A couple years ago, I found this magnet at our local Whole Foods.
After completing my third year of therapy (if you haven’t figured it out by now, I have issues), I decided that maybe I was just choosing to be down in the dumps about my son’s disability.
I read these other people’s blogs about their experience, and they don’t seem, well, as dour as I feel.
There’s so much acceptance, and love. The total opposite of how I feel about autism taking over my son.
I’m all fight fight fight and everyone else seems to be all hug hug hug.
Maybe, I thought, I can will myself to be happy. And there’s a lot to be happy about in my life.
Nice house, hunky husband, redheaded freckled faced boys, great friends, good wine, delicious cheese, supportive family, a rascally pup… what was a little autism in the mix?
There are worse things, I was told. Starving babies in Africa. Al Qaeda in Yemen. Earthquakes in Haiti. Soldiers maimed in Afghanistan. Kim Kardashian’s love life. Britney Spears’ parenting skills. Lindsay Lohan’s kleptomania.
Serious, serious issues.
I know it helps some parents to think about their lives this way. It helps them to see the brighter side of life. It just simply does not help me.
I blame my parents. Too much Catholic guilt. I can’t help those babies in Africa and I’ve simply given up on Britney. (Really, that girl just needs to stop trying already. She’s a train wreck.)
So I’ve decided. Pass me my antidepressant and that nice glass of Pinot. Time to get my happy on.