Posted in Autism, Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent

It Takes Guts to Live Without Regret

Posted on by cmfalato

Do I regret giving up custody of my child during my divorce? Short answer: It’s complicated.

Last December, I was interviewed by Guts Non-Profit about my life as a non-custodial mom to an Autistic, mildly intellectually disabled child.

It was a great interview. I share my story openly so that people who might be going through the same thing, or even something remotely similar, won’t feel alone.

I suffered a mental health breakdown during my divorce that forced me to take control of my mental health, actually advocate for myself to doctors, and, learn how to (mostly) not let my life fall prey to depression and anxiety. After a long road, I fully recovered and leveraged the experience to make me a better advocate for my son.

I want someone to hear that, and look me up on LinkedIn, or Instagram, and think “Hey, that happened to her and look at all she did after. I can do that, too!”

Being a non-custodial mom, giving up custody of your child, living 210 miles away from them for over half their life and still raising a strong, odds-defying, and just generally good human is hard… actually, it’s pretty emotionally devastating. And, it’s isolating. I’ve stayed fully connected to my son – we have a thriving relationship – and I have a great group of friends.

I’d love it if another parent was encouraged by that.

Divorce is – even if you’re the one who initiates it – hard. There’s this life you plan on when you walk the aisle, or, as I did with Husband #2, to whom I’m (knock on wood. Damien, can you come up here please. I need your head) still happily married, step in front of the justice of the peace.

Letting go of that life, and not having regrets about it…well, it takes awhile.

…and, as I say in the podcast and have said before here, the reasons you end a partnership don’t end with a divorce decree (or its equivalent).

I am happily remarried (Damien, get up here now please, and bring The Boxer. His head’s even more wooden than yours), and I’m on great terms with my ex.

My goal is to have someone newly divorced, navigating the initially contentious waters of a freshly minted divorce decree and child custody agreement, and have faith.

And then, of course, there’s the big A: Autism. I’m on the spectrum. My son is on the spectrum. I can have an existential crisis over a black bra and blue panties and still, successfully navigate an IEP meeting, or, since JR turned 21, an ISP (Individualized Service Plan) meeting. I have a successful career. My son is about to graduate college.

I really need someone to hear that and know they’re not alone, and that autism isn’t a living death sentence. (And if you need help navigating the K-12 special education system and/or post-21/22 transition, or even just someone to vent to about a recent IEP, just reach out anytime.)

(I’m serious. I had and have a lot of support for JR. My turn to pay it forward).

Moving on.

So, overall, the podcast was rattling along fine, even the hard parts, until they asked this question:

Do you regret giving up custody of your son?

If you listen to the podcast, that’s my full stop moment. Multiple reasons:

  • I’ve never been asked that question before.
  • I wanted to give a completely honest answer.
  • I don’t ever want my son to listen to this podcast and think “She gave me up and she doesn’t regret it? Do I mean that little to her? Was it that easy?”
  • What will people think of me, and the kind of mother I am, if I say “no”?

Do I regret giving up custody?

I’ve been so busy being a mom – and fighting so hard just to prove, mostly to myself I suspect, that I am every bit as good a mom as any one of my SUV-driving peers who is happily married, or if they are divorced, retained custody – I have never stopped to ask myself that question.

But do I?

Do I wish I had fought harder for residential custody?

Do I wish I had just sucked it up – and forced my ex to do the same – to stay in a stressful marriage?

Do I regret moving to Boston?

The “But Do I’s” might actually be worse than the “But Why’s?”

Hard to believe, I know.

You can listen to my full answer at 16:34 in the podcast itself, but the short answer is…

Drumroll please!

Add more dramatic tension…

No.

I have made so many mistakes as a mom and as both a custodial (when I was married to JR’s dad) and non-custodial parent. I’m human. Every child is, as trite as it sounds, different. The same thing that was great for your best friend’s kiddos, or even your own other child, might be wrong for the tiny human standing right in front of you.

Yes, I regret those mistakes. Not one of them was at all remotely harmful or devastating to my son, but still, I have those moments where I think back and wish I’d done it differently.

I’ve also had moments when the autistic spectrum, which can often be a royal pain in the arse**, unleashes its worst, and I’ve cried and wished I’d just stayed married, or I hadn’t moved so far away, or, yes, I didn’t give up custody.

**I know calling the autistic spectrum a pain, or saying it unleashes its worst is probably ableist. It’s not intended that way. BUT watching your kid spiral into a meltdown they can’t get out of, one they will feel endless shame over later, no matter what you say or do, is just that. So’s when your brain calls a full halt to your legs – invariably when you’re running late – because a tiny wisp of hair no one but you is going to notice is falling over your forehead. Triple that when you spend the entire day after a party replaying every moment, and everything you said, on your brain’s 3D IMAX theater screen obsessing over what you THINK you said or did wrong.**

But, do I actually, on an average day, which is most of them, regret that I gave up residential custody?

JR, I love you. You are the best and most important part of my life… but I do not regret letting you live with your dad full-time.

Or moving to Boston.

I wish, for your benefit, I could, or I could say I did. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I hope you don’t hate me.

I gave up residential custody because I knew where you needed to be, and I knew which parent was, at the time, best able to give you everything you needed then.

And I knew, at that time, it wasn’t me.

I am so sorry.

I’ve done a lot of hard things in my life. Letting you go, even just to live in another house where I saw and spoke to you all the time, even after I moved to Boston, was the hardest.

You are, however, who you are today because of that very reluctant decision. And J, you are everything a mother could ever want from a son, everything I thought and dreamed you would be, the moment in that delivery room when they set you on my chest and said, “Meet your son, Mrs. R–.” You have never, ever disappointed me.

You’re human, too. I’ve been disappointed in your behavior plenty. Can we talk about the video game budget, please?

