An Ode to Sky on His Graduation

Sky started his school career by being kicked out of two different preschools because of his behavior. He could tell you what page of which book mentioned the thing you were talking about, but he didn’t understand it wasn’t ok to crash into other kids, run around his chair, or touch everything and everyone between his chair and the teacher’s desk. 

Once we had a diagnosis, we realized his sensory and auditory processing “disorders” meant that he experienced the world in a vastly different way than we did. That’s when we started along the path of helping him develop the tools he would need to be successful in a world that isn’t suited to him.  He spent hours in therapy learning how to interpret people’s words and facial expressions. We made social stories—so many social stories. 

It was amazing to see him start to thrive once people learned to speak his language. As he cracked the code of how the neurotypical world worked, he started to take off! By sixth grade, he was excelling academically and no longer needed an IEP. He also had a solid friend group (that he’s kept to this day.)

Then Covid happened. His sophomore year was an every other day schedule with him learning remotely one day and in the classroom the next. The teachers were figuring things out as they went along, and suddenly nothing was as clear as it used to be, making it impossible for him to understand how to apply all of the social and classroom rules he had worked so hard to memorize. 

He fought to continue doing what he’d been doing, but the wheels came off after the start of second semester. He began to struggle in classes and had to medically withdraw from some of them. It got to the point where he couldn’t go to school any more. He stopped talking to friends and couldn’t enjoy any of the things that used to make him so happy. There were many days during those long, horrible months where he wasn’t sure he would be able to finish high school. It was a tremendous blow for someone who had worked so hard for so long just to make school work for him. 

Ren and I struggled to help him and feared he wouldn’t find his way out. But he didn’t give up. Junior year was still really difficult. He couldn’t juggle as many activities as before. He had to be more careful to prevent himself from being overwhelmed. I had to learn not to push him (that one took me a long time to figure out). He found a combo of classes and activities that worked for him and slowly began to excel in his classes again. By senior year, he had regained his rhythm. 

Last month, he graduated Summa Cum Laude, and in the fall he heads to college with academic and art scholarships. But what makes us proudest is how he never quits. He is 100% Sky, and I’m so glad I’ve been able to go on this journey with him. 

When I started this blog more than ten years ago, I did it because I wasn’t at all sure how to be a good mom for Sky. It all felt so overwhelming, and the only thing I knew how to do was put one foot in front of the other and try to address issues as they arose. Along the way, I slowly (painfully slowly) learned how to get out of the way and let him show me what he needs. 

If you have time, I encourage you to go back to the beginning of the blog and look at how much this kid has changed. We’ve both have!

The Road Trip

Hi! Remember me? Sorry I've been gone for awhile. Parenting while working during a pandemic has proven to be....well....challenging. But, I haven't wanted to be all complain-y on the blog, so I've been keeping to myself. Besides, do you REALLY want to hear about the minutiae of our daily grind? The good news is that we are all ok, and I am convinced that the past year taught us Important Lessons about life and living in the moment. 

We LIMPED across the finish line at the end of the school year, and then I taught a summer course, and then then there was some drama with Sky's classes, and then suddenly it was late June and time for us to set off on our First Ever Family Road Trip. 

When I first suggested we take a 10-day road trip to the mountains, Falcon lost it. Falcon is my non-autistic kid who handles change well and rarely overreacts, so her response surprised me. Worse, what she said made a lot of sense. She argued that since we couldn't even make it to the grocery store and back without one of the boys freaking out, there was no WAY we'd make it to Colorado and back. She also had some strong opinions about my suggestion that we camp the whole way.  I mean, she's not wrong. We are not known for our ability to be flexible and adjust. That's life with autism. 

Falcon's first reaction was so strong that I nearly gave up on the idea of the trip. But, driving across the country with my family has been a dream of mine for a really long time. Every summer, I tell the kids we are going to do it, and then I chicken out. On top of all of the other logistical challenges of planning a trip like this, we had the added stress of COVID-19 and some big unanswerable questions like: What if Ren's spine can't handle the drive? What if Stow elopes or becomes inconsolable after so many days away from home? These were all real possibilities and would be horrible if they happened when we were 12 hours from home. Still, after sitting on the idea for a month, I decided that we were going to take the trip anyway. Sometimes you just have to face your fears. 

Falcon was still resistant and she didn't entirely come around until I agreed to stay in hotels instead of planning to camp the whole trip. It was an expensive compromise but also one I am sure saved us much heartache. Instead, of campsites, then, I booked quirky "Mom and Pop" motels, and we had three fabulous nights in Grand Lake, CO, staying in a cabin near a lodge where I worked for the summer when I was 20. 

Random trip photos: Needles Highway (South Dakota)

For a first attempt, the trip went surprisingly well. Plus, I learned a few things along the way that I can share with you. So, here I present "Moe's Random List of Things She Learned While Driving Across the Country in a Car Full of People":

1. First--and I don't think I can stress this enough--when you have five more hours of driving to go, don't buy burritos with beans in them for lunch. Seriously. Somehow I did this not once, but TWICE! Given our various food allergies, fast food options are limited, which is how we ended up eating at Qdoba. I'm hoping I've learned my lesson, especially after the second time when it was raining so we couldn't open the windows.  

2. Build flexibility into your plan. Some of us wanted to do things and some of us didn't. Being able to be flexible was vital. The cabin we rented for the three nights we were in Colorado was close enough to town that we could walk, so if a kid didn't want to go, we could take turns being out and about. Similarly, when we were driving through the Black Hills in South Dakota or Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, we didn't force every kid to get out and look at the scenery every time. By being flexible in our own thinking about what we wanted to achieve on any given day, we ended up helping the kids manage their frustration tolerance in ways we haven't seen them do on other trips.

Custer State Park (South Dakota)

3. Be specific about the plan and the possible ways it could change. I know this sounds funny given what I just wrote in #2, but for our autistic kids, knowing what to expect and how things might change goes a LONG way in helping them manage the stress of new situations. On the flip side, not being careful about this can lead to trouble. 

