Every morning when I drop my son, Austin, off at school, I can always count on being greeted by the same two faces. Day in and day out, rain, snow, sleet or shine, they are there, waiting for our arrival. They are older and a little weathered now but still stand tall with strong backbones. Their names are Bruce and Betty, and I can always count on them to be sitting with anticipation.

Well, Bruce and Betty is what I have named them. In fact, they are not human — but they do have faces. You see, Bruce and Betty are large brown dumpsters.


They are behemoths with their mouths open wide, waiting for whatever crap is coming their way for the day. It doesn’t matter how bad their previous day was, the sly grin on their faces is always the same, welcoming us to their courtyard. They stand there, stately, holding predominate positions at the back of the school near the cafeteria. On warm days, their fragrance is intoxicating, presenting to your nostrils what remained of yesterday’s cafeteria gourmet fare.

Most parents never get to meet Bruce and Betty. In fact, they probably don’t even know they exist. You see, most parents never come around to the back of the school. When they arrive to drop off or pick up their students, they arrive at the front of the school where the flag is located, waving as a banner of identity for all those who enter through the front gate.

Not us. Special needs parents like us, have to drive around to our designated area, which is at the back of the school. For us, our gate of entry is directly between Bruce and Betty, where they stand like sentinels guarding a secret passage. Our children must begin and end their school day between Bruce and Betty, between the dumpsters.

To me, Bruce and Betty are symbolic. They represent all of the dreams we had for our children before they were born that have shifted due to their disabilities. They represent what some perceive to be our place in society, relegated to entering through the back door, away from the “normal” people. They also represent the feelings of hope that sometimes elude parents of children with special needs.

Yes, sitting at the back of the school between Bruce and Betty can be heartbreaking. Some days it’s no big deal — I see Bruce and Betty as just two objects standing in their assigned positions. Other days, they serve as a reminder of what has been lost.

But I am also thankful. I am thankful for those who are willing to stand between the dumpsters with us — teachers, teacher assistants, aids and therapists — all choosing a career in which walking between Betty and Bruce are twice daily activities. I am also thankful for administrators and principles who work with parents like us to find ways to make attending school easier for our children. If entering through the gate of Bruce and Betty is the best way for my son to get in and out of his school, then that is what we are going to do.

I want to say thank you to everyone who have had a positive impact on my son’s life. You volunteer for jobs that many pass over so that you can make a difference in the lives of special children. You work out ways to reduce stress levels associated with attending school. Not only are you making a difference in children’s lives, you are making a difference in the lives of their parents as well.

And to you, Bruce and Betty, thank you for standing guard over our children. We will see you again next week.

(P.S. – You need a shower! You stink.)

This post originally appeared on Eric Parker Blog.

The Mighty is asking its readers the following: Describe the moment someone changed the way you think about disability and/or disease. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please  include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio.

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After doing quite a bit of reflecting over the past couple of weeks, I have decided to ignite a challenge.

The first bit of reflecting came from my most publicized blog post, “#42 – The Trouble With Peers.” It was reposted on The Mighty, Autism Speaks and Godvine. I stopped counting this week when I realized it had more than 20,000 hits. I was amazed — I knew it was a great story, but it was incredible how many people contacted me and said,

“That is my child.”

“That was me.”

“That is my grandchild.”

Or some other version of that sentence. You know what? It made me sad. It made me sad that there are so many people in our world that feel or have felt that they are not part of a group. For the record, you can all be in my group.

My second piece of reflecting came this week. I stood up to some folks and brought an inequality to light. I was amazed at how many people contacted me and said,

“That is also my child. Thank you for saying something, even if it doesn’t make a difference.”

One woman contacted me and said, “It’s a big machine, and you have more supporters than you think. Everyone is afraid standing up against it will have adverse effects on their kids. That’s why they stay quiet. I would love to see someone do something about it, and I guarantee a lot of people will come out to support them.”

What? Since when did we become afraid of standing up to a person or small group of people who impose inequality on other people? When did we become so apathetic that we are not willing to stand up to one person? One.

I also have a teaching blog that is on hiatus now (seriously, who would have time to write two blogs?). All of this reminded me of a blog I wrote a couple of years ago and for the third time, I reflected. I asked my students to write a personal essay. In that essay, nearly all admitted that they were “nerdy” or “weird.” It struck me as funny, because I didn’t think any of them were nerdy or weird.

I reassured them that it’s OK for them to be who they are. They looked at each other as I told them that they collectively held many of the same fears. They smiled at each other. I asked them to tell me about why they felt afraid to share their true, authentic selves. They opened up. It was one of those moments as a teacher when you realize what you were going to teach is not nearly as important as what you are about to teach.

Nearly all of them expressed their relief at attending college. They finally felt comfortable being who they “really are.” I asked what had stopped them before. For a minute, none of them really had an answer. Then, one student piped up. “Although I don’t really know, I know I didn’t want to be made fun of. So I just did what the people who made fun of people expected me to do. I became who they wanted me to be. But the whole time I was really miserable.”

