Alison Merritt

They all ask me “How is she?” “Is she better?” “Is she healthy?” I tilt my head, look at them, and I smile. She is in remission. At this moment in time, the seriousness and intensity of her disease and pain has diminished. My mother has temporarily recovered from multiple myeloma. Multiple myeloma is when cancerous plasma cells accumulate in the bone marrow and crowd out the healthy blood cells. This can cause weakening and breaking of bones. My mother was diagnosed after she drove herself to the emergency room with back pain. The cancer had eaten through her spine. After countless rounds of chemotherapy, medications and a stem cell transplant, she is in remission. Her blood work is normal and her chemotherapy has been cut down to twice a month. Although multiple myeloma is treatable, it is not curable. We know that there are cancer cells lurking in her body, but for now they lay dormant. Remission is not exactly the loud, wild and carefree celebration I imagined. My mother has not bounced back; things are not back to normal. She spent her life working, multitasking and managing it all and now she stays home. She would love to travel, but all the medicine she is on does not make it easy nor spontaneous. She wants to scoop up and run after her grandchildren, but she is still too weak. She used to have energy late into the evening, now she barely sees the sunset before she is in bed. She used to lay in the sun, now the heat makes her sick. Her memory is stunted, her concentration causes her to struggle. The music is not blaring and we are not dancing. Remission is a small, intimate gathering. It is a quiet, calm and thoughtful celebration.  She is able to hug her grandchildren without the fear of germs. She is able to enjoy a visit out of the house with friends. She can stand long enough to cook her mother’s beloved recipe and share it with her family. She is able to watch her grandchildren’s sports and cheer them on in real life. She is able to come to birthday parties and enjoy a piece of cake. We all were able to surround her on her 60th birthday as she blew those candles out, symbolic of another year around the sun. Although the party wasn’t raging and we all did not lose ourselves in the celebration, the moment I witnessed as my mother turned another year older was the most profound celebration I can imagine. The celebration of something not promised feels so much sweeter. Remission may not be exactly what we expected, but we would certainly like to stay for a while.

I remember being 7 years old and telling my mother that I hated my teacher. Standing outside the linen closet with my bare feet on our carpeted floor, my mother explained that I did not really “hate” my teacher; I just disliked her. My teacher was a person and she did not deserve my hate. My mother was the most influential and important voice in my short life, so I agreed. My mother had no room in her heart for hate: she taught me love. 30 years later, I have found that I have never been a hateful person. Instead, I strive to remain positive. I learned from the best, and my mother was an example of gratitude and optimism. My mother insisted she was “rich” her whole life, although working class would probably be more accurate. She said she never minded growing old, as many were not afforded the privilege. I cannot count how many times she stopped what she was doing to set an extra spot at the dinner table, to fix the guest bed and to give what she had to anyone who was in need. We had a full life, with room for only love. Then cancer invaded my mother, not only once, but twice, by the time my mother turned 58. The first time my mother went for her routine mammogram and later was diagnosed with breast cancer. The second time, she left work and got herself to the emergency room with back pain. She left the hospital with a broken rib, a broken back and the knowledge that her plasma cells had turned cancerous and had ravaged her body, eating through her bones: it was called multiple myeloma. I have spent my life politely disliking a lot of things, and perhaps I have saved my hate for something that truly deserves it. I hate cancer and hate all that it has taken from my family. I hate the memory I have of my mother’s face crumbling when the doctor told her the news. I hate that I returned to work from my maternity leave with swollen eyes because we received the diagnosis the day before. I hate that I had to stay strong for my children and hold back my tears when we did not know what the diagnosis meant. I hate that my mother missed my daughter’s first home run and her countless softball games in the warm summer sun. I hate that my mother had to be admitted to the hospital