Not you. You are perfect, exactly who you are.

I know that if I had fought harder, neither of us would be who or where we are today.

So, what should you do if you’re a non-custodial parent dealing with regret about giving up, or not fighting harder for custody?

Listen to the podcast, read the blog, and think, “Hey, she did it, and look at her and her kid. I did the same thing. I don’t have to regret this. I know it was the right decision.”

Because it was.

–CMR

Posted in Autism

Autistic Before Autism Was Cool

Posted on by cmfalato

Late diagnosis, Gen-X masking, and raising a neurodivergent kid when you had no idea you were one.

Memorial Day, 10:37 a.m. I’m heading north to Hobby Lobby.

Sunroof open. No music. Just the road.

My husband’s outside dismantling something in the yard. The dogs are asleep. Sun pours through my sewing room windows. I could be quilting.

Instead, I’m doing 75 on I-93. Highways are, paradoxically, the quietest place my brain knows.

Not physically quiet—mentally quiet. There’s a difference.

(At least until one of my three beautiful humans — Leading Man #1, Husband #2, or TheEx — calls with something “urgent.”)

Growing Up Gen-X Before “Neurodivergent” Was a Word

As kids, autism meant one thing. If you were bright but socially strange, you got labeled “Hyper.” Difficult. Too sensitive. Argumentative.

I spent four decades assuming I was just an oddball with strong opinions and terrible social timing.

Then, at 48, my therapist mentioned — almost in passing — that I “met the criteria for Asperger’s Syndrome.”

I’d been autistic my whole life.

I was also raising an autistic kid. How in the actual hell had I missed this???

Moving on.

The Noise Most People Don’t Notice

My brain notices everything. Every voice in a room. Every shift in tone. Every raised eyebrow. Every micro-expression from someone standing fifteen feet away.

Then it tries to fix everything.

If someone nearby seems unhappy, I instinctively start adjusting — changing what I’m saying, what I’m doing, whether I’m talking at all — until everyone around me is comfortable.

Picture those paper fortune tellers we folded as kids—folded again and again, until nothing’s left but paper dust. That constant adapting was my social strategy.

That was my social strategy for most of my adult life.

The Existential Wardrobe Situation

I can mix patterns all day when I’m designing something. Quilts, scrapbooks, retail displays — mismatched is fine, actually encouraged.

Wearing mismatched underwear? My brain refuses.

Blue polka-dot underwear with a black-and-white bra? No way. I know it’s illogical—no one sees it—but my nervous system ignores logic.

Autism is often described as a difficulty in processing sensory input. I describe it as opening my closet every morning and wondering which item of clothing is about to start a philosophical argument with my central nervous system.

The “Fix Everything” Instinct

If someone suggested something, I assumed it was an instruction. If someone seemed unhappy, I assumed it was my job to fix it.

This made relationships… complicated.

I spent years anticipating what people wanted instead of just being myself. Then I’d quietly resent having to do things I never actually agreed to.

My husband — patient man — eventually sat me down and delivered the note in its simplest form:

“Stop folding yourself into origami shapes and just exist like a normal human.”

It took time. But I got there. Mostly.

On the Missed Diagnosis

A lot of people assume an earlier diagnosis would have made everything easier. Maybe. But I’m genuinely not sure childhood-me needed the label.

What do I wish? That I’d figured it out in my twenties, trying to navigate adult relationships without understanding why things felt impossible.

But growing up autistic before autism awareness was common gave me a crucial perspective: I understand what it feels like to be the kid who doesn’t fit. That insight matters, especially as a parent.

Motherhood on the Spectrum

When my son was growing up, I had one goal: he was going to experience everything a neurotypical kid experienced. With modifications, maybe. With extra coaching, definitely. But the opportunities would be there.

So I taught him to drive. Took him out for his first legal drink at twenty-one. Helped him decode the unspoken social rules that nobody ever writes down.

The world doesn’t always rearrange itself around you. Sometimes you learn the rules of the game — and then you decide when to play and when to walk off the field.

Understanding my own neurodivergence made me a better parent for one key reason: I fully grasp the stakes and challenges my child faces.

The Reset Button

For years, I never knew why I craved long drives, writing, or time alone away from others’ emotions.

Now I realize those are resets—moments where the mental noise quiets and I can process all the day’s data.

Without them, the network overloads. With them, I work pretty well.

Reflecting on all of this, I’ve realized one thing: Autism explains me, but it doesn’t define me.

When I first got the diagnosis, I let it define me for a while. Then I stopped.

I’m autistic. I’m also a mother, a writer, a project manager, and someone who has spent decades figuring out how to navigate the world in her own slightly unconventional way.

Autism explains some things, not what I can do. Maybe it even explains why I write — because stories refuse to shut up until I get them out of my head.

Some people write because they enjoy it. I write because the alternative is worse.

After years of decoding the world, the biggest breakthrough is finally understanding how my own brain works—and that knowledge is genuinely liberating.

Even if it took fifty-four years to get here.

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent

Essential Tips for Safe Long-Distance Parenting Travel

Posted on by cmfalato

I’m planning a trip to New Jersey in the next couple of weeks. Actually, I’ve been planning this trip since the last trip three months ago. Sadly, I’m driving, not flying over the Merritt Parkway, aka the 2-lane Connecticut highway from hell (AC/DC reference intended).

If you know, you know.

Connecticut Route 15 is the scenic, tree-lined “connection” between my son and me. It is also a winding ribbon of brake lights. It offers moments of existential reflection. Occasionally, a BMW appears, seemingly believing speed limits are philosophical suggestions.

I have a complicated relationship with that road. It is the corridor to my kid. It is also the place where time stands still behind a landscaping truck doing 38 miles per hour in a 55.

