Yesterday, my overly chatty six year old began our conversation with “Mom? Remember 2,000 years ago when you got married?”. It smarted. Why? Maybe because in the last month the following has occurred. My oldest became a teenager, I realized my eyelids are getting crinkly like post Thanksgiving aluminum foil and I turned 35. (Half way to 70 as my helpful husband points out)

The thing about getting older is, I am finding, that along with the sagging and bagging of body parts  that had not previously done so thank you very much, there comes a wealth of wisdom. Having a few decades of life tucked under my Spanx has helped clarify my priorities and expanded my experience portfolio in many ways. Here are a few I’ve learned so far.

1. Be Less Concerned with “Being Nice” and More Honest About Who You Are

Let me tell you something I learned as a girl raised in the South- BE NICE. Be sweet, be kind, be witty but not too witty, sexy but not too sexy and at all costs, be nice. Even though it might kill you, be nice. “Being Nice” means something different in every family but in my house growing up it meant don’t make other people mad. Don’t say what you really think. Go with the flow. Smile. A lot.

While there is nothing wrong with being polite, in fact I consider it mandatory for healthy living, there is nothing right with pretending to be something you aren’t, so others will be more comfortable or like you better, or at all, for that matter. Sorry.

I will never sell Mary Kay or Scentsy, stop asking me. I like clearance sales and coupons and salon manicures. I run, but only sporadically. I like expensive perfume and cheap socks…and I am good with that. I know what I like and what I don’t, which might be even more important.  I detest  racism, sexism, and just about every other “ism” out there too. Oh and scrap booking, hate that too. Whatever anyone else thinks of that is their business, not mine.

2. It’s Okay to Have Dirty Dishes in the Sink

The older I get, the more I am able to let go of the “Strive for Perfection” mantra that plagues me. (along with the majority of women I know) Women today are under unbelievable pressure to work miracles while looking like super models. Let’s be honest. To do EVERYTHING that needs to be done each day, would require an army of helpers…and then some.

The amount of items to check off my daily “To Do List ” is not realistic. I doubt yours is either.  Not really. Go take a look at it. I’ll wait.

Instead of “repaint the kitchen cabinets and resurface the drive way before the kids get home from school”, I am going to start writing “Do the best you can today”. If the best I can do that day is write a book while simultaneously volunteering at my kids school- awesome. But if the best I can do is survive the day and feed my kids Banquet Chicken Nuggets for dinner…that’s awesome too.  What a relief that brings. Do your best, that’s good enough. Who am I kidding? “Good Enough” rocks!

If you can’t get to the Good Enough Rocks state of mind, surround yourself with friends who suggest you just wear house shoes and pants to bed if your sheets are gritty and you are too tired to change them. Trust me on this one. Love you Sheri!

3.  Good Sex and Good Sleep Make You Look 10 Years Younger

For real. While this blog remains PG, let’s be clear, it’s amazing what liberal doses of rest and sex will do for your outlook on life. No wonder God is fan of both! He is a genius.

Sex and sleep make you feel like a million bucks and cost nothing. (if it’s costing you, something is not right) I know what some of you are thinking or screaming right now “YEAH RIGHT”. You are sleep deprived from child rearing, working round the clock and just plain wore out. Me too but I am learning that by making time for the good things in life, there is more life in me. Cliched, but cliched for a reason! Take off your Superwoman cape and go have a nap…unless your husband is into that sort of thing.

4. The Worse That Can Happen, Can Happen. You Will Be Okay.

The worst thing that we can imagine -can happen. Things even WORSE than we could imagine can happen too. In my 35 years the “worst thing that could happen” has, several times. Although I have been angry and hurt, God has scraped me off the ground and put me back together. He even did it when I didn’t believe he could and I wasn’t even sure I wanted Him too.

Bad things happened. When life couldn’t go on, it did. When I couldn’t bear another day, they came anyway and I lived. I have found that at then end of each disappointing, heart shattering day, there were still more blessings that I could count.  God provided, even when I didn’t think He had.