The two biggest meltdowns Stow had on the trip both happened when I wasn't precise with my language. For the first one, I described the Corn Palace in Mitchell, SD as "being made from corn" when really I should have said, "The MURALS ON THE WALLS are made of corn." Since Stow is a kid who deals with change by becoming more rigid, it can be difficult to get him out of the car. He's also very literal, so if you tell him "everything is made of corn," everything better be made of corn! He spent the entire 30 minutes we were at the Corn Palace pointing out all of the things that are NOT made of corn: "Look, Mom, the steps aren't made of corn. The door isn't made of corn. Those tables aren't made of corn. The walls aren't made of corn. NOTHING here is made of corn....." The second time was at Devil's Tower where I made the mistake of saying we would go on a "short hike." My idea of a short hike (1.2 miles around the base of Devil's Tower) was different from Stow's idea of a short hike (from the car to the bathroom and back), so he spent the entirety of our time there becoming increasingly upset that we weren't turning back. Eventually, he stopped walking altogether, and the five of us stood immobile off to the side of the trail for a solid 15-20 minutes while I tried to persuade a very agitated Stow to keep going. By the time we got him settled down enough to start walking again, Sky was triggered, so I spent another 20 minutes sitting on a bench with him as he alternated between crying and being angry with me for not being more careful with my words. So, yeah, be specific.

Rocky Mountain National Park

4. Use boxes. We had three boxes: a cooler, a collapsible box of snacks, and a huge tote for our clothes bags. On top of that, each kid was allowed one backpack or box for the car. Getting in and out of hotel rooms/our cabin was a breeze. Two kids carried the big box, one carried the cooler, and Ren or I grabbed the snacks. In the hotel rooms, our huge tote fit nicely on the luggage rack while the cooler fit under it. This made the nights where five of us shared the same room much more bearable. Further, since we put our bags into the big box every time we left a hotel, it was easy to spot whether or not something was missing. 

5. Finally, if you are married to Ren, pray that a rock won't hit your windshield leaving a starburst-shaped crack on the very first day of the trip. Because, even though you know this kind of thing happens all the time (and you even think the starburst is kind of lovely), Ren will simply not get over it, which shouldn't surprise you given how hard he takes it whenever you have to drive down a gravel road in a newly-washed (or even slightly dirty) vehicle. Bless his heart, though, the man drove nearly 3000 miles with an unforgiving spine, and his ONLY complaint during the trip was that stupid crack in the windshield!

Elk in Rocky Mountain National Park

They Work So Hard

One thing I think is really difficult for neurotypical people to appreciate is just how hard people with autism work to get through each day.** It takes a lot of energy, concentration, and processing to work through the various input that comes at us. Whereas neurotypical people filter through those things without even noticing, autistic people often find themselves having to consciously and intentionally sort through a tangled mass of sensory, social, and academic information. They know that the more they can organize and control that input, the easier it is to make it through the day, but managing it all is tough.

I came to really appreciate this when Sky started school. At first, he could "behave" in the morning, but he would get in trouble all afternoon. Then, he could do what was expected of him until about 1 pm, but he would fall apart between then and the time the bell rang at 2:30. At one point, he could make it until about five minutes before the bell, but he could never quite get to the end of the day without having some kind of problem with his teacher or the other kids. "I don't understand it," the teacher would say. "He always does so well for most of the day!" It was hard for her to see that it really was just a matter of stamina for him. He knew what he had to do to compensate for all of the challenges his autism presented,*** but he had a limited number of resources.

When you watch your kid go through years of occupational and speech therapy, and when you watch them literally practice how to behave in the classroom and how to interact with peers on the playground, you start to understand why school makes them so tired. When I send Sky and Stow off in the morning, I do so knowing the immense hurdles they will face during their day, and when I greet them after school, I do so with a combined sense of relief that they made it through unscathed and awe at their bravery. It's weird. I know. 

Many nights during Sky's first several years in school, he would fall asleep on the couch or while eating dinner because he was so tired from this work. While other kids were joining sports teams and going to practices in the evening, Sky was struggling to keep it together until bedtime. Often, he didn't make it, and once he fell asleep, NOTHING we did would wake him up. He was exhausted, and he needed to used every second of the twelve hours of sleep he got between dinner one night and his morning alarm the next day to store up the energy reserves necessary for him to get through another day.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how much Sky has struggled during the pandemic. All of the coping strategies he has worked to develop over the last ten years have been laid bare by COVID-19 life. Even as those strategies have been crumbling, however, Sky has kept working. He has kept trying. He hasn't given up (even though he has every right to want to). Suddenly, though, it feels like we have traveled backwards in time. Because, suddenly Sky can't make it through dinner again. Every evening between 6 and 6:30, he hits a wall and finds himself completely out of energy--totally spent. We've tried different strategies to help him stay awake so he can get things done, but he invariably ends up asleep on the couch or the floor somewhere.

It seems like every time I walk into a room, I encounter a Sky-shaped crime scene. Now that he's 5'10," though, when he falls asleep just anywhere, he tends to be in the way. And, these days, we can't easily pick him up and carry him to his room.

This pandemic has been so hard for so many of us, but I want to give a special shout-out to all the kids and adults like Sky who have hung in there and done the best they can even when their worlds became completely unmoored. I see how hard you are working! You are amazing, and I am so very proud of you!

** Disclaimer: While I am talking about neurotypical people and people with autism, I want to note that I am doing it based on my experience as a neurotypical mom to two autistic boys. I understand that our story doesn't represent every story, but I also think our experiences can be instructive. In fact, the boys ask me to share these stories because they want people to understand what it's like to live with autism.

***Disclaimer #2: I am not suggesting that autism is somehow bad or that people with autism are bad. What I am suggesting is that in a neurotypical-centric world, the kinds of behaviors that were natural to him were often met with displeasure fro his teachers and peers.

Homework

According to my Fitbit, over the last few weeks I've gone from sleeping an average of 7 1/2 hours a night to sleeping about 6. A couple of nights, I got just over four hours of sleep. When I was in college, 4 hours was no big deal. When I had newborn babies, sleeping that little was par for the course. But now that I am pushing 50, 4 or 5 hours a night is excruciating.

I stopped sleeping because Sky stopped sleeping, and Sky stopped sleeping because the pandemic finally got to him. For months he has been saying that he can't understand why so much of life is going on as usual despite the fact there is a pandemic. What he means is that while his life hasn't been normal at all, his school work hasn't changed. Many of his outlets--hanging out with friends, going places as a family, playing tennis--have been cut off or greatly curtailed. Every time he goes to school, the kids are spaced so far apart that there is little opportunity for him to interact with the other people in his class or in the hallways. For the purposes of keeping the kids safe, this strategy has worked remarkably well. In a school of about 2000 students, they have had less than 100 cases of COVID, and none of those have been tied to in-school transmission. But, the teachers can't teach how they would normally teach, and the students can't interact in class the ways they would normally interact. 