But here is the thing about long-distance parenting. The road is not optional. Safety is not negotiable.

1. My Car Is Part of the Parenting Plan

Before every trip:

  • Oil checked.
  • Tires inspected.
  • Wipers working.
  • Gas tank filled the night before.

My vehicle is not just transportation. It is the bridge. If it fails, I fail to show up. That is not a risk I take lightly.

2. Weather Is a Decision-Maker, Not Background Noise

Living in New England means snow does not politely reschedule itself around custody weekends.

If the forecast shows ice, heavy snow, or dangerous wind, I avoid driving in it. I do not white-knuckle my way through it to prove a point. I reassess. I communicate. I reschedule if necessary.

Canceling for safety is not a weakness. It is parenting.

I would rather disappoint my son for a weekend than terrify him with a risky drive or worse.

Watch the forecast. Leave early. Or do not leave at all if conditions cross the line from inconvenient to unsafe.

3. Leave Early Enough to Be Human

Route 15 has two lanes. Two. That is it. No shoulders worth mentioning. No graceful exits when traffic collapses into a parking lot.

So I leave early. Earlier than feels reasonable.

Because driving into a pickup truck matters. Showing up flustered, snapping at traffic, muttering about Connecticut infrastructure policy, does not.

4. EZPass Is a Love Language

Get the EZPass.

Unless you enjoy:

  • Surprise toll invoices.
  • Grainy photos of your license plate.
  • Whatever states you travel through and to sending you requests for (toll) money like you just won the lottery.

EZPass saves money and your mailbox. It is essential equipment for the interstate co-parent.

5. Hands-Free or Hands Off

Podcasts queued before departure. Phone mounted. Texts are unanswered until I am stopped.

Nothing is worth glancing down at 65 – AHEM! – 55 miles per hour while the Merritt curves like someone with a vendetta against straight lines designed it.

6. Manage the Emotional Traffic Too

Long drives invite rumination. Court stress. Old conversations. What you wish you said at drop-off.

Emotional distraction is still a distraction.

If I need to process something heavy, I do it before I merge. If I feel overwhelmed, I pull over. Rest stops are underrated therapy rooms.

7. Fatigue Is Not a Badge of Honor

Sunday night returns are brutal. Early Monday alarms are real.

If I am tired, I stop. A 15-minute nap beats fighting gravity at highway speed. Showing up safely beats showing off endurance.

8. Model It When He’s in the Car

Seatbelts first. Phone down. Speeds reasonable—no commentary about the driver who just cut me off.

He is watching. Always.

Long-distance parenting is measured in miles, maintenance appointments, toll charges, and weather apps.

Connecticut Route 15 tests my patience, my brakes, and my faith in civil engineering.

It also carries me to my son.

The safest arrival is the only one that counts.

See you next month, Hartford!

–CMR

2/28/2026

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Beware the “But Did I Do’s?”

Posted on by cmfalato

Don’t second-guess yourself when visitation is done. You showed up for and spent time with your kid, and that’s enough.

My son isn’t even gone yet. He’s down the hall in the spare bedroom we use as a library, sprawled out on, as he calls it, a comfy couch, with his Nintendo Switch 2 (yes, he saved the $200 for it. Go Joey!).

Yet, here they come anyway, unavoidable as always:

The But Did I Do’s.

The ButDidIDos start as I’m packing my son up to return to his father’s for my fearless co-parent’s half of the Christmas holiday. Our train leaves Boston at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I picked JR up on the previous Monday. He’s been with me a whole 10 days.

I’ve done everything I can to maximize that time. I took off work. Cancelled my reservation at the company Christmas party. Left early the day I did have to work (starving freelance writer and special education advocate in training after all).

We had a long drive from Bergen County, NJ to Boston, MA to talk and listen to music. We played Christmas carols on the radio.

At JR’s request, this was a chill-out vacation. We didn’t do any of the usual things we do: no museums, no bowling, no amusement parks, no hiking, no New England sightseeing. Instead, we decorated the Christmas tree and baked cookies together. We hung out together, built Legos, and watched our favorite movies and TV shows.

The ButDidIDo’s creep around the edges of my mind as I fold jeans, t-shirts, and underwear, consolidating 2 chaotic, overpacked suitcases into a single neat one.

I swat them away impatiently and set to work making room for that single suitcase in front of the bedroom closet, stacking video game sleeves, hanging shirts, and tucking away clothing JR no longer fits into.

Still, they persist:

  • But did I leave him alone too much?
  • But did I pay enough attention to him?
  • But should I have made him play a board game or go bowling?
  • But should I have gotten him out of the house more often?
  • But should I not have gone to work for four hours that Saturday?
  • But did I –?
  • But should I have–?
  • But do I still have time to–?

But Did I Do Enough with/for Kiddo on this visit?

You’d think I’d have learned to tune out the ButDidIDo’s by now. This August marked my 20th anniversary as a non-custodial parent and my divorce from JR’s dad, my fearless co-parent. As Rosanne Cash once sang, sad anniversary of a 100 old things…

20 years of every other weekend, every other holiday, week-long vacations, long weekends, early Christmases (I celebrate Christmas with JR the week before Christmas Eve), longer school breaks when I moved to Boston…

…nope, at the end of every visit, the ButDidIDo’s pay me a visit. They nag at my self-assurance. They highlight whatever mistakes I think I’ve made (The time 19 years ago my son got sunburned on a beach trip lives on in infamy in my self-doubting subconscious).

I know the ButDidIDo’s are being ridiculous. I know I did all I could to make this a great vacay. I treasured every moment with my son. I spent as much time with him as he would let me. I respected his desire to be alone in his room when he asked. I even heard Leading Man #1 on the phone with his father telling him what a good time he was having once or twice.

C’mon, Cris. Have some self-confidence for frick’s sake!