God saw when I didn’t think he was watching. God cared even when I did not believe he truly did. Although your heart may be broken, your dreams ruined, God can mend your heart and give you new dreams. It will take time. Be patient.

Thirty five years of accumulated knowledge has led to some other breakthroughs too. I’ve  learned that skinny jeans are not my friend although the salesperson insists that chunky girls look great in them. Just add a scarf! ( They lie! ) I know how to make a chicken piccata dish that is so good, it will make you want to slap your mother in law. I can balance my checkbook, practice spelling words with my second grader, pet the dog and make an art project with my Kindergartner all at the same time and not break a sweat or a nail. I can also say “Tonight this family will be in bed at 8:30″ and stick to it! After all, Mama has plans.

What about you? What have you learned so far?

When it comes to the fine art of verbal communication I am pretty much un-stumpable. (Yes, it’s a word. I made it up) There are few things you can throw at me in a conversation that I can’t catch and throw back. Rarely am I left speechless- despite having a history of being told things by total strangers that were I to share today, might make you cry or vomit. Maybe both.

I’ve been told stories of extra appendages (Isn’t that handy!) and was party to a bizarre confession by a neighbor. She was very dissapointed that her beloved cat had died instead of her not so loved husband, meow.

I didn’t blink when my Grandma Whinna shared the revelation that “old people like sex too”, although I did have trouble sleeping that night. I have helped hunt missing dentures while an elderly woman gave a loud list of the possible suspects. The accused were still in the room.

I have played an uncomfortable game of charades with an elderly man looking for directions to the “Lady Doctor, you know…” he said while point at his genitalia. Yes, I knew what a lady doctor was and helped him find the office where his patient wife was waiting- without missing a beat. In other words, shoot your question- I got it and doubt I’ll blush.

However, there are three exceptions to this rule. I gave birth to all of them. My sons are the only people I have ever met that can and often do leave me completely slack jawed, fumbling for syllables. And they did just that a few weeks ago over dinner…

“Mom? Okay, what does SEXY mean?” our cherubic faced six year old exploded over appetizer’s at a crowded restaurant. Utter silence ensued, followed closely behind the sound of Greg quietly choking on hot buttered roll.

The truth: I wanted to giggle. I can’t help it. I have been this way since I was eight and I will be this way when I am eighty…if I still remember what sexy means. The second truth: I felt a little sick. My sweet, sweet angel baby knew the word sexy after only five months of Kindergarten. His precious little ears had been pricked (no pun intended) by the worldliness of a street smart first grader at recess.

It’s at these moments I regret Greg and I ever decided to enact the “Just Ask- We’ll Tell” policy in our home. It’s a basic agreement between us and our kids that says if they come to us with a question, we will do our best to tell the truth. The fine print being, we reserve the right to give age appropriate answers and have heart palpitations in the process. The kids get a safe place to come to and hopefully we build a relationship built on trust. Cue after-school special theme music…

Since I couldn’t lie, see above, I was left with trying to find a way to explain that we could both live with. Meanwhile…the second grader pipes up and says “I know what THAT means. I would NEVER say that.”

Now the thing I want to convey here in a loving manner is this- Zeke Sanders can be a bit of a kiss up. He has learned early to play the game and do it well. Bless his heart.  Greg, at this point joyfully relieved of explaining “sexy” to Zack, turned to Zeke and rubbed the end of his nose with his finger. “Son, don’t be a brown noser.”, Greg said and explained the meaning and pitfalls to Zeke.

Meanwhile…”So Mama-Mommy. Gonna tell me what that word means?” Zack asked again, lest we forget him in the excitement of our entree’s being delivered. Might as kill two birds with one stone and tell them both at the same time, I thought. Just to be sure, I asked Zeke if he really knew what sexy meant and he balked. He readily confessed he had no idea what that word meant but assured us he had heard it at least “twenty or forty times before”. He is so cool.

“Twenty or forty times!” I marveled. He rushed on. “Oh yeah. Last week. Demarias said hey, I am going to watch a-” then Zeke paused and touched the end of his nose and continued “movie”.

