“Neurodivergent.” Do you know what that means? Please, let me tell you. According to Oxford Dictionaries, “differing in mental or neurological function from what is considered typical or normal (frequently used with reference to autistic spectrum disorders); not neurotypical.” Neurodivergent people have brains that work according to a different operating system, not a defective one. And trying to “fix” or “change” these individuals is damaging and cruel, in my opinion. According to educational material I have obtained through the Cleveland Clinic, neurodiversity refers to the way a person’s brain develops. It is not preventable, treatable or curable. It IS, however, manageable in most cases. Individuals that do not have symptoms or issues that interfere with their social abilities, thought patterns and/or behaviors are most likely labeled as “neurotypical.” If that describes you, congratulations! But you know what? I bet you’re really not “normal” either. Because who knows what “normal” is. Is there such a thing? My husband and I have the pleasure of raising our son that is neurodivergent (Autistic Spectrum.) He is not wired …

Do you have one?? The proverbial “bucket list,” you know….the experiences you want to engage in before you kick the bucket? My list is long, and ever-evolving. The older I get, the more precious this list becomes. My list is really not extravagant. A lot of things I want to do or see are right here in the glorious USA. I’m a music enthusiast, not limited to any particular genre. I can’t carry a tune in a basket and have no knowledge or desire to play an instrument. But I have the utmost admiration and respect for those who can and do. Music is constantly playing the periphery or in the forefront of my daily life. When my dear friend enthusiastically messaged me that Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band were coming to Detroit on their current tour, I wasted no time securing tickets. Another check off my list. I mean, Bruce is 73, the fear of him kicking the bucket in the near future kind of exceeds the fear of me kicking it. …

Ever wonder if you lived before? I think if I did I was in a whole different social class than I am now. The only thing that transferred here with me is high-faluting taste. The accomodating budget stayed wherever I came from. I swear you can set two similar items next to eachother. One $20 the other $200. I would unknowingly choose the item bearing the higher price tag. Every. Single. Time. I certainly didn’t inherit this practice from my thrift store, Dollar-Tree shopping mother. What even got me thinking about this? I think it was the Melissa McCarthy Booking.com commercial. My husband enthusiastically called for me to see the advertisement, announcing that her partner in the clip is her real spouse. Apparently he thought that fact was worthy of distracting me from what I was doing at the time (which, mind you, is long gone from my memory.) I didn’t notice anything about the booking.com promotion other than Melissa’s pajamas. That’s right. Her pajamas. They have lingered in my mind ever since. I want …

For as long as I can remember I have loved photographs. I tend to wander through my daily activities, examining my surroundings as though I am looking through the lens of my beloved camera, randomly framing and cropping images in my mind. They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That being said, I love seeing things in their imperfect states. The leaf that has fallen from its connection to life, settling into the wet autumn ground after being beaten down by rain and wind. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them settle into earth’s bed and together create a composite that is fascinating and pretty, even though most have lost their vibrant status by that time. The flower with a bent stem and missing petals. It has character. Candid photos of a kid with bedhead and missing teeth, complete with evidence of a messy meal lingering on pudgy cheeks. Reminders that it’s okay to be carefree. The elderly man with wrinkled, weathered hands signifying years of hard work. The aging woman with deep lines …

“Live simply” they say, “less is more,” “less clutter, less stress.” There’s truth in these cliches and I know it. Too much “stuff” makes my anxiety soar. And though it may not occupy every square inch of our living environment, it’s there. Under beds, in closets, behind the selectively closed door of the basement. It’s a new year, I’m going to blaze through this house and get rid of the extra dust collectors, the things we don’t use. I make the usual “donate” and “trash” piles. I recruit my son to help, we start in his room. He starts rummaging through his rock and fossil collections. He carefully inspects each formation and announces its importance, the defining characteristics that set it apart from the others and make it special. To me, its a pile of rocks. And how many Petoskey stones, horn corals and Crinoids does one need, I ask myself? In this house, it’s a dumb question. I leave him to assess his own belongings and I go for the closet. The closet that …

This past week has been eye opening. No pun intended. Well, maybe. My mom had a close call with her vision and surgery needed to happen asap. I am her mother now, you know. For the past several years we have been living a role reversal in our relationship. I’m the 53 year old baby of the family. But regardless of birth order, I have taken it upon myself to worry about her, look after her and scold her when need be. Like when she wears white socks with black old lady shoes and dark pants that are too short, or bobby pins in her hair, or when she doesn’t pick up after herself. We are as different as we are alike. I’m friendly with a conservative edge. She’s friendly with an extra side of sticky sweet. It’s rare to take her anywhere without her stopping to thank random employees for their hard work. They could be emptying the trash, but she’s sure to stop and let them know their work doesn’t go unnoticed and …

I’ve been trying to really focus lately on helping Dan with life skills. It’s something that many of us so-called “neuro-typicals” take for granted. I mean, how hard is it to fold clothes, make a simple meal, or handle some phone calls for appointments, etc.? I’m here to tell you it doesn’t come naturally to everyone. Something as natural as eye contact can be a challenge. Maybe I should be focusing on doing laundry with him right now, or whipping up an easy meal. But I’m not. We are working on having friends. We are working on looking people in the eye, even for 1-2 seconds at a time. We are working on asking people about THEM. Not interjecting facts about the Titanic and the number of electoral votes each state gets. It’s about taking that first step to send a text and to actually respond when you finally get one from someone else. I’m a social gal. I thrive and have always thrived on social connections. I love friends. There’s something magical and heartwarming …

It’s January 1st. We are supposed to have a new year’s resolution, right? We are going to be better, we are going to do more, we are going to like ourselves (and maybe like other people) better, right?? Nope, not me. I am focusing on liking life NOW. I don’t need to do more ( I work a full time job, bust my butt to be a good wife, mother, daughter, friend.) What more do I need to throw in there, seriously? I have this horrible habit of comparing myself to others. If I was as smart as her……. If I was as good a nurse as him/her……. If I could wear that kind of clothing like she does…. If I had the money to go here or there or buy this or that like they do….. Yeah, the list goes on. Truth is, I AM smart. Maybe not as smart as I would like to be. But smart enough. My life has been successful. I’m not a genius, but I am enough. I AM …

I don’t usually expose a lot of Dan’s traits in writing. It’s his story. I just happen to be his mom. Lucky and blessed to be his mom, rather. He’s been “quirky” since early on. Noises bothered him, different textures annoyed him, obsessive thoughts consumed him (and us.) I knew he was on the autistic spectrum before I really even knew much about “the spectrum.”  It’s taken years for me to really grasp that it’s not the Plague. It’s a different operating system for the brain.  Vacations have always been a bit stressful. No, A LOT stressful. He had to know exactly where we were going. Constantly worried about where the gauge was on the fuel indicator. “Those are driver worries, not passenger worries” I’d tell him. Not that it would help. “Do you know where we are going? What if we get lost? Do you have a map? Please don’t tell me you’ve never been here before.” These weren’t fleeting thoughts, they were gut-wrenching, fear-driven concerns. Dogs. Terrified of dogs. We couldn’t walk past …