I finish cleaning JR’s bedroom floor. I close the closet door and set the suitcase in its place in front of the doors. Next, I whip out my mighty self-confidence nerf sword, prepared to do battle with the ButDidIDo’s. I will vanquish them for good this time!

But first, I’ll check on Leading Man #1 in the library.

I pad down the hallway and look in the doorway. “Hey kiddo! How’s it–” I stop as I see my son, all lanky 6 feet of him, curled up asleep on the couch. Our dog, Ella, sleeps at his feet.

I should be over this too. Just before I return JR to his father, I feel one part of my heart start to tear away. It happens with the slow sound of Velcro halves being separated.

I know I’ll never get over it. I’ll never vanquish the ButDidIDos. I’ll never get over the feeling of loss I get when I have to return JR to his father.

It’s enough that JR is ready to go home to his Dad’s. It’s enough that he had a great time. My feelings don’t matter. His do.

That’s how it’s gotta be.

I tiptoe to my bedroom. I grab my book off the nightstand. Then, I settle into the recliner across from JR in the library. Ella looks at me and yawns. Rocky, our boxer, comes in. He looks at Ella on the couch. He considers jumping up to join her. He wisely decides not to rile his sister. Instead, he settles at my feet.

One more moment to make the absolute most of with my kid.

Plus a whole train ride tomorrow! Woohoo!

What do you do after you drop your kids off with your fearless co-parent? Tell us in the comments.

Posted in Autism, Motherhood

The Evil But Why’s???

Posted on by cmfalato

Raising a good autistic human takes a lot of patience … and clear boundaries

A Dammit Doll almost lost its life today when I lost my patience and yelled at my son.

Blame the But Whys.

“Mom, can I get the Nintendo Switch 2 for Christmas?”

“No.”

“But why?”

“We talked about this when the Switch 2 came out, Joseph. I told you that if you wanted it, you had to save your money and pay $200 of the cost yourself.”

“But why? It’s on my Christmas List.”

“Because that’s what we agreed to.”

“But why?“

“It’s expensive. Your dad and I can’t afford it this year.”

“But why? I want the less expensive one.”

“And you still have to save your $200 of your own money pay for part of it yourself.”

“But why?“

“Joseph. Patrick. R—. The III. I am tired of having this conversation. If you want the Switch 2, you have to save $200. That’s it. No further discussion.”

“But why?”

“Leading Man #1,” I begin…again…taking a deep breath and gathering what’s left of my quickly vanishing patience. “We’ve been talking about this since the Switch 2 launched in May. I’ve been very clear what you need to do: save $200. When you go to the ATM and withdraw your spending money each week, take out $10 less. That’s $XX instead of $XX.”

“But why?”

My patience breaks. “Because you’re 24, almost 25, and if you want things, you have to pay for them! Your dad and I didn’t ask Grandma R– and Grandma Miller for money when we were your age! We saved our own money and paid for them ourselves!

Asking me to pay the full cost of something you have to save for over and over again is NOT cool, J–. I love you nearly and dearly. You are the best and most important part of my life, but NOT cool!

Also, you know better! You know I won’t change the rules no matter how many times you ask me! You also know how to budget and save money!”

Yes, I’m a tough parent.

“But why?”

I reach for the Dammit Doll I haven’t needed in 6 months. There’s another one in my car for Connecticut traffic. I’m impressed that one still has its stuffing. ” JR, I love you, but I’m not having this discussion again. I’m hanging up the phone. I’ll call you back when I calm down.”

Before I get hit with another evil But Why, which might completely break my sanity, I hang up the phone.

It doesn’t help that, just before asking about the Switch 2, Kiddo told me he’d just spent the last of his spending money on pizza and video games.

I sit at my desk, the Dammit Doll in hand, clearly afraid it’s about to meet the same fate as its Subaru-residing sister. I set it down, rest my elbows on my desk, put my face in my hands, and groan.

“AAARRRGGGGHHHH!”

…and my phone rings. My “just-like-me-and-his-father-when-we-were-married” – think when thunder and the ocean collide, (Saves the Day, Rocks Juice Tonic) – son, calling to take up the fight again.

I feel horribly guilty, but I don’t answer the phone. I’m angry. I need a minute to calm down.

The Dammit Doll continues to look on in fear.

My husband comes upstairs. What was all the yelling about?

My son was badgering me about the Switch 2 again.

Didn’t already talk to him about that? Like, 1,000 times?

Yes. He’s being a belligerent pain in the arse.

Yes, autistic, intellectually or otherwise disabled people like my son can be belligerent, rude, and disrespectful. They throw temper tantrums – very different from meltdowns – when they don’t get their way. Autistic kids occasionally, knowingly, break rules.

I love my son. That means loving what’s good and bad about him, and accepting who he is, which, occasionally, is a real pain in my patoot.

I’m not talking about behaviors, tics, and quirks beyond an autistic person’s control. Meltdowns, social awkwardness, stimming, walking with your head down, lack of or mumbled speech, etc. are all acceptable.

Refusing to do something your mom has told you – repeatedly – you have to do and insisting she do it instead? NOT acceptable.

Autistic kids know their parents. Certainly, JR knows me. He knows exactly which buttons to push, and – typically. Today was REALLY an exception – WHEN to push them. Zoe and Sarai point out in the Guts podcast “Autism, Neurodiversity, and Belonging,” that autistic life is a resource hog. Autism takes a lot of time and mental energy. A lot of that energy goes into the careful observation and fine-tuning to the emotional air around us needed to survive in neurotypical society.

Both TheEx and TheCurrent (husband) know what will annoy, irritate, and generally set off my temper and how to do so. In the early days after our divorce, TheEx excelled at it. My son’s knowledge and ability in this regard trumps both husbands, combined.