on my birthday. I know how much it pained her to tell me because she did not want to ruin my day. I hate that I missed hugging my mother on her 59th birthday because I had a cold and I could not risk giving her any germs. I hate that my mother was not sitting at my table at my cousin’s wedding and that my father stayed home because he could not bear to go to a family wedding without her. I hate that the parking lot at Panera will forever remind me of the time she told me the cancer cells were in her spinal cord. It is where I sat when my tears forced me to pull over the car. I hate that my mother cannot host Thanksgiving again even though it is her favorite holiday and our family’s most loved tradition. I hate the guilt I carry any time I laugh, smile or forget that the woman I love most is in pain. I hate the moment I saw my mother without hair and the memory I have of how small she looked. I hate when I watched my mother, who always had boundless energy, struggle to walk up the stairs. I hate that my 5-year-old son asked how long grandma was going to be sick. I hate the feeling of my heart sinking every time I have to send my mother a picture or a video of my children. I know it is a very poor replacement of her seeing them in real life. I hate how many times I saw my father cry. I hate that the entire year of 2019 seems a little darker, a little more fuzzy and more like a chore than any other year I ever lived through. Hate has reappeared in my life in the most destructive and invasive way possible. It seems like my relationship with my mother’s cancer is lasting much longer than I would ever imagine, and I have accepted that my relationship with cancer is not over. Although my relationship with cancer is dark, unstable and dysfunctional, I vow to take from it anything I can. I will take the moments of hope. I will take the remission. I will take the small victories. I will embrace the joy and be grateful that my mother is still here, as there are countless that are not so lucky. Cancer has given me hate and heartache, and it has stolen more time than it deserves. Cancer may have taught me to hate, but my mother taught me to love. Love wins every time.

My mother was diagnosed with multiple myeloma one year ago when she went to the emergency room for back pain, only to find that the cancer had eaten through her bones. After a year of grueling treatment, she was told yesterday that it is highly recommended she go through with a donor stem cell transplant that will take over the next year of her life. She will have to be matched with a donor, she will need a caregiver for at least three months, she will be in isolation for weeks and she will be violently ill for more days than anyone cares to count. The doctor called the procedure “high risk” and “high reward.” His language was plain, and he spoke in absolutes. There is a 10 percent chance she will die during the transplant. There is a 60 percent chance she will be alive three years after the transplant, there is a 40 percent chance she will be alive five years out. If she decides against the transplant, the numbers are grim. The news came like a swift punch to the gut, a quick pull of the rug underneath my feet. This is the first time the statistics were shared in such black and white terms. This was the first time we started to focus on the numbers instead of the words we heard over and over: treatable, but not curable. The numbers taunted me, they made me cry uncontrollably and they made me head pound. Are we supposed to live our life with these numbers dictating how we feel? 67 percent of second marriages end in divorce, yet my husband and I are so grateful we are to have found each other for our second chance. Birth control pills are 99.7 percent effective when taken daily. I never missed a day, yet two of my children came into my life by surprise. There is roughly a 1.5 percent chance of having a child with autism, and a 2 to 18 percent chance of having a second child diagnosed. We have two handsome, joyful and perfect boys we are raising. They have both been diagnosed with autism. One percent of people on earth have green eyes: I do. I am not a statistic, my children are not a percentage and my mother is certainly much more than a number. Looks like we have no choice but to play these odds; we may not know how the results are going to fall, or if the risk will be worth the reward. I can not obsess over the future and spend my days crying over the “what ifs.” Right now, my mother is here with me. Right now, my mother has a chance of being here a long time. I can’t predict how I will feel in a year or two, but right now I am 100 percent grateful that we have the opportunity to play the odds.