It took a full twenty seconds for me to get what had happened. I looked at Greg and said “Well, we have done a bang up job this time. Zeke, tell that story again please.” Zeke excited to be doing something so scandlous at the dinner table, launched into his story again and same as before stopped and rubbed his nose instead of saying the word ‘sexy’ in his story.

In the middle of drinks being refilled, rolls passed around and two different conversations about the distasteful act of brown nosing and the definition of sexy, Zeke had gotten mixed up. Now, our eight year old thought sexy meant touch the end of your nose with your index finger!

Greg and I exchanged looks. I was speechless. How was I supposed to explain something I didn’t want to explain to someone who wouldn’t understand? Where did I start?

“OKAY, that’s enough family bonding time for tonight! Pass the rolls please. We will finish this conversation another night” I said. That option is in the fine print too.

For Christmas this year, my little family of five packed up our gifts and went to the beach to celebrate. Three children (one very Autistic, two typical), two parents (slightly stressed), 27 wrapped gifts, 2 bags of pretzels (mostly crushed), 4 bathroom breaks at shady looking gas stations and 511 miles in a Jeep, one way,  do not a Merry Christmas make my friends.

Greg and I are rational, usually, adults with over thirteen years of parenting under our belt. We know the score. We understand that a trip of this magnitude with our kids will require an arsenal of Dramamine, trash bags, sense of humor, lots of Advil and frequent prayer.

Knowing the potential for this trip to go terribly wrong, you might be asking yourself why would we pile all of our precious eggs into one 4 wheel drive basket and endure a gruelling road trip for the biggest holiday of the year? Because we had a dream driven by parental love, to celebrate the birthday of Jesus with our children, sand and salt water, Amen.

So off to the beach we went! We had a very uneventful trip; smooth sailing with only a minor outbreak of “HE’S BOTHERING ME!” around the fine town of Natchitoches, Texas. As we pulled into the driveway of our beach house I felt giddy. We made it. We made it! I grabbed Greg and said “WE MADE IT!” as though he were completely unaware we had parked the car at the end of our journey. It was then that Greg gave me the look that said “Don’t celebrate yet Mandy. We are only 2 days into a five day trip. We have no idea what is going to go down on this trip and given that we are Sanders…ANYTHING could go wrong. We haven’t seen the house yet.” or maybe he just had gas. Who knows?

We (the kids and I) ran up the stairs and into the most well furnished beach house I have ever seen. This house was chosen in part due to the multitude of reviews stating that the place was stocked like you wouldn’t believe. I really couldn’t. There were muffin mixes, butter, and spaghetti ingredients. Drinks, cheese, olives- enough staples to live on the entire time we were at the house. Washer and dryer came with detergent and dryer sheets! Board games, books, movies, beach towels, beach toys, and even muffin tins for the aforementioned muffins were provided. It was like a dream…complete with various sizes of Ziploc bags.

In fact, the house seemed to have everything we could ever possibly need, like band aids, Tylenol and toothpaste. “This house is UH-MAZING!” I kept saying. (Just like that, uh-mazing, because my hick accent really comes out when I get excited.)Someone needed tweezers. Guess what? They were in the bathroom. Cooking spray? It was there. On and on went our list of needs and on and on went the house supply.

Nine hours passed quickly the way they only do on vacation. tucked the kids into bed and made our way into our own bedroom. I yawned and said “Isn’t this house the best? I mean it has everything Greg!”. I started to slide under the covers but on a whim, decided to check the sheets, just in case. It was then that my awe of the house came crashing down around us.

There on the pillow case was red lipstick, and over THERE too. TONS of bright red lipstick.I can’t stress how much there was of the stuff. Really, to get that much lipstick smeared on a pillow you’d pretty much have to have had a grand mal seizure in that bed or maybe an orgasm. Hard to tell.

I pulled back the covers a bit further and saw what I choose, for sanity’s sake, to believe was chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate all over the sheets. The further I pulled back the comforter the more chocolate stains were revealed. It was like someone rolled around in the bed with a pound of chocolate while wearing bright red lipstick- and they left behind some hair! This was my melting point and I yelled for Greg.