I’m pretty amazed by that. I’ve been a non-custodial and/or long-distance parent for 20 years. I’m also constantly mistaking typical kid stuff for spectrum behaviors. It’s pretty easy to do, even if you’re a live-and-in-person (custodial) parent. I think it’s because I’ve seen JR excluded from, or unable to do, so many things. I’m so afraid of adding to that list, I overcompensate for what I think he’s missing out on. I dismiss rule-breaking. I chalk persistence and belligerence up to the autistic spectrum. That makes it okay, aka, un-punishable.

I used to tell myself I’d be a cruel – not compassionate, dedicated – parent if I disciplined JR.

Then I’d remind myself of the ultimate goal: raise a good human. Raising a good human, regardless of how they are neurologically wired, means establishing and enforcing boundaries and rules. Actually, rules and boundaries are more important for autistic kids than for their neurotypical counterparts. Rules provide structure, and routine, and a clear equation for what to do in social and other situations my autistic son – and my autistic self – find challenging:

If X happens, then do Y.

If X doesn’t happen, do Z.

If A says B, then you say C.

If A says C, then respond with D.

Slight oversimplification, but you get the idea.

I keep the rules simple:

Eat the lunch the group home staff packs for you. No throwing it out and buying lunch at the college cafeteria.

I set basic boundaries:

No calling me before 7:00 a.m. unless it’s an emergency.

I ask JR to set goals for himself – I set them for him when he was younger – and give him specific, step-by-step instructions for reaching them:

Save $200, or put $10 a week from your spending money into your savings account, and I’ll buy you the Switch 2.

I also establish consequences:

If you don’t save $200, I won’t buy you the Switch 2.

If you call me before 7:00 a.m. and it’s not an emergency, I won’t have time to talk to you.

You think a lifetime of this would vanquish the But Whys. You’d imagine after all these years of (mostly) disciplinary consistency, the evil But Whys would be extinct.

Nope. Those nasty things are alive and well. Based on that last conversation, they appear to be thriving.

JR calls again. The Dammit Doll’s yarn hair stands up on end. I sigh, take a deep breath, and prepare for the worst. I promise myself I’ll be patient this time.

Have you calmed down? My son asks in a solicitous voice.

Look, kiddo, I’m sorry I snapped at you. I should not have lost my temper. But these are the rules…

Says the woman who constantly crosses all the lines and breaks all the rules… (Brandi Carlile, The Story).

Apple. Tree.

The Dammit Doll survived…this time.

Cheers,

–C.

(Image generated by ChatGPT)

Posted in Autism, Learning Disabilities, Motherhood, Special Education

Navigating Parenthood with an Autistic Child

Posted on by cmfalato

Vaccines, Math, Ben Affleck, Acetaminophen, and Eye Rolls. Lots, and Lots of Eye Rolls.

I’m Mom to an autistic – now young adult and waaay too much like his parents for my comfort – individual. That means I’m occasionally asked what I think when a new TV show or movie depicting an autistic individual hits streaming, or new information about what causes autism hits the headlines. Some common questions I get asked are:

  • Do you think vaccines/gluten/mercury/pollution, etc. causes autism?
  • Would/did you vaccinate your son?
  • Is your son really good at math?
  • Does The Accountant, The Good Doctor, Rainman, etc. accurately describe autism?
  • Do you think such and such therapy helps autism?
  • What do you think about what so-and-so politician/public figure/celebrity just said about autism?

and, rounding out the list:

Do you think there is/want a cure for autism?

My answers are, in order:

  • I don’t know. I haven’t read up the subject in awhile.
  • Yes. I weighed the risks and the benefits, and, for me, personally, decided the risks were/are too great not to.
  • Eye roll, but yes.
  • Double eye roll.
  • I don’t know. Here’s what current science says.
  • I haven’t caught the headlines lately.
  • If I roll my eyes again, they’re going to get stuck.

Of course, these are my answers now, over 20 years after Leading Man #1 (as I call my son) was diagnosed. That’s one-third of my lifetime and four-fifths of his. I am well past the initial shock – yes, it is shocking – of diagnosis. High school, the toughest part of JR’s life on the spectrum – and mine. IEPs are soul-crushing – is behind us.

I get it, though. I really do.

Ok, not the math thing. Yes, my son is good at math, but, as I’m one-half of his parentage, arguably the half he inherited autism from – it has to be coincidental. Math and I are NOT friends.

When JR was first diagnosed, I replayed every moment of my pregnancy, childbirth, and his first four years, looking for answers.

  • Was it the peanut butter M&Ms I ate for lunch every day at work?
  • Did that glass of wine at dinner that one time have something to do with it?
  • Should JR have gotten the then new to the market Merck chicken pox vaccine?
  • Was it something I did, didn’t do, was, or wasn’t doing?

It didn’t matter how many times the current science (I spent many hours out on PubMed, in the local library, in my college library, and online researching autism, vaccines, etc.), a school social worker, my son’s neurologist, or his pediatrician – or anyone else for that matter – said “It wasn’t your fault. No one knows what causes this,” I still thought I, personally, had done something wrong.

…and yes, back then, I wanted a cure. I’m a mom. I was watching my child struggle. I was watching the polite but disinterested avoidance his neurotypical peers treated him with and his reaction, and I wanted answers and a cure.

When your kid is hurting, you just want to know why. You turn over every grain of sand on the beach. You think that if you know why, what the cause is, you can fix it for them. Right, wrong, scientifically refuted, doesn’t matter.

…and yes, even if you think you shouldn’t, you want a “cure.” A cure will take away your child’s pain. A cure, you think, will make their lives easier. Right, wrong, scientifically refuted, doesn’t matter.

I am standing right where you will be in 20 years, looking back, and telling you, even autistic, intellectually, or otherwise disabled kids grow up and succeed. Just like their neurotypical peers, though, what that success looks like is unique to them.