I remember being 7 years old and telling my mother that I hated my teacher. Standing outside the linen closet with my bare feet on our carpeted floor, my mother explained that I did not really “hate” my teacher; I just disliked her. My teacher was a person and she did not deserve my hate. My mother was the most influential and important voice in my short life, so I agreed. My mother had no room in her heart for hate: she taught me love. 30 years later, I have found that I have never been a hateful person. Instead, I strive to remain positive. I learned from the best, and my mother was an example of gratitude and optimism. My mother insisted she was “rich” her whole life, although working class would probably be more accurate. She said she never minded growing old, as many were not afforded the privilege. I cannot count how many times she stopped what she was doing to set an extra spot at the dinner table, to fix the guest bed and to give what she had to anyone who was in need. We had a full life, with room for only love. Then cancer invaded my mother, not only once, but twice, by the time my mother turned 58. The first time my mother went for her routine mammogram and later was diagnosed with breast cancer. The second time, she left work and got herself to the emergency room with back pain. She left the hospital with a broken rib, a broken back and the knowledge that her plasma cells had turned cancerous and had ravaged her body, eating through her bones: it was called multiple myeloma. I have spent my life politely disliking a lot of things, and perhaps I have saved my hate for something that truly deserves it. I hate cancer and hate all that it has taken from my family. I hate the memory I have of my mother’s face crumbling when the doctor told her the news. I hate that I returned to work from my maternity leave with swollen eyes because we received the diagnosis the day before. I hate that I had to stay strong for my children and hold back my tears when we did not know what the diagnosis meant. I hate that my mother missed my daughter’s first home run and her countless softball games in the warm summer sun. I hate that my mother had to be admitted to the hospital on my birthday. I know how much it pained her to tell me because she did not want to ruin my day. I hate that I missed hugging my mother on her 59th birthday because I had a cold and I could not risk giving her any germs. I hate that my mother was not sitting at my table at my cousin’s wedding and that my father stayed home because he could not bear to go to a family wedding without her. I hate that the parking lot at Panera will forever remind me of the time she told me the cancer cells were in her spinal cord. It is where I sat when my tears forced me to pull over the car. I hate that my mother cannot host Thanksgiving again even though it is her favorite holiday and our family’s most loved tradition. I hate the guilt I carry any time I laugh, smile or forget that the woman I love most is in pain. I hate the moment I saw my mother without hair and the memory I have of how small she looked. I hate when I watched my mother, who always had boundless energy, struggle to walk up the stairs. I hate that my 5-year-old son asked how long grandma was going to be sick. I hate the feeling of my heart sinking every time I have to send my mother a picture or a video of my children. I know it is a very poor replacement of her seeing them in real life. I hate how many times I saw my father cry. I hate that the entire year of 2019 seems a little darker, a little more fuzzy and more like a chore than any other year I ever lived through. Hate has reappeared in my life in the most destructive and invasive way possible. It seems like my relationship with my mother’s cancer is lasting much longer than I would ever imagine, and I have accepted that my relationship with cancer is not over. Although my relationship with cancer is dark, unstable and dysfunctional, I vow to take from it anything I can. I will take the moments of hope. I will take the remission. I will take the small victories. I will embrace the joy and be grateful that my mother is still here, as there are countless that are not so lucky. Cancer has given me hate and heartache, and it has stolen more time than it deserves. Cancer may have taught me to hate, but my mother taught me to love. Love wins every time.

I remember being 7 years old and telling my mother that I hated my teacher. Standing outside the linen closet with my bare feet on our carpeted floor, my mother explained that I did not really “hate” my teacher; I just disliked her. My teacher was a person and she did not deserve my hate. My mother was the most influential and important voice in my short life, so I agreed. My mother had no room in her heart for hate: she taught me love. 30 years later, I have found that I have never been a hateful person. Instead, I strive to remain positive. I learned from the best, and my mother was an example of gratitude and optimism. My mother insisted she was “rich” her whole life, although working class would probably be more accurate. She said she never minded growing old, as many were not afforded the privilege. I cannot count how many times she stopped what she was doing to set an extra spot at the dinner table, to fix the guest bed and to give what she had to anyone who was in need. We had a full life, with room for only love. Then cancer invaded my mother, not only once, but twice, by the time my mother turned 58. The first time my mother went for her routine mammogram and later was diagnosed with breast cancer. The second time, she left work and got herself to the emergency room with back pain. She left the hospital with a broken rib, a broken back and the knowledge that her plasma cells had turned cancerous and had ravaged her body, eating through her bones: it was called multiple myeloma. I have spent my life politely disliking a lot of things, and perhaps I have saved my hate for something that truly deserves it. I hate cancer and hate all that it has taken from my family. I hate the memory I have of my mother’s face crumbling when the doctor told her the news. I hate that I returned to work from my maternity leave with swollen eyes because we received the diagnosis the day before. I hate that I had to stay strong for my children and hold back my tears when we did not know what the diagnosis meant. I hate that my mother missed my daughter’s first home run and her countless softball games in the warm summer sun. I hate that my mother had to be admitted to the