“What is it Baby?” he said, then stopped as he took in the gravity of what we were looking at on that bed. Greg flipped on the light for a better look while I jumped around in my night gown saying “DON’T TOUCH IT! DO NOT TOUCH IT! LET’S BURN IT! WHAT ON EARTH WENT ON IN HERE? OH MY GOODNESS, I CANNOT STAY HERE. WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?”. I am a rock in these situations.

That queens size bed suddenly looked more like a crime scene than a peaceful place to sleep. For the next five minutes or so Greg went into a CSI worthy breakdown of how all of the lipstick stains, dirt (YES. DIRT.) and what we hope were massive chocolate stains came to be. while my only contribution was to say “Well, it looks to me like charges need to be filed!”. It was obvious how the hair got there.

I would like to write that we packed up the kids in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve and drove to a clean hotel. In all honesty, the thought of uprooting my kids, especially the one with special needs to head for cleaner ground wasn’t worth it. For all my big talk of leaving and burning the bed, we knew what had to happen.

Greg sprang into action and promptly stripped the bed as I searched out clean bedding from the linen closet. I think that mattress even got flipped. We disinfected the bed and put clean sheets on since we ruled out sleeping on the couches. We had discovered they were filthy too.

We rode out the rest of the vacation in similar fashion. Cleaning and double checking for dirt became second nature after a few days. Although I declined to leave a review of the place, I can honestly say that house really did have EVERYTHING.

So how about you? Ever stay somewhere that was less than clean or find an unwelcome surprise?

Easter is different for me this year. Grief, loss have brought about a change in the significance of the celebration for me. This past year I have experienced the deaths of a family member and close friend. Zane has struggled more than usual and it has impacted our entire family. Loved ones have moved. Changes and transitions have cropped up on almost every front in my life.

I suspect with life being life, many of you have experienced losses this past year as well. It’s to you who hurt this Easter, that I write this post.

Grief can make us feel like our pain will never come to an end. In fairness, grief changes form, graduates from intense to dull ache, but it leaves it’s mark on us. Days stretch long and we have to learn to do life again without those we intended to have with us for many years to come. Little things we took for granted are missed in most acute ways. We have to let go of old dreams. We have to dream new ones. Things that used to be easy are now hard. Grief is an exhausting business. It’s easy to believe that this hurting is permanent.

Our grief is not permanent though, because of the resurrection. This is why I love Easter so much- It symbolizes not just the resurrection of Jesus but of our loved ones as well. It means that the sick will be healed. The hurt will be made whole. Death, dysfunction, time and distance have no power over us in the end, because Jesus overcame them. They may cause us pain now, but they will not destroy us. Ever.

Easter casts all pain into new light. My lens of grief is now filtered through the reality of the resurrection. Jesus lives, so what is now, will not always be. My child who struggles every day-  this is temporary because Jesus has overcome. Our two little ones who are trying to understand why Zane is the way he is and how to deal with it- this is temporary. The pain of the loss of my friend-temporary as well.

The pain and losses in your life? They are temporary too. Despite the drum beat of what appears to be indefinite pain, hold on. Jesus has overcome death, risen and is coming back to set everything right. What will be, will be forever. Permanently.

In this season of my life, I spend a lot of time hanging around the door of the Men’s Restroom.  Now before you get the wrong idea about me, let me clarify. I’m waiting for someone. Or two. Or three.

 Zeke and Zack, 7 and 5, are officially too “big” to use the women’s restrooms. This is a stage that every mom of little boys dreads. The day they go alone, into the wild wilderness we assume lies behind every door with word Men’s marked on it. (No offense to any men. I know Dad’s of daughters feel the same way when they face sending their little girls into the great unknown of the women’s restrooms too.)

It’s disturbing on so many levels. Despite my resistance to paranoia parenting I freely admit that every time that door closes behind them- I fear the worst. In my head, it’s as though a mix of a Lifetime Saturday night movie and every episode of America’s Most Wanted have the potential to go down behind that simulated wood door.  (And could be! What is taking so long?!) 