So, after a long, weird day of school, he comes home with a ton of homework. Then the next day, when he is home for the day doing remote learning (so the other half of the students can be in the building), he usually gets MORE homework. And, for awhile, he managed to handle it. Two months in, though, he took a day off from doing his homework because it was his birthday. The break made him realize just how bad school was making him feel.  

Suddenly, he knew that he couldn't sustain the same level of discomfort on a regular basis, so it got harder and harder for him to get work done. During the next two months, we dealt with more and more perseveration about school and the pandemic. It was exhausting, but it turns out it wasn't nearly as exhausting as what came next, because finally one day, he came home from school and told us he just couldn't do it anymore.

As a parent and a hopeless overachiever, I had no idea what that meant or how to respond. I tried to be encouraging. I offered to sit with him in order to help stop his thinking spirals every time they started. I was hoping that eventually he would get back on track and be able to stop the perseverating thoughts himself. For several days, we spent hours and hours together in his room trying to get through even the easiest of assignments. But, it didn't get better. The perseveration got worse, and he started missing assignments. A couple of nights ago, he perseverated for over an hour about the amount of work he was being asked to do. The thought of even starting the work sent him into a tail spin, but so did the thought of not doing anything. Eventually, the spinning wore him out, and he fell asleep.

Even the fun stuff (ie robotics) isn't much fun anymore!

We are working with all the specialists and trying to get him through this. But, you know, I don't think he's wrong here. This IS a pandemic. We need to be treating it like one. We need to acknowledge that it is impacting many of our kids in ways we can't possibly understand right now.

The difference between parenting a neurotypical kid who is struggling and an autistic kid who is struggling is that you pretty much completely have to immerse yourself into the autistic kids’ world and way of thinking in order to get a handle on what’s happening. With Falcon, the problems and solutions are a lot easier to identify and work through. With Sky or Stow, it can feel like a total slog; it’s like being pulled into a quagmire and not really being sure you can find your way out. That said, Stow and Sky are barometers for the complexities and challenges of human experience in a way that never fails to surprise me. And, they are almost always right about what is wrong.

So, it strikes me that I need to start listening better. I've stopped trying to help Sky stay awake to work on his homework and have instead started encouraging him to do what feels right for him right now. On Monday, I will meet with his teachers, and I will talk to them about universal design and ways to assess learning that maybe aren't homework and test based. Most importantly, though, I am going to remind Sky every day that his grades don't matter nearly as much as his well-being. 

PS:

If you haven't seen this amazing video by a high schooler who was asked to express what the pandemic feels like, please take a look (LINK).

Waiting for Shiro

While I haven't talked about this as much on my blog as I used to, we continue to live with autism (surprise!). Some days that means amazing things, and some days, frankly, are very difficult. (Insert long parenthetical about how admitting some days are difficult does NOT mean I don't love my kids. As far as I am concerned, they hang the moon and NOTHING can compare to their awesomeness. That said, with autism comes a host of real challenges like anxiety, struggles in school, aggressive meltdowns, the inability to manage social situations, depression, and a whole bunch of other things. THOSE are the things that make living with autism difficult.) Struggles with language and social skills means that kids with autism constantly work very hard just to get through the day. I am not autistic, so I don't know what it is like, but I imagine it must be like living in a world with rules that don't make any sense and with people doing unexpected things and making demands that seem completely arbitrary. I also think it must be completely overwhelming for the senses. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure I couldn't handle that nearly as well as my kids do.

When Sky was younger, the interventions we did with OT and speech therapy seemed to help. With Stow, similar interventions have not yielded the same result. The two boys are clearly wired very differently. So, we have tried a host of different things with Stow with limited success. If you are a special needs parent, you often find yourself seeking to solve problems even when you don't know all of the variables. That has been especially true with our experience with Stow, and we are always looking for clues. 

Often the clues come from the most unlikely places. Our most recent clue came in the form of new neighbors and the sweetest dog on the planet (the neighbors are pretty great, too). The dog is a miniature bernedoodle called Winnie. She's still a pup but very well-behaved and a huge fan of our kids. The feeling seems to be mutual since every time Stow sees Winnie outside, he insists that we go say "hello" (sorry, new neighbors!). For the first month they lived here, Stow watched for Winnie like a hawk. Given that I'm a bit shy, it was awkward to constantly appear whenever the new family was outside (seriously, I'm so sorry!). One day, after a particularly hard morning, we got outside to wait for Stow's bus just as Winnie came out to do whatever it is that Winnie does in the morning. Stow, who until that point had been saying that he would absolutely NOT be going to school, locked eyes with Winnie, and his demeanor immediately changed. Clearly, Winnie was connecting with Stow in a way that people often don't.

Later that day, I posted this picture of the two of them looking at each other. A friend who has a son with autism suggested we look into getting a service dog for Stow. I responded that I HAD looked into it, and my understanding of the situation was that either Stow wouldn't be a high priority for a dog or that we couldn't afford the cost of one (they cost between $35,000 and $50,000). But, then another friend replied telling me to reach out to her directly, and soon one thing led to another, and we found ourselves on the road to getting a service dog.

One of these pups will be Stow's service dog.

We're working with an organization called Dawgs2Heal that trains and places autism service dogs. We've been selected to receive one of their 2021 trainees and are in the process of raising $10,000 to help pay for the training. 

A few weeks later, and they are all fluffier!

We learned that we will have the chance to name Stow's service dog, and miraculously everyone agreed on a name. We will call her Shiro, which a fairly common dog name in Japan. We chose it because Shiro is Momotaro’s faithful companion (in the well-known folktale), helping him on his long journey to defeat the ogres. We hope and believe that Stow's new service dog will be an equally brave, faithful, and helpful companion. Also, we already have two cats, Momo and Taro, so how could we not have a Shiro?

Momo (R) and Taro (L) have NO idea what is about to happen to them. I felt guilty, so I got them their own castle. Lol.

Lastly, I wanted to share this note that Stow left for Santa. I've included a picture, but since he struggles some with spelling, I will type it out here: "Dear Santa, I know I was bad, but I will love you if you forgive me, and please leave a note. I hope you finish your travel. PS: Love you. You are amazing. I hope you give me good luck for the dog."