hospital on my birthday. I know how much it pained her to tell me because she did not want to ruin my day. I hate that I missed hugging my mother on her 59th birthday because I had a cold and I could not risk giving her any germs. I hate that my mother was not sitting at my table at my cousin’s wedding and that my father stayed home because he could not bear to go to a family wedding without her. I hate that the parking lot at Panera will forever remind me of the time she told me the cancer cells were in her spinal cord. It is where I sat when my tears forced me to pull over the car. I hate that my mother cannot host Thanksgiving again even though it is her favorite holiday and our family’s most loved tradition. I hate the guilt I carry any time I laugh, smile or forget that the woman I love most is in pain. I hate the moment I saw my mother without hair and the memory I have of how small she looked. I hate when I watched my mother, who always had boundless energy, struggle to walk up the stairs. I hate that my 5-year-old son asked how long grandma was going to be sick. I hate the feeling of my heart sinking every time I have to send my mother a picture or a video of my children. I know it is a very poor replacement of her seeing them in real life. I hate how many times I saw my father cry. I hate that the entire year of 2019 seems a little darker, a little more fuzzy and more like a chore than any other year I ever lived through. Hate has reappeared in my life in the most destructive and invasive way possible. It seems like my relationship with my mother’s cancer is lasting much longer than I would ever imagine, and I have accepted that my relationship with cancer is not over. Although my relationship with cancer is dark, unstable and dysfunctional, I vow to take from it anything I can. I will take the moments of hope. I will take the remission. I will take the small victories. I will embrace the joy and be grateful that my mother is still here, as there are countless that are not so lucky. Cancer has given me hate and heartache, and it has stolen more time than it deserves. Cancer may have taught me to hate, but my mother taught me to love. Love wins every time.

I remember being 7 years old and telling my mother that I hated my teacher. Standing outside the linen closet with my bare feet on our carpeted floor, my mother explained that I did not really “hate” my teacher; I just disliked her. My teacher was a person and she did not deserve my hate. My mother was the most influential and important voice in my short life, so I agreed. My mother had no room in her heart for hate: she taught me love. 30 years later, I have found that I have never been a hateful person. Instead, I strive to remain positive. I learned from the best, and my mother was an example of gratitude and optimism. My mother insisted she was “rich” her whole life, although working class would probably be more accurate. She said she never minded growing old, as many were not afforded the privilege. I cannot count how many times she stopped what she was doing to set an extra spot at the dinner table, to fix the guest bed and to give what she had to anyone who was in need. We had a full life, with room for only love. Then cancer invaded my mother, not only once, but twice, by the time my mother turned 58. The first time my mother went for her routine mammogram and later was diagnosed with breast cancer. The second time, she left work and got herself to the emergency room with back pain. She left the hospital with a broken rib, a broken back and the knowledge that her plasma cells had turned cancerous and had ravaged her body, eating through her bones: it was called multiple myeloma. I have spent my life politely disliking a lot of things, and perhaps I have saved my hate for something that truly deserves it. I hate cancer and hate all that it has taken from my family. I hate the memory I have of my mother’s face crumbling when the doctor told her the news. I hate that I returned to work from my maternity leave with swollen eyes because we received the diagnosis the day before. I hate that I had to stay strong for my children and hold back my tears when we did not know what the diagnosis meant. I hate that my mother missed my daughter’s first home run and her countless softball games in the warm summer sun. I hate that my mother had to be admitted to the hospital on my birthday. I know how much it pained her to tell me because she did not want to ruin my day. I hate that I missed hugging my mother on her 59th birthday because I had a cold and I could not risk giving her any germs. I hate that my mother was not sitting at my table at my cousin’s wedding and that my father stayed home because he could not bear to go to a family wedding without her. I hate that the parking lot at Panera will forever remind me of the time she told me the cancer cells were in her spinal cord. It is where I sat when my tears forced me to pull over the car. I hate that my mother cannot host Thanksgiving again even though it is her favorite holiday and our family’s most loved tradition. I hate the guilt I carry any time I laugh, smile or forget that the woman I love most is in pain. I hate the moment I saw my mother without hair and the memory I have of how small she looked. I hate when I watched my mother, who always had boundless energy, struggle to walk up the stairs. I hate that my 5-year-old son asked how long grandma was going to be sick. I hate the feeling of my heart sinking every time I have to send my mother a picture or a video of my children. I know it is a very poor replacement of her seeing them in real life. I hate how many times I saw my father cry. I hate that the entire year of 2019 seems a little darker, a little more fuzzy and more like a chore than any other year I ever lived through. Hate has reappeared in my life in the most destructive and invasive way possible. It seems like my relationship with my mother’s cancer is lasting much longer than I would ever imagine, and I have accepted that my relationship with cancer is not over. Although my relationship with cancer is dark, unstable and dysfunctional, I vow to take from it anything I can. I will take the moments of hope. I will take the remission. I will take the small victories. I will embrace the joy and be grateful that my mother is still here, as there are countless that are not so lucky. Cancer has given me hate and heartache, and it has stolen more time than it deserves. Cancer may have taught me to hate, but my mother taught me to love. Love wins every time.