Stranger Danger isn’t my only concern. I love my boys dearly. They are wonderful children. BUT they are STILL  children. Where ever two or more are gathered together there is a potential for mayhem that can leave moms stunned speechless and bathroom attendants cursing the day they were born. Toliet paper, open water, slick surfaces…these are the ingriedents of a good time for kids and especially for my boys. Granted, that much unattended time, coupled with the siren’s call of squirting soap can test the resolve of anyone. : )  

It’s really not all about these things though. If I can be so honest, I often have trouble letting go of my kids. My natural instinct will always be to protect them at all costs. This isn’t always a good thing for moms or kids. Sometimes we want to sheild them from harmful things so much we never let them do ANYTHING. Then we wind up with kids who cannot function independently and have no desire to do so.  Ouch.

In our efforts to protect…we can easily wound by not letting kids do enough on their own. Every mom I know wrestles with this question in various forms. How do we know when to let go? What do we do when we know it’s time, but we CAN’T. Not yet!

With Zane, there has been lots of letting go and failing to let go, then realizing I have let go in one area only to seize it more tightly in another. I suspect that with Zeke and Zack there too will be this back and forth wrestling between my need to nuture and the wisdom of letting children  experience life.

For now my internal struggle takes place outside of public restrooms.  I may look cool as cucumber on the outside… but inside…well,I am thirty seconds from storming the restroom Rambo Style. Always, at the exact moment I decide that I’m going in- they walk out laughing, smiling with toliet paper stuck on their shoes. I stand back, smile and celebrate the journey toward independence, for all of us. (and think “Thank you God, that’s over!)

A few nights ago we went out to eat. All five of us were seated around an extra small table in an overly crowded room. We were enjoying our food when Zack blurts out “Boy! Bunnies sure do it a lot don’t they Dad!”. I understand the basic concept of time being a linear progression and such, but when one of our kids makes a statement that is this socially innapropirate- I am pretty sure time grinds to a halt.

 Greg and I froze then looked at each other. As luck would have it, our section of the restaurant appeared to be looking at us too. Even better.

Zack loudly continued “Yeah. Bunnies do it fast and it’s really hard. They go on and on. Did you know bunnies could do it like that Dad?”. Greg looked miserable acrosss the table. I was right there with him. The more Zack talked the more sweat began to pool on my skin. My heart was racing and I was squirming in my seat. Frantically, I searched my brain for something to say. Then this bit of wisdom popped into my head: Don’t assume your kids know what you are talking about and vice versa.  

“Zack? What exactly are talking about? The bunnies doing what?” I asked hesitantly. Did I really want to know for sure?  ”FLYING. You know, like in the movie Hop? Yeah, those bunnies sure could fly fast! I didn’t know bunnies could do that, did you?”. Aha.

Why do I share this? Because I, like Zack, sometimes confuse people with my words. I say things that are meant one way, but end up heard the other. If you know what I am talking about here, raise your hand!

I suppose we could title this a confession post of sorts. I screw up. You screw up. We all screw up. We think we are talking about bunnies and flying when someone else hears something we said in a completely different (often ugly) light. 

 The key to dealing with this,  I suppose, is to offer to others an extended grace that maybe what has been said, was not what was really meant. Then be done with it. Forgive others.  Let it go. Move on. Probably the best place to start practicing extended grace is right at home- Forgive yourself.

I just finished up one of the most amazing experiences of my life- teaching a class with Dusty Rush at the 2011 Tulsa Workshop! Wow. Now THAT was an experience for a little girl from Viola Arkansas, population 326. There were more people in our classes than in the Viola Public School system when I graduated. Humbling, a great honor for sure.

(For all you Viola folks, you’ll not be surprised to hear that I kicked my heels off and told a story about wetting my pants in public while eating from a bag of beef jerky at a gas station. See? The city life hasn’t changed me a bit! : D )

Lots of you have asked me about cd’s of the class. I’m honored. This link will take you to the Workshop Multimedia site where the classes can be purchased. Our classes are CD 61 and CD 95.

Many thanks to Dusty Rush who is not just an incredible mentor but one of my best friends. Teaching with Dusty is absolutely one of my favorite things to do in the whole world. He is easy to work with, extremely wise and hysterically funny. 