This letter is so heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. Kids with autism and ADHD struggle constantly with a fear of being in trouble for "bad" behavior. One of the most moving things about peoples' positive response to our service dog fundraiser is that it has shown Stow that there are a lot of people out there who don't think he's bad at all. I would love to give him the gift of knowing we are getting Shiro for Christmas. 

What Stow Wants You to Know about ASD

Seven years ago, I asked Sky to guest post on my blog so he could tell you what it is like to live with autism. He was nine years old. Stow is 9 years old now, and the post we shared then (link: What Sky Wants You to Know about ASD) could have been written by Stow now. The main difference between Sky and Stow is their preferred medium. Sky expressed himself most in art, but Stow is a video guy. He often walks around the house narrating his life and making videos for his imaginary YouTube audience. Where Sky wanted to become an artist at age 9, Stow wants to become a YouTube star. 

To be honest, I didn't notice the similarities until I came across the old guest post by Sky. But, looking at that post and comparing it to the video Stow made to show his class, it's a bit uncanny. The takeaway? Being autistic is hard and trying to "pass" as neurotypical at school takes A LOT of energy.  

Stow hopes you enjoy the video and that it teaches you something you didn't know about autism. As for me, I hate being filmed, but I'd do just about anything to help my kids feel like they have control over the stories they tell about themselves and their lives. 

Ten Years in the Blink of an Eye; Just Kidding, It Felt Exactly Like Ten Years

Ten years ago today, we left Falcon with my parents, loaded Sky into the car, and headed to Riley Children's Hospital in Indianapolis for a day full of testing at the Riley Child Development Center. The appointment was long in coming. For years, we suspected there was something different about Sky. He struggled to engage positively with peers and was oblivious to all the ways that he upset kids and adults alike. He didn't seem to understand what we were saying to him, even though he had an advanced vocabulary, and often he would go from sitting and playing quite calmly to darting around the room or running in circles. It wasn't until he started kindergarten, when I could see just how socially advanced his peers were, that I understood our concerns weren't just in my head. And, when he came home from school one day and begged me to help him figure out why he was not like the other kids, I finally gathered the strength to push for an evaluation.

I still have the report from that day. It's 24 pages long, and the first paragraph ends with, "[His parents] would like a better understanding of the issues which have impacted his social interactions and recommendations to promote his academic, social, and emotional success." Reading through it now, I am amazed by how much is the same for Sky, but also by how much he has changed. Because I have it here in front of me, I want to quote my favorite part. "During interview, Sky reported that his best skills are seeing in the dark and building snowmen....With regard to emotions, he reported feeling happy when Santa Claus comes, never sad, and angry when someone jokes; he believes jokes are true and when they turn out not to be true, he thinks the other person is lying, and 'I hate liars.'" My favorite part is followed by one of my least favorite parts, "His three wishes were: 1) not to be bad anymore; 2) for the Polar Express for Christmas; and 3) not to have problems so Santa will come to town." Some kids wish for video games, a cell phone, or a big stuffed animal, but kids who struggle with autism or ADHD often just wish not to get into trouble.

If you've never received one of these reports, you probably can't imagine how simultaneously heartbreaking and relieving they are. On the one hand, to know that your child has a life-long disability is earth-shattering for a parent. When you get the diagnosis, you realize that the path you thought you were on is vanishing before your eyes, and you are suddenly thrust into a whole new wilderness. But, on the other hand, to finally understand why your child can't understand what you are saying; why he suddenly runs around the room and screams; why it has always taken two adults to parent him instead of one; why everything is so damn hard all the time? To finally have the answers to those questions is life-saving. Sky's autism diagnosis saved our marriage because we finally understood that his poor behavior and his inability to be kind to others wasn't some indictment on our union or on our ability to parent together. 

What happens next, after you get the diagnosis is almost as disorienting as the diagnosis itself. In our case, we received a detailed report of how autism impacts Sky, but we didn't also get a manual about what to do about it. Sure, there were suggestions and explanations of what some of these things meant, but there was not suddenly a case manager at my elbow to help me navigate a complex and generally user-unfriendly system to try to get him services. What you quickly learn is that many pediatricians have very little experience in dealing with autism, and the services you can get are disjointed and with incredibly long waitlists. After Stow was diagnosed three years ago, I kind of knew what I was doing, and I STILL couldn't consistently get him the services he needed. One time, in the SAME DAY, after I'd waited for months to hear from both places, I got a phone call from one place telling me that they thought his needs were too "severe" for them to help and then from a different place telling me that he was too "mild" to receive their services. Another time, after being on a waitlist for a year, I was told that he couldn't he treated there because his SECONDARY insurance didn't cover it. I pointed out that his primary insurance did, but apparently we were already disqualified. Anyway, you get the point.

Ten years ago today, when we walked out into the crisp December sunshine, after a long day of questionnaires and testing followed by a 45-minute comprehensive information dump by the person who was overseeing Sky's evaluation, the world felt the same but also entirely different. I called my parents because they were the only people I knew to call. Then I called my sister who had experience working with special needs kids. She mentioned 504s and IEPs, but she might as well have been speaking a foreign language. My sweet, precocious boy was the same one who walked into Riley that morning. The only thing that had changed was that I now had the monumental task of figuring out what the diagnosis (and all that came with it) meant. 

That night, The Temple Grandin Story happened to be on TV. Somehow Ren had heard about it and thought we should watch it. The timing couldn't have been better. Watching that movie, I understood Sky's sensory issues and distraction in ways I hadn't before. I also understood why he insisted on being squeezed. Most importantly, though, I realized for the first time that we were not alone, and that what we were seeing with Sky was not singularly ours to manage. 

That first night, and many nights after, I lay awake in bed wondering how I would ever figure out what Sky needed and how to get it. But, I also quickly realized that the only way forward was one step at a time. This is the greatest lesson being a parent to autistic kids has taught me; I don't always have to know how to help my kids. I just have to stick in there and keep trying. Eventually they will find their way.

I've written many blog posts, including ones 2 and 9 years after this first autism diagnosis. I suspect I have often thought I knew what I was talking about when I offered advice or insight on what it's like to parent or live with someone who has autism. The longer I am an autism parent, though, the more I am only sure of this: autism can be hard, but it's not impossible, and the best thing we can do as parents is to keep advocating for and supporting our kids. Each of my boys is vastly different. Each struggles due to their autism in very specific (and largely not overlapping) ways. We deal with the struggles as they come. Sometimes they waylay us for weeks or months or years. Other times, the simplest statement or adjustment in how we do or say something can do the trick. I suppose in that way, autism really is like a puzzle. 