I remember being 7 years old and telling my mother that I hated my teacher. Standing outside the linen closet with my bare feet on our carpeted floor, my mother explained that I did not really “hate” my teacher; I just disliked her. My teacher was a person and she did not deserve my hate. My mother was the most influential and important voice in my short life, so I agreed. My mother had no room in her heart for hate: she taught me love. 30 years later, I have found that I have never been a hateful person. Instead, I strive to remain positive. I learned from the best, and my mother was an example of gratitude and optimism. My mother insisted she was “rich” her whole life, although working class would probably be more accurate. She said she never minded growing old, as many were not afforded the privilege. I cannot count how many times she stopped what she was doing to set an extra spot at the dinner table, to fix the guest bed and to give what she had to anyone who was in need. We had a full life, with room for only love. Then cancer invaded my mother, not only once, but twice, by the time my mother turned 58. The first time my mother went for her routine mammogram and later was diagnosed with breast cancer. The second time, she left work and got herself to the emergency room with back pain. She left the hospital with a broken rib, a broken back and the knowledge that her plasma cells had turned cancerous and had ravaged her body, eating through her bones: it was called multiple myeloma. I have spent my life politely disliking a lot of things, and perhaps I have saved my hate for something that truly deserves it. I hate cancer and hate all that it has taken from my family. I hate the memory I have of my mother’s face crumbling when the doctor told her the news. I hate that I returned to work from my maternity leave with swollen eyes because we received the diagnosis the day before. I hate that I had to stay strong for my children and hold back my tears when we did not know what the diagnosis meant. I hate that my mother missed my daughter’s first home run and her countless softball games in the warm summer sun. I hate that my mother had to be admitted to the hospital on my birthday. I know how much it pained her to tell me because she did not want to ruin my day. I hate that I missed hugging my mother on her 59th birthday because I had a cold and I could not risk giving her any germs. I hate that my mother was not sitting at my table at my cousin’s wedding and that my father stayed home because he could not bear to go to a family wedding without her. I hate that the parking lot at Panera will forever remind me of the time she told me the cancer cells were in her spinal cord. It is where I sat when my tears forced me to pull over the car. I hate that my mother cannot host Thanksgiving again even though it is her favorite holiday and our family’s most loved tradition. I hate the guilt I carry any time I laugh, smile or forget that the woman I love most is in pain. I hate the moment I saw my mother without hair and the memory I have of how small she looked. I hate when I watched my mother, who always had boundless energy, struggle to walk up the stairs. I hate that my 5-year-old son asked how long grandma was going to be sick. I hate the feeling of my heart sinking every time I have to send my mother a picture or a video of my children. I know it is a very poor replacement of her seeing them in real life. I hate how many times I saw my father cry. I hate that the entire year of 2019 seems a little darker, a little more fuzzy and more like a chore than any other year I ever lived through. Hate has reappeared in my life in the most destructive and invasive way possible. It seems like my relationship with my mother’s cancer is lasting much longer than I would ever imagine, and I have accepted that my relationship with cancer is not over. Although my relationship with cancer is dark, unstable and dysfunctional, I vow to take from it anything I can. I will take the moments of hope. I will take the remission. I will take the small victories. I will embrace the joy and be grateful that my mother is still here, as there are countless that are not so lucky. Cancer has given me hate and heartache, and it has stolen more time than it deserves. Cancer may have taught me to hate, but my mother taught me to love. Love wins every time.