Eventually, you get too immersed in the day-to-day of raising a disabled kid, and fall too much in love with that child just as they are to care about those things. You set up your kid’s IEP, their care team of physicians, social workers, education professionals, neurologists, etc., and life becomes…routine, or at least as routine as you and your kid’s life is ever going to get. Nothing on the spectrum is routine. You learn to protect your child – as best you can – from the harsh words of others and the polite distance of their peers. Your kid grows, and succeeds, and moves forward.

No, really. They do. I am standing right where you will be in 20 years, looking back, and telling you, even autistic, intellectually, or otherwise disabled kids grow up and succeed. Just like their neurotypical peers, though, what that success looks like is unique to them. My son is graduating from one of the three college programs for autistic adults he was accepted to next year, after a well-meaning school social worker told me he wouldn’t go to college at all.

Still, there are bumps – sometimes large, New York City or Chicago style sinkholes, in the road…and when, inevitably, your child hurts or struggles, you come right back to that beach with a shovel and a pail – and maybe an electron microscope. JR is almost 25, fiercely self-sufficient and independent, living in a group home, and wrapping up his final year of college, and I STILL have those moments every time – as it inevitably does, life isn’t perfect – something goes awry:

  • What did I do wrong?
  • Is there a way to make this better?
  • What if we tried..x, y, z new therapy, treatment, etc.

Here’s the thing: raising a human is harder than what the guy with his finger on the big red “deploy nuclear bomb” button does. You make the best choices you can for your kids based on the information you have at the time. No one, not even another parent, can tell you how to raise your children, or what choices to make for them. I definitely won’t. I’m your advocate. I’m here to support you in the here and now.

I’ll even lend you my electron microscope…

Cheers,

Cris

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Despite My Lack Of Custody, I am Mom

Posted on by cmfalato

December 2014

I am a Mom.

I Think Like A Mom.  I checking the temperature and nagging my son to wear long sleeves when it’s going to be icy cold.  I follow up on homework assignments.

I Dress Like A Mom.  Nothing that requires dry cleaning.  I have a stack of tank tops with built in bras to go under my pajama tops.  My non-work socks are all holiday themed.

I Accessorize Like A Mom.  One True Hobbit Lego Ring adorns my Pandora bracelet.

I Worry Like A Mom.  Somewhere, at the back of my mind, 24/7/365 I am aware of my son’s general whereabouts and my mind is poised, ready for action in the event of a phone call.

I Talk Like A Mom.

Children are the common ground of adults.  Parents commiserate about their kids’ grades, silliness, the antics that drive us batty, teachers, and developmental stages. 

I do the same thing.  When I meet other adults, I talk about my son.  I talk about Leading Man #1’s progress in school, the latest school project, his highs and lows, the teacher homework website it took three adults (myself, TheEx and Stepmom) to decipher.  I’m pretty good at covering my tracks, but at some point in every conversation, the question comes up.  The evil innocent trick question that causes me to stammer and justify:

“Where is he?”

There is also the evil innocent trick question’s diabolical twist sister question:

“Where does he go to school?”

The designers on Project Runway complain about Heidi Klum’s little “twists.”  Let them design an answer to these two. 

The parent who asks doesn’t know these questions are evil innocent or diabolical twists.  Said parent assumes the answer is a) off at some event or with the non-residential custodial father. and b) some local private or public school in sunny – ice cold right now – central Massachusetts. 

As a non-custodial Mom, I’d rather have Tim Gunn breathing down my neck and a naked model about to be subjected to Michael Kors’s scrutiny on the runway.  I’m always afraid when the often happily married custodial parent I’m speaking to finds out I’m NCM, they are going to assume I’m more than a caffeine addict and workaholic: they’re going to assume I’m some psycho and I had custody ripped away from me.

I don’t want that.  Hence the stammer stammer justify.

The stammer stammer justify goes something like this:

Stammer, mumble, stammer some more, and in between mumbling and stammering, an inaudible justification of why my child lives with someone else.  The conversation usually goes like this:

“He’s autistic spectrum so he goes to school in X, and lives with his dad, but the school is great and I’m really involved in…”

Yes, I know I do this.  I’m not being fake.  I’m not lying.  I just know that while 99% of the parents who ask the question will accept my answer and move on, one in 100 will either be appalled that I didn’t fight harder, or their face will tear up as they try, and fail, to picture being without their kids for more than a couple days. It’s that parent I stammer to avoid.

There’s no way to escape that one parent.  They’re going to ask.  You’re going to answer.  They’re reaction is going to stick with you for a long time.  I do have three tactics for minimizing it, both with the one parent in 100 and just to reassure myself.  If you’re a NCM stuck facing down parent one in 100, feel free to blatantly steal them.

I Focus on Connection, Not Custody. 

I tell people I’m non-residential custodian and then I continue talking about my son like he’s a part of my everyday life, because, well, he is. He gets annoyed with me on a regular basis for making him set down his video games to answer the phone.  He’s on video chat. I have to nag him about wearing warm clothes and the science project he completed that I got a picture of but my ex did not.  The custody issue fades to the background and I become just your boring, every day parent again.  J. also has his own album in my smartphone.  When I talk about him to other people, I pull out photos to show them. 

The Necklace. 

I always wear a necklace with a heart my son gave me for Christmas around my neck.  If the subject of kids comes up, I capitalize on the fact that my being non-residential custodian allows me to work long hours.  I don’t have to take off for snow day, early dismissals and late openings.  I keep pictures of my son on my desk.  3, to be exact: 1 of which is a picture of the 2 of us.

Incidentally, I take photos of just the pictures on my desk and occasionally Skype them to my son so he has tangible proof of how he is always on my mind. 