Dusty is moving to Atlanta’s Campus Church to be their new minister in April. We will miss the entire Rush family desperately, but know that they will be warmly embraced at their new church home, that’s what makes it bearable. Many well wishes to Campus and the Rushes!

Thank you also to Terry Rush of Memorial Drive! I will always appreciate that he took a chance on me. Love you Terry and Mary!

 Thank you to John Dobbs, Janice Garrison, Mason Puckett, Steve Tucker, Carl Feril, Jennifer Alpers, Bobby Valentine, Shane Coffman, Tanya Gambill, Angie Burns, Lori Mize, Laura Cottongim, Tim Rush,  Amanda Bledsoe, Sheri Stephens, Nancy Woodall, Jamie Foster, Paula Harrington, Marilyn& James Sikes (my parents) who have listened to me continually talk since 1976, Roger Duvall, Crystal Rush, Jenny & Seth Simmons and Steve Floyd for the love and encouragement. Much love and thanks to UCC. You are an incredible people of God and I am blessed to call you family.

Kari Woodall took wonderful care of my boys. She is every mother’s dream sitter and beautiful child of God. Thank you Kari!

Final, greatest thanks goes to my husband Greg. Truly a blessing from God, he is my best friend and biggest fan, since 1989. He makes the good days great and the bad days bearable. You are by far, the funniest one in the Sanders House. Love you Babe.

Last night, after a long painful battle with cancer, my dear friend Joyce passed away from this earth. I wish I could sum up what she has meant to me. I can’t, there aren’t enough words and I won’t even try.

What I have been thinking of today, is one of the ways she affected my parenting. About three years ago, we were having one of our weekly, Chick Fil A lunches, when a brawl erupted from the kids play area. Parents went scrambling in and crying kids came pouring out. I was panicked myself for a moment, imagining that something terrible must have happened to cause such a huge fight between kids.

I was right. It was terrible. There on the bottom of the pile of fueding children, the absolute bottom, were my boys Zeke and Zack-Still scratching and biting!  Not only had they been involved in a Chick Fil A street fight, they started it…by hitting EACH OTHER. I was so angry and embarrassed, I could hardly breathe. The store manager wasnt’ exactly thrilled himself.

I escorted them back to the table. Each brother began immediately to plead his case and cast blame on the other. They were both bruised, bleeding from scratches and wailing. I was on the verge of a crying mad fit myself, when Joyce spoke up ”Boys, do you want to know what I think?”. They began bobbing their heads up and down sensing Joyce was about to settle this grave dispute for them. She leaned very close to them and said quietly,”I think you are some REALLY GOOD BOYS. And I also think you have learned your lesson and will NEVER again fight at a Chick Fil A.” 

What happened after she spoke, I will never forget. Something shifted. They immediately started to cry. They wrapped their little arms around each other, offering apologies and promises to never fight again. I felt my own anger evaporate. “Someday this will be funny” she whispered and smiled.

Joyce  taught me a powerful lesson that day in diffusing anger and speaking life over people. Calling out goodness in others is far more important than making sure someone has learned their lesson. Mercy trumps punishment, especially when most of us are already bruised and bleeding. What a wonderful lesson to leave behind, but that was Joyce- wonderful.

I rarely struggle with finding something to say to someone. If you knew me in real life, I bet you would agree.  However,  there are three people in this world who can leave me completely speechless…and I gave birth to all of them.  Zane, Zeke and Zack manage to throw me for a loop daily. It’s not so much what they do, although, I would be lying if I said that I am never surprised by the things they come up with. The parts of parenting that tend to  dumbfound me almost always involve something they have asked…or said…or yelled out in a very public arena.

 Because of Zane’s special needs, we struggle to find family activites that we all enjoy or can even tolerate together.  We have stumbled on to bowling and have been excited to find that Zane is a good bowler. I’m not exaggerating a bit when I say that to see him do a “typical” activity (well to boot) is thrilling. Breathtaking for us, in all honesty. It’s so monumental to us we sometimes react in unexpected ways.