My husband and I have five children, including two sons on the autism spectrum. The holiday season is like a carousel ride full of celebrations, presents, laughter and the occasional meltdown. Here’s what I wish people would expect — and not expect — from our family during the holiday season. Don’t expect a conversation My boys are verbal after many, many hours of speech and ABA therapy,  but I would not consider them conversationalists. My 5-year-old will answer simple questions and may even tell you about something that is important to him. He may tell you the ages of all his family members or how many minutes he has until bedtime, but he will not take the time to answer your questions about school. My 2-year-old will say words, but in a way that labels the world around him. He may point to the tree and say “tree,” he will say cookie when he spots a treat across the table, but please don’t ask him what he got for Christmas. If it is not in his eyesight, he is not interested in talking about it. Don’t expect my kids to eat My boys are physically healthy; they eat a variety of food from all the major food groups. They tell me when they are hungry and try a bite of everything that is offered to them. During the holidays, you may see my hand my son a cookie before dinner, or not bother to make a dinner plate for my other son. Making my sons sit down properly and eat a meal in a new setting, with loud noises, and a million sparkly and shiny things to look at is probably not going to happen. I will also let you in a little secret: I probably fed them before I came over. Don’t expect a long goodbye With two boys on the spectrum, things can go from great to catastrophic in a matter of minutes. Transitions are always the hardest parts of our days.  I may see the meltdown coming or it may start when I start my goodbyes. After a long day of loud noises, visual stimulation, physical play and a new setting, my boys may not show it, but they are overwhelmed. The let down of the day will happen, and sometimes a crash will take place. Sometimes, if I am at the top of my game, I’ll say my thank yous and dole out my hugs before I tell the boys we are leaving. Once we do that, my husband and I look at each other and acknowledge that it is “time to pull the Band-Aid,” (yes, we actually call it that) and get out of there. Please do not be offended if we leave in a hurry. I assure you it is nothing to do with you, it’s about meeting the needs of our children. Don’t hand me anything more to carry While we are trying to get out the door with our two boys and our other three children, we will be carrying coats, presents, food trays, mittens and a toy one of my sons is obsessed with at the moment. I guarantee I will forget something at your home; a loose mitten, a sweater, a pacifier will certainly be a parting gift. Please do not try to make me wait while you pack up food for me. Please don’t take one of my children with you to find one last treasure they need for the car ride home.  I am already sweating and trying to fight the superhuman strength my toddler somehow musters up everytime I zip his coat. I still have images of beautifully made Christmas cookies tumbling into the snowy driveway while I tried to wrestle my son into his car seat. Please know I won’t be offended if I leave your home “empty-handed.” Trust me, my hands are full. Don’t compare our children I know you are trying to be nice when you tell me that your son did not talk until he was 3 or how your adorable daughter can really throw quite the tantrum at home. I know you are trying to make me feel less alone and less different. Please don’t tell me that your child may be “a little autistic” too as you explain their typical behavior. Please don’t make your children be extra nice to my children or tolerate behavior that is not appropriate. My boys are sometimes difficult to play with and can be quite rigid in how they interact. Encourage your children to treat my boys with respect and manners, but they don’t need to break their boundaries to be accommodating. Don’t dull the holiday sparkle for me Don’t be afraid to talk to me about your “normal” life and brag about your children. Continue to encourage your child to show off the new song they can sing or the dance moves they just learned. It does not remind me that my children are different, it makes me happy for you. I accept and love my children as they are, just as you do with yours. Accept us as we are There is nothing more important to me than family. My extended family with their loud, crowded, over-the-top celebrations are the source of some of my best memories. My family has also taught me there is always room for one more at the table. We are all-inclusive, come as you are and bring a friend with you, kind of people. I promise to embrace the joy, chaos and warmth of the holidays, including if my child is covering his ears at the table or lining up Christmas cookies across the floor. My boys have taught me how to completely accept and love people for exactly who they are — and when all the celebrations are said and done, that is my holiday wish for all.