Staying True To Myself. 

I always acknowledge the situation sucks, and I hate it.  I admit to hating to have to explain it, too.  I tell people why I hate having to explain it.  Autism was my enemy and I made a hard choice that has had me sleeping curled around a ratty stuffed frog for seven years. 

Could we steer the conversation to how devastated I was when I realized Tim Gunn wasn’t straight?

At least we’ll always have Hugh Jackman…

—CMR

Posted in Autism, Learning Disabilities, Motherhood

Learning – Very Reluctantly – to Let Go

Posted on by cmfalato

Even autistic kids grow up and demand their independence

It’s a bright, sunny Saturday afternoon and I am sitting in a parking space immediately outside the front doors of a Wawa – the New Jersey equivalent of a gas station convenience store. While I was filling my gas tank my 22 year old autistic and intellectually disabled son, JR, headed into the store to get snacks and a soda. 

That was exactly 7 minutes ago. I paid the gas attendant (it’s illegal to pump your own gas in New Jersey for some reason) and pulled into a parking spot to wait for JR to emerge from the store 2 minutes ago. Right now I am sitting behind my car’s steering wheel, trying NOT to give in to the urge to go in and check on him. 

It isn’t easy. As the seconds tick by I keep thinking of what could be happening inside the convenience store. Suppose he couldn’t find the soda he wanted, asked for help, and the store clerk couldn’t understand him. What if he starts to have a meltdown? Will the cashier give him the right change? Will he remember to count his change? Suppose someone tries to steal JR’s wallet?

I grip the steering wheel tightly, crane my neck to see through the glass doors inside the store, and take a deep breath. “No,” I remind myself. “Not even on the pretext of getting yourself a cup of coffee.”

I sit back in my seat, take another deep breath, and grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. 

I wonder how many times I’ll put myself through this before JR going into a store becomes old hat to me. Before I stop worrying the worst will happen if I’m not there to protect him. 

Probably never. My dad once said that you don’t worry less as your kids get older, the worries just get bigger. You go from worrying they’re going to scrape their knee in on the playground to fearing they’re going to crash the car driving home from the mall. 

I’m mom to an autistic person. I’ve gone from fear of scraped knees to fear of JR handing a convenience store cashier too much money and not counting his change.

The fact is, children grow up and independent of their moms (and dads). All children. Even autistic kids. From the moment they exit our wombs, our children take baby steps away from us. Autistic kids may do it a bit slower than their counterparts. However, the result is the same. That baby boy you could scoop up with one arm and perch on your hip is suddenly a grown man who towers over you.

The difference is autistic adults still need protecting from the outside world.

Well, some do. If you’ve met one autistic person, congratulations, you’ve met one autistic person.

JR still needs protecting, but he also needs his independence. Like every other young adult, he needs to do things for himself; learn from his mistakes. I need to let him do that.

I also need to prepare him for the inevitable time when I won’t be here to protect him. My son needs to be able to protect himself to some degree.

So I force myself to stay put behind the steering wheel.

 Less than a minute later, my son ambles out of Wawa. It’s 8 minutes after I pulled up to the gas pump. A red, reusable shopping bag is swinging from his left hand. In his other hand, he holds a cardboard cup holder with a soda and an iced coffee.

“Hey Mom! I got you a coffee.”

The breath I didn’t know I was holding lets go and my whole body relaxes. My son slides into the passenger seat of the car. He fastens his seatbelt, completely unaware – I hope – that I was even worried.

Of course JR was okay. More than. I shouldn’t have worried.

I will – I always will – anyway.

Posted in Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Parent of secondary residence

Posted on by cmfalato

Non-custodial parenting: Expectation vs. Reality

Technically, I am not – was not, custody ended 5 years ago when Joey turned 18 – non-residential custodian. My custody agreement says I am “parent of secondary residence.”

Same difference. New Jersey legalese says po-tay-to, the rest of the world says po-tah-to.

It’s New Jersey. Fuhgeddaboudit! Whaddaya want?

Just don’t refer to pork roll as Taylor Ham north of Newark and you’re golden.

No, seriously about the Taylor Ham thing.

Parent of secondary residence, non-custodial parent, non-residential custodian. It all comes down to the same thing: my kid doesn’t live with me.

No big deal, society has accepted weekend dads.

Yep, that’s where it gets dicey. Society has not accepted weekend moms.

Non-custodial, parent of secondary residence, non-residential moms haven’t accepted that about themselves.

Or, at least, I didn’t.

I divorced my husband; gave up residential custody, but somehow forgot that meant I was no longer part of Joey’s day-to-day life.

Maybe it was that long-delayed “childbirth amnesia” finally kicking in, because let me tell you, when a 9 pounds, 9 ounces and 23 inches newborn exits your body through a tube less than 1/2 inch in diameter, you remember.

Or you do until you come home to an empty apartment after working late because you don’t want to face not being able to tuck that now 4 year old into bed and tell him a story.

That pain, initially, is worse. Much, much worse.

There are just some losses you don’t ever get over. You just force yourself to live around them.

If I stop to think about how much my not being there every day hurt Joey, I won’t be able to keep writing. I’ll lose myself in the guilt a mother never gets over: the kind that comes when your child gets hurt because of something you did. Like when you forget to reapply sunscreen at the pool and they get a sunburn, or when you have to work so they miss a birthday party.

Except for non-custodial moms, it’s worse.

I once read a book for non-custodial moms that told me I should let go of my guilt and embrace my life as a “big hearted mother living apart from her child.”

I can understand spoken Russian better than I can comprehend that statement.

_____________________

“Coming to bed, dear?” my husband calls from down the hall. Then, “By the way, I think some of the clothes you put in my clean laundry pile actually belong to Joey.”

