Münchausen, anyone?

Yesterday morning I was told something most any parent would dread hearing ("most" being a scientific number that could be determined through accepted polling measures, although I can't imagine who would conduct such a poll).

Your daughter exhibits signs of mild to moderate autism spectrum disorder.

I wanted to cry out, "Hallelujah!"  Seriously.  I had to stop myself from fist pumping the air and cheering.  Finally!  An important person with a title, several acronyms after his name, multiple degrees from prestigious universities on his office walls, and a 20+ page report of testing results in his hand, gave me the confirmation and validation I had been seeking for over two years.  

Two years, people! I felt like I could finally sleep peacefully.  What?  Is 9:40 am not an acceptable and appropriate nap time?  Maybe about as appropriate and acceptable as responding with, "Hell yes!" when told your child most likely has Asperger's?

Why on earth would any non-insane, non-Münchausen by proxy mother WANT her child to be diagnosed anywhere on the autism spectrum?  I'm so glad you asked.  

My crow is in first grade.  Shortly after starting pre-K, she began changing.  Regressing.  She began flapping her arms, having difficulty forming and completing sentences, having difficulty socializing with peers, just to name a few symptoms.  She also clearly had ADHD.  Once her learning began to regress, I finally found the courage to have her tested.  Unsurprisingly, she was given a provisional diagnosis of ADHD (provisional because she was four years old).  With not nearly as much trepidation as I would have preferred to have, we began a medication regimen.  

A year and several horrible trials later, we found a medication that helped her ADHD enough for her to function at school.  And by function, I mean, when she was unmedicated, my darling crow would act like a dog or a cat at school, depending on her whim.  As in barking or meowing, crawling, wagging her tail, licking people, and picking her pencil up in her mouth. God bless her pediatrician.  She has been wonderful, even after experiencing Kitty Crow in her exam room. She has gone so far as to give me her personal cell phone number after making a med change on a Friday afternoon, so that I could call her if there were any serious issues.  While she was going to be in Utah skiing with her family.  Love her!

Moving along...the medication helped the ADHD, but not the OCD, the nervous tics, the inability to make eye contact, the continually regressing social skills, the anxiety and depression, and all the other things that are Just. Not. Normal.

Kindergarten was torture, for both of us.  At the start of this summer, I took my crow to an autism screening.  The team did an at-risk assessment with her.  I gave her her ADHD medication prior to the screening because, well, she needs it immediately when she wakes up in the morning.  She scored 13 out of 15 points, so they ruled her as not at risk.  Oh sure.  Do they live with her? 

Finally, I did what I knew needed to be done and begged to have another full psychological evaluation performed.  I called her lovely kindergarten teacher, during her summer break, and asked her to pretty please complete three really long and tedious evaluation forms on her own time to give to the psychologist.  I aired all the dirty laundry I could think of during the pre-assessment appointment, making sure to paint as bleak (and yet, completely truthful) a picture as possible.  All, I assure you, in the name of finally getting some answers.

And now I have the answer I've known all along.  Little crow is somewhere on the autism spectrum.  No duh.  

Now what?

on Fat

I am fat. Now, don't get your panties in a bunch. I really am fat, obese, even morbidly obese according to “the charts.” I'm not bedridden, immobile, or even outwardly disgusting (at least not that anyone has admitted to me). But I am ridiculously overweight, thanks completely to my own choices and admitted laziness. 

I am also 40. My perspective on turning 40 was a positive one. I was ready for it. My childhood was miserable, my teenage years painful, my 20's a haze, and my 30's.....so glad they are over. I am ready for 40. 40 and fabulous! (So clichéd, I know. But maybe a cliché or two would be good for me. So far, life without clichés hasn't been stellar.) I even scored the fabulous new job two weeks before my birthday. I am taking this “I am 40; hear me roar” theme to the hilt. Except for one thing (well two, but I'd rather deal with my fat than my dirty house at this moment). I am still fat.

I've been asking myself what it would take to finally, finally motivate me to get off my fluffy duff and do something about my weight. I still don't really have that answer. I've been slapped in the face with many things that I thought surely would do it, such as not being able to tie my shoes without unzipping my jeans, not being able to run more than 30 yards without hyperventilating, not really being able to be hugged by my daughter except around my neck. None of those have lasted longer than the thought cloud in which they floated. 

Cue the Imagine Dragons anthem of 2013.....”It's Time.” (Don't sing the part about getting bigger. That deflates the momentum I'm building here.)

And yet....it's time to begin. It just is. No, I'm not going to wax Nike at you. I've just decided. That's it. No bang. But I'm not whimpering either. I'm just ready. Now you need to get ready. Because you're going to hear all about it. Fair warning.

*Please let this be my first and last disclaimer. My blog and my thoughts are all about me. I am one person. I do not represent world views nor anyone other than myself. Please do not take my comments about my personal obesity to be an opinion, view, or reflection on anyone else's weight or any group of people, skinny, medium, large, or plus-size. I am only talking about me. And sometimes her. And many of our feathers.