On our first bowling trip Zane marched up to the ball return, grabbed a ball and threw it down the lane.  Then just as purposefully, he plopped down in his seat. The ball wasn’t even 3/4 of the way to it’s intended destination when he asked “MOM? Can I get a corn dog? It’s 12:30. I always eat at 12:30.”.  As soon as he asked, I heard a noise and looked down the lane to find he had knocked over every single pin.

My heart skipped a beat. I swelled with pride. He’s a bowler! Zane’s a bowler!  I’m not going to pretend I didn’t suddenly imagine him standing in a bowling alley in front of adoring crowds beneath a banner that said “Autism Doesn’t Stop Me!”. Camera’s flashing and Zane posing with a bowling ball to inspire others…it was all bouncing around in my head!

Sound like overkill? Well, that’s what it’s like to have a kid who struggles to do “normal” things. The completion of an everyday activity takes on greater importance. So it was with this fact in mind that I understand what prompted Zack’s exhuberance.

  The second the last pin fell over, Zack lept from his chair and screamed “TESTICLE!” . He began jumping up and down just like one of those people who win an new Toyota on the Price as Right. I had never seen him so happy before.  As luck would have it, everyone  in the place simultanteously decided to stop talking at once because Zack’s exclamation echoed all over the building.

Some giggled. Some frowned. It felt many eyes watching to see what I would do.

I wanted to get under my chair. It was a flimsy folding model and there was no way I could completely fit, so I ruled that out. Besides, Zane was pacing around, worrying (outloud) about the fact that it was 12:31 and a hotdog was not in his hand yet. Zeke was squirming around trying to decide if he should laugh or not. Zack was fully engaged in some sort of hip thrusting, happy dance over Zane’s strike in the middle of the room. We were causing enough of a scene without me burrowing under bowling alley furniture.

I wanted to say something…anything. I didn’t. I walked over and picked up my ball and pitched it down the lane. I tried to exude a “Nothing to see here folks. Move along” vibe. It worked. People went back to their game. Zane noted the time 12:34, no hotdog. Zeke bowled. We rolled with it.

After a while, I found some words “Son, we don’t scream out “ testicle”.  I understand you were excited but we don’t yell out body parts when we a happy. Okay?”. “Okay, Mom. But why not? Aren’t testicles good things?”.

Once again, I was at a loss. What should I say? Yes, testicles are good things. Still, we don’t scream it out. It makes others uncomfortable. It makes ME uncomfortable! That’s not how the world operates. Modesty, good manners, etc…

I took a deep breath. I looked down at his earnest little face and with all the wisdom I could muster I asked,  ”WHO WANTS A BOWLING ALLEY HOTDOG?!”.

Well, here we are. We have arrived to the point of time I have dreaded since learning Zane had Autism. He is in the beginning stages of puberty… and it sucks just as bad as I had feared it would.

He’s moody, pouty, full of bravado and accusation. He is also needy, confused and plagued by insecurity. Throw that all into the complicated mess of being Autistic, add in some other mental health issues and you have a perfect storm of misery for Zane and our family, most of the time.

The only way to survive Zane’s rocky transition into adulthood will be to hold on to God and my sense of humor. So with that, I give you a window into last Sunday afternoon.

Mom: Son, you are going to have to start shaving soon. (said with a smile, but a knot in stomach and sudden flashes of holding him as an infant)

Zane: “Weally?” (Really. He has a slight speech impediment)

Mom: “Yes! It won’t be long. (Thinking to myself, “Are we really going to turn him loose with a razor? Maybe some safety scissors from Target, instead. I can paint some flames on them. Maybe that would make him think they are cool?”)

Zane: Staring at my face intently. “Mom… Am I going to have a mustache like Dad’s…or yours?” (Slowly he reaches out and touches my mouth.)

Mom: “No Baby, you are going to have a big grown up man mustache like Daddy’s!” (Mentally clearing next week’s calendar for an upper lip wax)

Zane: “Oh! Thanks MOM!”- Exclaimed while checking out his budding facial hair in the passenger’s mirror.

Mom: “You’re welcome Son!” (Smiling,  but secretly thinking “Crap.”)