So, I want to tell you that no matter what, you're doing great, Mama. You're doing amazing, my autistic friend. You're much appreciated, autism ally. And, to all of you occupational, speech, and behavioral therapists, thank you! Everyone, keep it up! Autism can be hard, but it doesn't have to stop us from a life filled with joy and adventure.

The Alpine Slide

Remember how I said I was going to get the kids to the mountains this summer if it was the last thing I did? Well, we made it, and it went about how you'd expect it to go.

There were the meltdowns and freak outs that come with any change in routine, and, like usual, Stow was ready to head home after 72 hours away. Still, I had a chance to hike and canoe and breathe mountain air with the kids, and that was pretty amazing.

Canoeing on Grand Lake

We landed in Denver and picked up a rental car that all three kids disliked because when they sat in the back their bodies touched. "Why didn't you get one of those big SUVs?" one asked. "This is a vacation," chimed in another. "Why do you have to be so cheap?" Three minutes into our drive from the airport, Sky wanted to know exactly when we would see our first mountains, and Stow wanted to know when we'd be stopping for lunch.  Fortunately, once we hit more mountainous terrain, all got distracted by trying to determine the types of rocks and outcroppings they were seeing (score one for just enough geology knowledge to keep them occupied!).

We spent our first night in Estes Park in a tiny motel with magnificent views and a place to build our own campfire (which went ok until Stow became increasingly brazen in his efforts to show us how well he could snuff out the tiny side fires he kept lighting). Sky fell in love with the mountains around Estes Park and the shirt he bought as a souvenir there (this last piece of information may seem random, but it will make more sense in a minute--I promise), and he was sad when we headed into the park and across Trail Ridge Road to our second destination.

Stop along Trail Ridge Road

Since Ren couldn't really hike, I was pleasantly surprised by all we could see and do as we made our way across Trail Ridge Road. The short hikes we could take from various stops and the wildlife we saw along the way thrilled the kids, even as I knew that a younger more mobile version of myself would have ridiculed people like us for being such lazy tourists.

We spent the bulk of our vacation in Grand Lake, the small town where I worked for a summer as a college kid. Sky didn't like it because it wasn't Estes Park, and Stow didn't want to leave our rental cabin because it had a bunk bed and cable, and we'd been away from home for 72 hours so clearly this was our new home. (Have you ever tried explaining the difference between being on a trip and being "homeless"? Because, it's not as easy or as obvious as it sounds.)

Grand Lake and Stow

On the fourth day, we drove to Winter Park where we bought ridiculously expensive day passes so we could enjoy the gondola, alpine slide, putt-putt golf and other activities. Day four is where the trip really started to take a Moe Family turn. We went to Winter Park so the kids could ride the alpine slide (described as Colorado's longest alpine slide with "over 3,000 feet of heart-pounding track"), but the alpine slide requires a ski lift ride, and a ski lift ride for three children, two of whom are on the spectrum, requires, at least at first, two adults.

See the conundrum?

The guy selling the day passes told me that Ren couldn't ride the lift up unless he was willing to take the slide down. He also told me that Ren's spine issues wouldn't prevent him from riding the slide. When I conveyed this information to Ren, he decided it was a perfectly cogent idea for him to take the lift up with Stow and to ride down on the slow track.

On this first trip, Sky led the way followed by Pink. I took the middle with Stow behind me and Ren bringing up the rear. Everyone made it down safely, though I think I probably triggered an adrenaline rush for Pink when I nearly rear-ended her. And, I am sure the group of teenagers who came behind Ren weren't thrilled by his snail's pace.

Alpine Slide

Yay! We made it down safely and the kids had fun!

The logical next step would have been to walk away from the alpine slide. But, our passes were for limitless rides, and we're nothing if not passionate about getting the most for our money. So, I told Ren I'd take the kids on the slide again.

"I'll come, too," he said.

When you live with someone who has a life-altering and painful physical disability, you learn not to tell them how you think they should live with that disability. So, even though I really wanted to tell Ren to quit while he was ahead, I didn't want to stop him from something he felt like he was capable of doing.

My second ride down the mountain was faster and more exhilarating than the first. As each family member arrived safely at the bottom, I felt buoyed by the fact that we were doing something so....well....so normal. But, then Pink came in with Ren close behind, and before she could tell me about his spill, the attendant at the bottom of the slide was explaining how to get to first aid.

Do you know what's hard to do if you have a titanium rod from neck to tailbone? Bend. Bending is impossible and also completely necessary if you get going to fast on the alpine slide and need regain your balance. Since Ren can't bend, when he started to tip, he couldn't recover without relying on contact between his arm and the side of the slide. Today, three months later, he still has slide burns--they're healed, but the scars look like no other injury we've seen.

When we got to the first aid tent, my biggest worry was that the open wound on his arm would prevent him from being able to have surgery. The nurse gave us some petroleum jelly and some bandages and told us how to keep the wound clean and moist for quicker healing, and after a few gondola rides and a round of putt-putt golf, the kids decided they were ready to take on the alpine slide on their own.

On your second visit to the first aid tent, you know it's time to walk away from the alpine slide. While Ren managed to get a shallow slide burn that covered most of his forearm, Sky got a small deep one on his shoulder that closely resembled a golf divot. The Japanese last name I gave the nurse when we arrived at the tent the second time made her raise her eyebrows, "I thought you looked familiar," she said to me. Armed with more petroleum jelly and clean bandages, Sky and I found the rest of the family, and we all agreed it was time to head home.

"I can't believe how unlucky I am," moaned Sky, who was distraught about the hole in his new t-shirt, and whose day had been ruined by that last ill-fated alpine slide run.

Ill-fated shirt

"Look," I said. "Don't let that one moment ruin a really good day. I mean, it WAS a pretty great day, right?" Reluctantly, he agreed.

I suppose our trip to Colorado taught us all that every day is full of a lot of good and a little bit of bad and we that can choose which of those things will be our focus--

--which isn't to say that I didn't have to spend a chunk of the last few days of our vacation looking for a shirt to replace the one with the hole, because I totally did.

My Heart

I am sitting in the cramped hospital room watching the nurse keep her eye on Sky's vitals. His heart rate keeps falling and setting off an alarm. She tells me not to worry, that the medications they used during his procedure just worked a little too well.