I responded, “OK. So, these ‘bullies,’ tell me — how many were there? How many of the students dictated who it was OK to be?”

“I don’t know… two, maybe three.”

‘How many students were in your class?”


“So, let me get this straight — 82 of you pretended to be something you weren’t just to please three of your peers?”

They nodded. Let me tell you, all of them nodded. It opened the floodgate. It opened the gate to talk about mean people. Why is it that mean people win? I’m so sad when I can’t answer my students’ questions. This became one of those moments where you have to talk about grace, forgiveness, kindness and compassion. It’s the same discussion I have with my 10-year-old and 12-year-old. It’s the same discussion I have with my husband about the meanness we encounter as adults.

I have no time for it, and I certainly don’t waste much of my positive life and energy focused on those who choose to be mean. I told my students, “Don’t hold on to hate. Allow yourself to forgive. Never allow your words to be full of vitriol. Think about your own suffering when people are hateful toward you — don’t put it out there in the universe. You get what you give. Give hate and anger and you will be more likely to receive hate and anger. Give love forgiveness, kindness and compassion and you will receive love, forgiveness, kindness and compassion.

Then this morning during worship, I knew what I had to write about. Nets. The casting of nets to gather others. For the fourth time in the past week, I was thrown into a deep reflection. The net metaphor is used often in describing the gathering of something.

So this week, I challenge you to throw out your net.

Your net of love.

Your net of forgiveness.

Your net of kindness.

Your net of compassion.

What if the 20,000 people who read that blog post threw out their nets?

What a difference we could make.

This post originally appeared on 366 Days of Autism. Read more 366 Days of Autism posts on Facebook.

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When I was young I knew I wanted to be a reporter. I believed in the tenet of giving voice to the voiceless and I wanted to hold leaders and institutions accountable.

Now as a mother, and one to a special needs child, giving voice holds an entirely different meaning. At age 3, my curious, persistent and excitable little boy was diagnosed (separately) with autism spectrum disorder and selective mutism, a severe form of social anxiety that makes him afraid to talk in certain situations.

Over the last year, I have spent countless hours trying to determine which disorder is fueling his communication problems because the symptoms can mimic each other. But, after months of torturing my mind, I am deciding that’s not helpful anymore.

The truth is he probably has both.

I didn’t want to be a part of these clubs. I didn’t want to be around these different and sometimes sad people. When we sat in the developmental pediatrician’s office at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and heard the “A” word, my heart sank. More than that, the anger bubbled up inside of me and I just wanted to prove the expert wrong. But once you finally accept it, no matter how long it takes, I can tell you these aren’t such bad clubs to belong to.

Some of the people you come in contact with, the therapists, coaches, parents, and most likely, the kids, are amazing. These people are the ones who truly understand what a big deal it is when your child says “hello” to another child, when he zippers his own coat and when he asks for something he needs.

Photo courtesy of photographer Jennifer Stone Rypel

I will always wonder, was it the renovations we were doing while I was pregnant? Did I not eat well enough? Or was it because I broke down and took cold medicine once, maybe twice?

There is the constant questioning.

Do other 4-years-olds have a fascination with plumbing or watching the microwave clock count? Do they wait until automatic doors close completely so they can push the button themselves before walking in? Do they melt down when you make a right at a red light because you are supposed to stop at red lights? Are other kids lashing out at their siblings like mine does?

Then there is everyone else’s voice: He is just shy. He will grow out of it. There is nothing wrong with him.  You just weren’t hard enough on him. Every child moves at his own pace.

Some days are absurd. You call your husband and tell him to come home because you can’t do this anymore. You love your dog more now than ever before, even though you forget to feed her, because the dog may be the only one bearing witness to this crazy life. Some days the sadness seeps in like rain.

Your heart breaks a little each day. When you’re watching other kids hold hands and talk effortlessly with one another. When your child gets bullied and doesn’t stand up for himself. When his brother wants to cuddle with him and he wants nothing to do with it. When you feel the stress on your marriage. Whether you want to admit it or not.

Some days are amazing. I have to tell my son to use his inside voice because he is talking so much, though few would believe it because they don’t see what he’s like at home. And out of the fog, his own voice emerges: “My tongue doesn’t like this kind of milk. Can you read those words, please? I need you to listen to me.”

Then there is the good kind of wondering. What will give him voice? Music? Swimming? Art? Look at how far he’s come from a year ago.

Despite my choice of profession, or any swagger I have conjured in my life, I have never loved confrontation. But there is nothing like having a special needs child that makes you stand up and ask for what you want.

You will learn to say, even to family, “This doesn’t work for us.” You won’t hesitate to ask, “How do we make this better?” You won’t be embarrassed when people get impatient with you and your tantruming child for taking up too much of the sidewalk or taking too long to get out of a parking spot.

When others are going through this, you will be useful in ways you could never imagine. You will share your own gratefulness for those who have walked this path before you.

Most importantly, you will never give up.

