kids with autism are “mental”?

Somebody actually said this to me the other day.  I used to care what other people thought, and in the past, I would have slapped that bitch down (well, verbally at least – Mami no likey the violence) and then I realized that this volcanic reaction was just my own mourning of this “imagined” child rearing its ugly head.  Those were my insecurities, and they only got in the way of my seeing Ronan for Ronan, and not for who I thought he would/should be. 

Also, I’m getting hip to the realization that people really just don’t get your situation, or understand your child, unless they are, well, essentially – you!  So, being that I’m the only me, and Ro is the only Ro, why bother slapping at ignorant bitches?  Now, I may offer up an informative counter-fact to a ridiculous bitch’s misconception about autism, but it’s a very liberating acceptance, this knowing that I don’t have to school everyone about Ro’s talents, gifts, beauty, intelligence, uniquity and great big heart.  I know – he knows. I wish I was Ro, seriously! 

He’s right behind me now, bouncing on his therapy ball, doing what they call “verbal stimming”.  He’s listing animals, changing the voices for each one – (high pitched) DOLPHIN, (growling) BIG LION!, (whispering) meow, meow cat.


It’s music to me.

Anyway, here’s a poem for the bitches.  A little verbal slap.

The Misunderstood Child
A poem about children with hidden disabilities

by Kathy Winters

I am the child that looks healthy and fine.
I was born with ten fingers and toes.
But something is different, somewhere in my mind,
And what it is, nobody knows.

I am the child that struggles in school,
Though they say that I’m perfectly smart.
They tell me I’m lazy — can learn if I try —
But I don’t seem to know where to start.

I am the child that won’t wear the clothes
Which hurt me or bother my feet.
I dread sudden noises, can’t handle most smells,
And tastes — there are few foods I’ll eat.

I am the child that can’t catch the ball
And runs with an awkward gait.
I am the one chosen last on the team
And I cringe as I stand there and wait.

I am the child with whom no one will play —
The one that gets bullied and teased.
I try to fit in and I want to be liked,
But nothing I do seems to please.

I am the child that tantrums and freaks
Over things that seem petty and trite.
You’ll never know how I panic inside,
When I’m lost in my anger and fright.

I am the child that fidgets and squirms
Though I’m told to sit still and be good.
Do you think that I choose to be out of control?
Don’t you know that I would if I could?

I am the child with the broken heart
Though I act like I don’t really care.
Perhaps there’s a reason God made me this way —
Some message he sent me to share.

For I am the child that needs to be loved
And accepted and valued too.
I am the child that is misunderstood.
I am different – but look just like you.


Sorry, I’m getting my period.  I think I’m a little hormonal.   Last night at work, I snuggled with a huge chenille chocolate brown men’s bathrobe (I’m doing overnights at Target – putting out merchandise) for twenty straight minutes, calling him my new boyfriend.  It’s sad.


Of course, I don’t avocate slapping a woman, but this made me pee a little with laughter.  I like imagining myself as the “take that, bitch” man slapper.  Okay, so maybe I’m not exactly liberated from the volcanic reaction to dumb beyotch comments.  I’m trying.


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