Procedure. I've always hated this word in reference to something being done to a human body subdued by anesthesia. All week Sky and I debated the line between surgery and procedure. Now that he's a teen, we don't agree on much, but we both agree that if cutting and repairing are involved, it should be called a surgery.

"Besides," he says with a grin, "I want to be able to tell people I had heart surgery this summer."

This is out-patient, 2 or 3 hours under general anesthesia in order to thread a catheter up to his heart and put a roadblock in the spare electrical pathway that keeps causing it to race. It doesn't matter to me what they call it; the pre-op process and the time spent waiting for updates from the surgical theater are more than enough to trigger memories of so many surgeries past. Ren and I get out long enough to get some overpriced, ridiculously-healthy, oddly-paired food at the "Asian" salad bar, but soon we are back and waiting in the room that suddenly seems cavernous now that Sky's bed has been rolled away with him in it.

When the nurse calls to tell us all is fine but that they have to cross into the left atrium, I thank her for the update and then try to focus on the tiny tennis ball high on the tiny TV screen. It's the first round of Wimbledon, and we don't get cable at home. Ren wants to know who called and what they wanted. I find it hard to explain in Japanese as my anxiety rises in my chest and settles in my throat. I know that crossing to the left increases the risk of dangerous clots and stroke.

The room has no windows, and I have to traverse a maze of hallways in order to reach one. The prospect of tracing my way back to the sunlight seems particularly daunting, especially since the hospital lobby is a dizzying combination of cows and farm theme and old cars. I'm at a loss as to how to keep my shit together. This surprises me given the vast experience I have with hospitals and surgeries. Ren barely takes his eyes from his iPad. Apparently his coping strategy works better for him than mine does for me.

And, then, suddenly, it's over and the doctor comes in and explains what he did before we're asked to wait for ten minutes in the hallway while they get Sky settled in his room. Twenty minutes later, we are still waiting, so I knock on the door. The nurse says that most parents don't handle seeing their kinds on breathing support well, but she knows how many surgeries we've been through with Ren and tells us we can come in if we're ok with it. I'm more ok sitting with Sky than I am in the hallway with strangers, so I tell her we'll be fine. Like Ren, Sky comes around slowly after anesthesia, and it takes his body even longer to deal with the various meds on-boarded during the surgery.

The lighting in the room sucks--our options are a massive, blinding fluorescent ceiling light or  a depressingly dark headboard light. We wait for Sky to wake in near darkness while tennis continues on the television. When he finally opens his eyes, he wants to know if it's done. He wants to get out of bed. He wants to watch something else on TV. He switches to National Geographic, some show about the Sphinx and the Pyramids. He's still trying to watch it when they come in to do an echocardiogram.

I often wonder if I am doing right by my kids, by Sky, who is my oldest, my practice run, my test case. Every phase he enters, every new challenge he faces, I am doing it with him for the first time. Most of the time, it doesn't go smoothly and I am convinced I am blowing it. But as I watch them track his heart on the screen, I am transported back to the first time I ever saw that heartbeat. Back to that moment fifteen years ago--before I had a baby, before I learned to doubt myself so deeply--when I was simply awed to see that life growing inside of me. Watching Sky's heart beat so perfectly on the screen I am flooded with gratitude--gratitude that I've been able to hold and to love and to protect and to help grow this heart in this boy.

It's his heart, but as I look at it in the darkened hospital room, I realize that it is my heart, too. It always has been.

My heart four days post-op.

The Heart, It Races

"Let me start with the takeaways," the pediatric electrophysiologist began. "There are two big ones. First, this won't kill you. Second, it won't go away unless we intervene."

Supraventrical tachycardia (SVT). Thirteen months (and just 81 hours) after I got home from a work trip to Japan, we finally had an answer to the inexplicable heart thing that has been plaguing Sky. Getting to the diagnosis was a combination of frustrating waits and missed symptoms and a last-minute act of, shall we say, well-timed disobedience.

SVT reading

It started early last summer when Sky came in from basketball on the driveway reporting that his heart fluttered and he felt like he was going to pass out. Because the symptoms coincided with a significant growth spurt, we figured that it was a one-off. When he reported similar symptoms once or twice a month for the next couple of months, I reached out to our pediatrician, and she ordered an EKG. The normal report was both reassuring and frustrating, especially for Sky, who wanted to know why his heart felt so funny. Two different pediatricians told us that his symptoms most likely resulted from his rapid growth and dehydration.

In the spring, when we were in to see Ren's cardiologist (that's a whole other story, btw), I described Sky's symptoms and asked what he would advise. He suggested an echocardiogram and a 24-hour Holter monitor. We followed through with both, and both came back essentially normal. By now, Sky was getting anxious. He worries about a lot of stuff a lot of the time, and the unilluminating test results made him feel bad.

You've probably noticed that life tends to be chaotic around here, so three "normal" test results sent Sky's heart issues to the bottom of my concern list. He continued to get light-headed easily and to have heart "spasms" from time to time, but since we'd been multiply assured that there was nothing wrong, I wasn't sure what else to do. Then, the week before I left for a 12-day work trip to Japan, Sky started tennis camp. On each of the four days, he had increasingly concerning issues with his heart, ending on the fourth day (a Thursday) with him going temporarily blind. I contacted our pediatrician and Ren's cardiologist early Friday morning. By the end of the day, Sky had a do-not-exercise restriction.

Some problems seem unsolvable, especially when it's Friday at 4 pm and you're leaving before dawn the following Monday and you're not established with a pediatric cardiologist and the local pediatrician has just left the practice. Fortunately, we have a pediatrician back in Indiana who sees the kids once a year and who is amazing in all sorts of ways, not the least of which is that she doggedly pursued Ren's cardiologist until we had a plan and means to get Sky hooked up to a 30-day monitor. It took a few middle-of-the-night phone calls from Japan (sorry, travel mates, I know I was being a bit loud), but we got Sky set up with both the monitor and someone specializing in pediatrics to keep an eye on its readings.

Summer in Tohoku--my job's pretty awesome (#breathedeep)

By the time I got home in the early morning hours of Saturday, Sky had been wearing the monitor for four days and off of sports and exercise for two weeks. He was frustrated because he hadn't been cleared to go back to tennis (we were told the doc wanted a baseline before he did), and he was worried we were wasting time and money on the monitor (this is a huge thing for him, despite our constant reassurances). Given the haphazard way I'd strung together the medical coverage for this, I imagined that the lack of response from the doctor had much to do with the fact that Sky wasn't actually anyone's cardiology patient.