You may get tired. You may need a break. But you never give up on your child and your family. Just like your child, you will be brave. And you may learn more than you teach.

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Before we become parents, we already have expectations about our children’s lives. For most of us, they are unintentional, but they are there and come from, I believe, our own life experiences.

I didn’t recognize this in myself until I had my first child. I didn’t consciously pre-plan his life, I just figured he’d follow a similar path to mine or my husband’s. Both of us were honor roll students, participated in school and community activities, socialized with our peers and took on leadership roles when given the opportunity.

Jonathan was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome and though extremely bright, he struggled with schoolwork, and conventional teaching methods were not effective for his style of learning. He loved structure, rules and clear, concise directions but not in the confines of a traditional learning environment. His mind was rich with creativity and he adored imaginary play but preferred it as a solitary activity over interacting with other children.

It became very clear he was never going to follow in our footsteps. There wasn’t much written or known about Asperger’s when he was growing up, so we had to rely on our instincts and focusing in on what would be best for him when it came to making decisions about recommended therapies and educational interventions.

But first and foremost, we had to give up our expectations… to free him from feeling as though he was “less-than” because he couldn’t be who he thought we wanted him to be. It was so liberating to let go and not worry so much about his future life but stay focused on the here and now. So, for example, college was out of the question unless we found the right school and teaching methods to tap into his brilliance. It wasn’t easy, but we did it, and he did go to college. And his college experience was not typical either… yet he graduated with honors.

As his mother, I know I’m important to him and he loves me. I don’t “expect” him to remember my birthday, ask me about what I’m interested in, sing my praises, or think of me at all really. The Asperger mind is extremely busy and too hyper-focused to think of such social “trivialities,” so I’m not offended or hurt nor do I play the martyr over his unintended neglect. When he does notice me, or he says, “Hey, Mom, you look nice,” I’m overwhelmed with emotion and gratitude.

What most see as “small” victories, we consider big celebration time in our family. Molly will run down the stairs to exclaim that her brother immediately responded to her text! I’ll do a happy dance when I call to remind him of an important to-do, only to be told, “I already did it.” We marvel at his ability to remember every single detail in a book he’s read or a movie he’s seen… even if that was years ago.

No, we don’t spend time thinking about what could have been because that doesn’t really exist. Those thoughts come from a place of expectations. We choose to feel the joy in the unexpected, the glory in the seemingly mundane moments, and an appreciation for our son’s unique talents and capabilities even though they are so very different from ours.

Yes, my son taught me the blessings of no expectations… and to delight, cherish and celebrate the journey of our lives.

This post originally appeared on Geek Club Books.

The Mighty is asking its readers the following: Describe the moment someone changed the way you think about disability and/or disease. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please  include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio.

Want to end the stigma around disability? Like us on Facebook.

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Mark Gasol, an NBA player, was on his way to the locker room after a game when someone in the crowd caught his eye.

The center for the Memphis Grizzlies recognized a boy with special needs in the audience and took a moment to say hello, The Daily Mail reported. Gasol talked with the boy for a moment before giving him a high-five, which resulted in one of the most adorable moments of all time. The young fan squeezed his Grizzlies T-shirt to his chest, beaming as Gasol walked away.

The boy is a well-known fan amongst the Grizzlies. Last year, Zach Randolph, another player on the team, spent a moment with him on the sidelines after the he tried to get Randolph’s attention. Randolph gave the fan his warm-up shirt.

Watch the entire encounter in the video below, but keep an eye out for an especially sweet moment at 0:13.

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This is the story of my husband, Harvey Dawkins. Harvey was born with cerebral palsy, but his mom never saw him as being disabled, so around the age of 3, she did what most parents of able-bodied children do: she bought him a tricycle.

This is where Harvey’s story really begins. He soon discovered that it was far easier for him to ride then walk. It was then that a bike became a lifelong part of Harvey’s world.

When he was a teenager, he decided one day to “run away,” so he got on his bike and rode from Bensalem to South Philadelphia, which was about a 60-mile ride. It was then that his love of long-distance or endurance riding came to be.

When he got older, he found that he could combine his love of cycling with his desire to help others.

His first opportunity came with a charity ride to raise money for a paraplegic young man. After that event, friends and coworkers persuaded him to do the MS 150 City to Shore ride in honor of a coworker with multiple sclerosis.

Since that time, Harvey has competed in nine of those rides, as well as adding MS rides in five other states. It is his goal to ride in the MS 150 rides in all 50 states. In addition to doing his charity rides, he has also taken up triathlons, which consists of swimming 400 yrds, biking 16 miles, and doing a 5K run.

I’m amazed at the amount of people who underestimate him solely based on the way he walks. I love when a group of cyclists who don’t know him kind of mock what he might be able to do on a bike, that only lasts until they see him ride. Harvey is a truly amazing individual with a huge heart.

The Mighty is asking its readers the following: Describe the moment someone changed the way you think about disability and/or disease. If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please  include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio.

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