth it, because we love our family more than anything.