“I’m coming to bed in a moment,” I reply, followed by “And that doesn’t surprise me.”

The part about coming to bed in a moment is a lie. I’ve got at least another half hour on this chapter.

The part about my son’s clothing mixed in with my husband’s isn’t.

I am surprised that my son’s laundry has gone through the wash already. It’s only been a week and a half since he went back home to college. Did I really clean his room so quickly?

______________________

When I decided Joey would live with his dad full-time, it did not occur to me that I wouldn’t be able to see him every day. Joey would just be spending every night at his dad’s, except for the 2 Friday and Saturday nights a month he would spend with me.

Other than that, nothing would change. I would continue to be a part of Joey’s every day life, the same way I always had been.

I didn’t think I wouldn’t be there to tuck him in at night. I only lived 2 miles away. My now ex-husband wouldn’t mind my coming by his house every night.

I wouldn’t mind going over to his house – my old house – every day!

I would also take care of Joey when he was home from school, and pick him up at after-care. Joey would be with me any time his father needed a babysitter.

I am Joey’s mother. Of course that’s how it would go!

Or, maybe reading Frank Herbert’s Dune series during my pregnancy postponed my post-partum Mommy Brain Fog for four years.

Yes. I wanted to see my son.

I did not want to see my old house or my old husband every day.

Yes, said old husband wanted his son to spend time with his mother.

He did not want to see said mother, aka his newly minted ex-wife, every day.

Also, living separate and apart – more New Jersey divorce legalese – means, well, you don’t live together.

You kinda have to live with your kid to be a part of his every day life.

…until he turns 18, graduates high school, moves in with roommates, goes off to college…suddenly he’s the same age his dad was when you met and he’s calling you up because he left his iPad in his bedroom in Boston…

True story.

Posted in Long Distance Parenting, Motherhood, Non Custodial Mom, Non Custodial Parent, Non-Custodial Dad

Define Mess, Exactly

Posted on by cmfalato

You do what’s best for your kids, even when it hurts

When I say my life was a mess 20 years ago, or a disaster, because it was in my eyes, I mean I was completely disorganized, stressed out, and unmoored. I had planned this … life; this Disney fairytale where TheEx and I had 3 kids, lived in our cozy little Zaymoor Colonial in Bergen County, worked, and had big family gatherings for holidays.

I had been forced to admit that life wasn’t going to work out. Even though I was the one leaving, I still felt heartbroken. I felt shattered, and the fact that I hadn’t planned where I would be going to after I left meant I had no way of even starting to pick up the pieces.

Also, I didn’t have a job, which, for me, is a disaster. Even before I became a non-custodial mom, I defined myself in part by my career. I had quit my old job as a proposal writer in New York City on the (bad) advice of my lawyer, who advised if I was working outside the home, I could lose even joint custody.

Yeah…not smart. A job would have been an anchor point.

So, yeah, back then my life – new apartment with windows I learned after I signed the lease didn’t lock, noisy neighbors living next door, no job, hastily packed boxes of my old life and random bits of new Ikea furniture scattered about – was a disaster.

TheEx, on the other hand, had a job, making more money than I ever could as a writer, had the house because I couldn’t afford to buy him out of it, and was heartbroken, but also angry.

…and he could afford a better lawyer, and a custody battle.

We were in our old bedroom on a Wednesday, 1 month after I filed for divorce. I was packing up my clothes while we discussed the financial settlement, how we would break up holidays so Joey could see both of us at Christmas, whose CDs were whose, who wanted the wedding china; who would take the stoneware vs. the Correlleware –

–the stuff you hate to need to figure out when you end a marriage —

…when the subject of custody came up. We had been trying split-week custody for the last month. Joey would live with me Sunday afternoon to Wednesday afternoon, and with his Dad Wednesday night to Sunday morning.

“You take residential custody,” I said quietly, staring down at my hands folding a blouse, feeling my heart start to fall to the pit of my stomach as my entire body tensed up, like it was being asked to do something it was incapable of doing, had no choice but to do.

“Why the change?” my (still then future ex) husband asked.

___________________________

That afternoon, before I drove him to his Dad’s, Joey was riding his red and blue big wheel in the back driveway of my apartment while I hung laundry on the line.

“Mommy!” Joey called just as I was fastening a sheet to the line.

I rushed over to my 4 year old son to find he’d had an accident. The 2nd one that week, and the 5th that month on my watch, despite his having been potty trained since 3, and my asking him every hour if he needed to go to the bathroom.

The look in my son’s eyes showed how stressed he was.

I scooped my son up onto my hip, soaked shorts and all and smiled at him. “I’ve got you. Ready to clean up and head over to Daddy’s?”

Joey nodded.

“Do you want to live with Daddy all the time and I’ll come see you every day?”

Joey looked down, frowned, and then slowly nodded.

I smiled, hugged him tightly, and carried him into the bathroom. “Then that’s what you’ll do. You live with Daddy. I’ll come see you every day, and you can sleep over every other weekend. How does that sound?”

My son stopped tugging off his wet clothes, visibly relaxed, and smiled. “Can we watch Star Wars?”

“Of course, honey.” I ran the bath water, squirted in some Mr. Bubbles, tested the water to make ure it wasn’t too hot or too cold, and plunked him down in the tub.

__________________________

I remember that day; that moment with the yellow sun streaming, Joey riding his blue Big Wheel with the big red tire, the clothespin in my hand. I remember hearing his call, seeing what happened, and knowing.

You do what’s best for your kids, even when it kills you, and kids know. Kids know when something isn’t right. They know where they belong. They let you know what’s best for them.

In this case, best for both of us as it turned out, but it took me a long time to learn that.

___________________________

My phone beeps. It’s my ex, texting me a picture of Joey holding up his new video game.

I smile. Back to the t-shirt.

To be continued…