So, I made a decision that would turn out to be either brilliant or catastrophic (did I mention how HARD parenting is?)--I sent him to tennis on Monday morning with strict instructions to stop and record anything amiss. I also sent messages to both the pediatrician and Ren's cardiologist letting them know I'd done this. Sky and I both knew the weird heart thing wasn't going to happen as long as he was sitting around chatting with friends on Discord.

I dropped Sky off at 9, and by 11 am, I had a call from Ren's cardiologist's office telling me that he needed to stop whatever he was doing immediately. Within an hour, we had an appointment scheduled with the pediatric cardiology specialist for the next morning (an appointment I'd been told wouldn't be able to happen until August at the earliest when I called from Japan).

Summer Midwestern Sky (#breathedeep)

So 13 months and 81 hours later, we finally know why Sky's heart "spasms." We are trying to wrap our heads around how we got here and exploring the various available interventions; fortunately, the condition seems highly manageable. Sky is back at tennis this morning, and I am reminded of my mantras: "Breathe deep," and, perhaps less inspiring but still extremely helpful, "Everything will be ok."

After the appointment, I took Sky for pizza and a little shopping. Not sure Taro approves of Sky's purchases, but I think if you can match the ties to the eyes, you're doing something right!

Taro is not amused.

Parenting is Hard

Yesterday was Sky's 8th grade National Junior Honor Society awards ceremony. He got inducted last year based on his academic performance and community service. Of course, Ren and I are both very proud of how hard he worked to overcome the challenges of autism and various developmental delays to become a lot like his peers--a sharp, funny, sarcastic teenager. But, this blog post is not about that.

You guys, every piece of the outfit he selected for the ceremony last night was too small. Oh, and it clashed. He wore a black and red horizontal plaid shirt a green and a (different shade of) red diagonal plaid tie. Apparently, he couldn't find any of his non-Christmas ties. The only thing in the ensemble that fit was his shoes (though goodness knows why THOSE still fit). The sleeves on his shirt, a good three inches too short. And, his pants? Well they reminded me of the time Bobby Brady tried to do his own laundry. Seriously, if the kid wasn't a total string bean, he would not have been able to even get these clothes on. On the bright side, his socks matched, though he did also forget to wear his NJHS pin.

At LEAST three inches.

These children, they make it hard to parent them. They don't listen when I ask/tell them to do something, and 9 times out of 10, I am asking or telling because I know how it's going to play out. Given that it's the end of the semester and that the various spring events are in full swing, I knew I wouldn't be able to solve any last minute wardrobe issues. That's why I asked him to try the stuff on the night before. I suppose I should have made Sky come down and show me the outfit he planned to wear, but honestly? Couldn't he tell they were a bit on the tight side? Isn't part of my job to teach them agency?

As far as I could tell, he was the only kid with clothes that were two sizes too small. When he walked, he pulled at the tail of his shirt and the cuffs of his sleeves. He slouched a bit more than usual. He ran his hands through his unruly hair that's three weeks past time for a cut (but that he wants to grow out), and I felt pretty bad for him. Guess I learned my lesson--parenting is hard. Also, I probably need to take him shopping more often, even though he hates it.

On the Road

When I decided to call this blog post "On the Road," I figured I should quote Jack Kerouac out of context. These are the quotes that struck me as most appropriate for the tales I wanted to tell and perhaps the perfect distillation of what it means to be an autism mom.

"It all ends in tears anyway."
"I had nothing to offer anybody but my confusion."
"We agreed to love each other madly."

******

Every summer, I am invited to return to my alma mater and give a series of lectures. The audience is an eager one, the pay is good, and it's a great chance to see family and old friends. So, every summer we load up the family and make the 6-hour drive from our house to the university. The kids love making the trip, and there are generally no surprises or new things they need to anticipate. We stay in the same hotel and do essentially the same things. We see my parents. And Big Sissy.

Obsessed with his bowling ball.

I suppose the sheer regular-ness of the excursion lulled me into a sense of complacency because I did not anticipate that Stow would lose his shit in the ways he did on this trip. It started with battles over how much he should or shouldn't tilt his chair. Then, it turned into him refusing to keep his seatbelt on. Next, he was hitting his brother and sister and then me. Then kicking the back of the seat as hard as he could to express his discontent. By the time we got to our destination, he was threatening to jump out of the car and Ren, and I were completely spent. For the next four days, Stow proceeded to behave in ways we hadn't seen for months. He was impulsive, unpredictable, and risk seeking. He relentlessly picked on his brother and sister and reacted with aggression toward us. One night at a restaurant, he said, "I want to go back to the ho-towel!" loud and repeatedly for the entirety of the final twenty minutes it took the rest of us to finish our food. In the interim, he tried to run out of the restaurant three times.

Some of you might ask whether we did X or Y or whatever to support or distract him. I can assure you that we probably did. We have, in fact, tried to do everything to help Stow. What we haven't figure out how to do, and in fact, maybe can't do, is to help Stow figure out how to process his anxiety. Change is HARD for him. Social stories, sticking to routines, bringing along familiar lovies and toys--none of these things are doing the trick any more. But, on the bright side, I guess this last short and (supposedly) simple trip showed us that it's time to go back to the drawing board.

When we pull into the garage after a day or a month away, Stow always heaves a little sigh of relief. He is just so very happy to be home with his toys and his bed and his driveway and his yard. Hopefully, eventually, we will figure out how to make being away less stressful for him. Until then, I think we might just stick close to home.

Cucumber harvest after 4 days away.

That's probably better for the cucumbers anyway!

******

A week or so after we got back from our road trip, Sky and I spent the night in downtown Chicago. I made the last-minute decision to book a hotel room on that particular weekend after I realized one of my friends was playing in a local music festival that also headlined one of my favorite bands. Somehow I figured I could convince Sky to come watch live music as part of his special weekend away with me. (I was wrong, it turns out).

The day before our departure, we went to the Humane Society and got a new kitten because clearly, any changes in routine should definitely be accompanied by the introduction of a new family member (and clearly, I have not learned enough about how to parent kids on the autism spectrum). Sky worried that he would miss the most important moments in Taro's young life, so it took longer than expected to get away (and required me to calculate the approximate number of hours and days Taro would be in our lives based on average cat life expectancy in order to convince him to go at all). By the time we got on the train headed to downtown, it was already after noon.