My husband and I have five children, including two sons on the autism spectrum. The holiday season is like a carousel ride full of celebrations, presents, laughter and the occasional meltdown. Here’s what I wish people would expect — and not expect — from our family during the holiday season. Don’t expect a conversation My boys are verbal after many, many hours of speech and ABA therapy,  but I would not consider them conversationalists. My 5-year-old will answer simple questions and may even tell you about something that is important to him. He may tell you the ages of all his family members or how many minutes he has until bedtime, but he will not take the time to answer your questions about school. My 2-year-old will say words, but in a way that labels the world around him. He may point to the tree and say “tree,” he will say cookie when he spots a treat across the table, but please don’t ask him what he got for Christmas. If it is not in his eyesight, he is not interested in talking about it. Don’t expect my kids to eat My boys are physically healthy; they eat a variety of food from all the major food groups. They tell me when they are hungry and try a bite of everything that is offered to them. During the holidays, you may see my hand my son a cookie before dinner, or not bother to make a dinner plate for my other son. Making my sons sit down properly and eat a meal in a new setting, with loud noises, and a million sparkly and shiny things to look at is probably not going to happen. I will also let you in a little secret: I probably fed them before I came over. Don’t expect a long goodbye With two boys on the spectrum, things can go from great to catastrophic in a matter of minutes. Transitions are always the hardest parts of our days.  I may see the meltdown coming or it may start when I start my goodbyes. After a long day of loud noises, visual stimulation, physical play and a new setting, my boys may not show it, but they are overwhelmed. The let down of the day will happen, and sometimes a crash will take place. Sometimes, if I am at the top of my game, I’ll say my thank yous and dole out my hugs before I tell the boys we are leaving. Once we do that, my husband and I look at each other and acknowledge that it is “time to pull the Band-Aid,” (yes, we actually call it that) and get out of there. Please do not be offended if we leave in a hurry. I assure you it is nothing to do with you, it’s about meeting the needs of our children. Don’t hand me anything more to carry While we are trying to get out the door with our two boys and our other three children, we will be carrying coats, presents, food trays, mittens and a toy one of my sons is obsessed with at the moment. I guarantee I will forget something at your home; a loose mitten, a sweater, a pacifier will certainly be a parting gift. Please do not try to make me wait while you pack up food for me. Please don’t take one of my children with you to find one last treasure they need for the car ride home.  I am already sweating and trying to fight the superhuman strength my toddler somehow musters up everytime I zip his coat. I still have images of beautifully made Christmas cookies tumbling into the snowy driveway while I tried to wrestle my son into his car seat. Please know I won’t be offended if I leave your home “empty-handed.” Trust me, my hands are full. Don’t compare our children I know you are trying to be nice when you tell me that your son did not talk until he was 3 or how your adorable daughter can really throw quite the tantrum at home. I know you are trying to make me feel less alone and less different. Please don’t tell me that your child may be “a little autistic” too as you explain their typical behavior. Please don’t make your children be extra nice to my children or tolerate behavior that is not appropriate. My boys are sometimes difficult to play with and can be quite rigid in how they interact. Encourage your children to treat my boys with respect and manners, but they don’t need to break their boundaries to be accommodating. Don’t dull the holiday sparkle for me Don’t be afraid to talk to me about your “normal” life and brag about your children. Continue to encourage your child to show off the new song they can sing or the dance moves they just learned. It does not remind me that my children are different, it makes me happy for you. I accept and love my children as they are, just as you do with yours. Accept us as we are There is nothing more important to me than family. My extended family with their loud, crowded, over-the-top celebrations are the source of some of my best memories. My family has also taught me there is always room for one more at the table. We are all-inclusive, come as you are and bring a friend with you, kind of people. I promise to embrace the joy, chaos and warmth of the holidays, including if my child is covering his ears at the table or lining up Christmas cookies across the floor. My boys have taught me how to completely accept and love people for exactly who they are — and when all the celebrations are said and done, that is my holiday wish for all.