On the way to our hotel.

Our hotel, it turns out, was about a block from the Japanese Consulate in an area we know well. Sky was most thrilled by the tall buildings. Then I took him to have some Ghirardelli chocolate and to the LEGO store, and he lost his mind. After wandering for a couple of hours, Sky insisted on going back to the hotel room so he could build the LEGO set he'd bought. Turns out cable television and early 2000s comedies are also mind-blowing because we spent the next two hours in the hotel room while he built his LEGO set and watched Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Despite my best efforts, I could not convince him to come with me to the music festival, and given that I'd let Pink do her thing on the farm, I knew I owed it to Sky to let this trip go at his pace.

Sometimes you just need to go look at LEGO.

Sky was gracious enough to agree to have dinner with a fellow ASD mom-blogger friend and her kids, and he even agreed to be patient while my friend and I quickly tried to catch up on the four years since we'd managed to have dinner last. I can't tell you how reassuring (and completely disconcerting) it is to hear someone describe the insanity in their own lives in practically identical terms to the way you describe your own. If you're reading this blog because you have a kid on the spectrum, reach out! Being able to talk to people who actually KNOW what this is like may just be the thing that keeps you sane.

Tall buildings as viewed from our hotel bathroom.

Sky had anxiety about walking back to the hotel after dinner and also about using a ride service, so my friend graciously agreed to drop us off at the hotel in her Uber. (God bless friends who accommodate random anxieties! I mean, really.) After another quick walk among the tall, familiar buildings, he settled in for a Harry Potter marathon. I fell asleep AND woke up to the sound of a Harry Potter movie. After breakfast, I'd hoped to get Sky to a museum, but when I asked him what he wanted to do, he said he wanted to do the exact same things we'd done the day before.

So, we did.

******

"It all ends in tears anyway."
"I had nothing to offer anybody but my confusion."
"We agreed to love each other madly."

What Do You Do with So Much Awesome?

Recently, I've started to suspect that I am losing my mind. And, if not, that I have less patience than I should. At a certain point each evening (usually about 3 hours after I've gotten home from a long, busy day at work), I find myself yelling at someone or the other. And, I can't figure out if I am just tired and grumpy, or if something has driven me to it. So, yesterday, I decided to keep an informal and completely unscientific list of the conversations I was engaged in between the hours of 6 and 9 p.m. Note: this list is not comprehensive but it IS true (in that these conversations ALL happened). Looking at it, I've decided that maybe there is just a little too much awesome happening at my house, and I clearly don't have what it takes to keep up with all of these conversations.

(Just for fun, see if you can guess who said what.)

1. "Mom, look at this book I got from the library. (Holds up The Essential Research: A Complete. Up-to-Date, One-Volume Sourcebook for Journalists, Writers, Students and Everyone Who Needs Facts Fast).  Do you want to know how many people died in traffic accidents in 1990 in Vermont? It's a surprisingly low number. Can you believe I am the first person to ever check this book out of the school library?"

2. "Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you that my left leg went numb this afternoon, and I couldn't walk. It's a like a tingling shock, but it's so strong and unexpected that I can't move my leg." 

3. "Mom, look. When I shriek loud enough, the Anpanman Christmas toy turns on all by itself." (Shriek followed by Anpanman rocking and playing Jingle Bells in a slightly flat electronic frenzy. Followed by another kid testing his shriek to see if it has the same effect. It does)."

4. "I'm going to shake this tree hard enough that all of the ornaments fall off." 

5. "Tomorrow I am going to try to hook up the DJGKESM. If it doesn't work, you need to call and tell them SKEWMG AKTJES and KGWJETASDGO. Ok? Are you listening?" 

6. "Brennan sits at the allergy table everyday because he likes Annabelle. He likes girls who are smart and pretty because he wants them to do his homework for him. I think he's stupid and should leave us alone. I like playing with Annabelle because she is nice and smart and doesn't care how she looks just like me." 

7. "I think there is something wrong with the nerve here (points vaguely to lower back). It feels really funny. (Me: Shoudn't I call the doctor?) Not, yet. Maybe it will get better besides they can't do anything about it." 

8.  "I think Momo really likes it when I _____________ (insert ridiculously cat-unfriendly behavior here). All of my friends think I am saying Mom when I say Momo, but I don't think Momo and Mama sound alike at all. Isn't that weird?" 

9. "Why don't you make the kind of gratin that Big Sissy makes with the macaroni in it? I don't like this rice one. I think you put in too much rice." 

10. "How come you never watch ______________ (insert TV program title) anymore?" 

11. "Oops. I forgot to put on underwear again." 

12. "I think the surgery failed. That's the only explanation for _____________ (insert pain description)."

13. "I'm going back upstairs. It's too loud down here. I can't eat when it's this loud and you told me to not to yell at everyone." 

14. "Can I turn on the outside lights and ride my bike in the dark?"

15. "Are you sure you love me?" 

16. "Can I use your computer to look up KGMTKSEMKG?" 

17. "Mom, why don't you exercise like Jimmy's mom. She exercises all the time." (Me: Because I use up all my free time asking you guys to do the same thing over and over again.) "That's probably better, anyway. If you had time to exercise, you'd probably start drinking Diet Coke again and watch too much TV." 

18. "Do you want to smell my bottom?" 

19. "Mom, the dinosaur's head fell off again."

20. "Why does he have more ornaments than me?" (Me: Because he's older than you). "I knew it. You don't love me. You wish I was never born."

21. "Can I use your computer to look up FLEKWGSJP?" 

22.  "It's not true that 9 year-olds are supposed to go to bed by 8:30. You're just using that stupid chart to prove that you're right."  

23. "I think I have figured out why that video game is so expensive. It's new and it's popular so lots of people want to buy it, so that's why it's expensive. That or maybe the graphics are some kind of special new technology."

24. "Can I use your computer to check my homework?"

25. "Can I play Wii?" (Me: No. It's a school night.)

26. (20 minutes later) "Why can't I play Wii?"  

ANSWER KEY:

1. Pink
2. Ren
3. Sky (and then Stow)
4. Stow
5. Ren
6. Pink
7. Ren
8. Pink
9. Sky
10. Sky
11. Stow
12. Ren
13. Sky
14. Stow
15. Pink
16. Sky
17. Pink
18. Stow
19. All three.
10. Stow
21. Sky
22. Pink
23. Sky
24. Sky
25. Sky
26. Sky