I was inspired to write about this today as my two men packed up the car and headed off on a West Coast Adventure Trip. There will be thousands of miles to travel and limitless roads to encounter.  Of course, I was invited, but I am smart enough to know the invitation was a courtesy. This was a Father/Son road trip that was destined to be just that.

My #3 was born in 2005, just a stone’s throw from my 40^th birthday. I remember that baby who wouldn’t sleep but tended to just cat nap his way through his first six months; couldn’t quite get the hang of breast feeding no matter what we tried and looked at me like an old man who was mildly annoyed with my inability to remedy his situation. That said, he was #3 and his birth order made him low man on the totem pole. His nap time was often a car seat, his routine was his sister’s routines and meals were definitely on the fly. Still, he managed to adjust to the knack of being along for the ride and I believed he was developing like any other baby. Boys are always a little slower to talk, walk and play with others, right? After all, his sisters were tiny geniuses and obviously not comparative to any graphs or data…

One day, around 18 months, he was rocking pretty aggressively while sitting on the couch watching Dora. A family friend turned to me and said, “Don’t worry about that. My son did that too, but with therapy he was able to learn to control it”. Huh? What? He’s dancing. Okay, there’s no music, but there’s nothing “wrong” with my son.

By his second year, I realized that he wasn’t interested in the same things as other children his age. Christmas didn’t excite him; animals were of zero interest and interaction with other children was absent. Therefore, after several months of specialists, testing and observation, he was diagnosed with Autism; but highly functional (whatever that means).

What did I do to cause this? How do I fix him so he will be normal?

Why him?

Well, why not him? Autism does not discriminate. Autism doesn’t care that my other children are not challenged or that I was super healthy during my pregnancy. And let’s be clear about diagnosis. The spectrum exists to get your child diagnosed and offer therapies. As a parent, you have to get in there and work with educators and physicians to come up with the plan that is right for your child. It’s not a chart where your kid lands and stays; it’s forever fluid and you’d better be too. Fasten your seatbelt for the rollercoaster of a lifetime.

This is where the rubber hits the road. As a parent, are you going to enter denial or are you going to do everything in your power, not necessarily to cure Autism, but to ensure your child has every opportunity to thrive and learn to the best of their ability? We chose the latter.

Sacrifice and Determination have been the defining words for this family since 2005. My career took a backseat to his needs. I learned you can’t be at the office when school calls because he has run into the parking lot or overturned a table and his school day needs to conclude. We learned that plans don’t mean shit when you have an autistic child. Travel and dining out didn’t completely stop, but sometimes the planning and preparation involved in such outings were often too exhausting or unpredictable to even bother with the attempt. We got used to disappointment but also celebrated every triumph. Priorities changed. His first haircut at age 12 by a professional was monumental. We celebrated with a ride to look at road signs because he likes that better than cake.

He has taught us to live with deeper empathy for others, patience for situations beyond our control and the talent to pivot on a moment’s notice. He has made his classmates better people who have learned to come to the aid of those who need help and to accept and embrace differences in every individual. A teacher once tried to encourage him to finish his test faster than he was working. He politely told her that if he didn’t finish it in time that it wouldn’t be the end of the world. His teacher disclosed to me that she would be taking that advice.

As Earl has grown into his 16^th year; all 6’ of him, the stemming has all but subsided and coping mechanisms include lots of fidgets, deep breaths and jazz music. He understands what Autism is; how it affects him and is pretty confident speaking about it. His thought processes are fascinating and his personality is infectious. He can tell you any US Route, Highway, or Interstate; its origins and its destination. Show him a picture of the family and he can tell you the date it was taken and what we were doing. He studies Google Maps and then redesigns bridges and roadways that he believes he can improve. His goal is to attend Purdue University to study Civil Engineering. I will be here to make sure he has the tools and assistance to get him where he wants to be.

April celebrates World Autism Month. Chances are, you’ve met an autistic person and didn’t even know. If you’ve had the good fortune to meet my #3, then you know he’s magical. In honor of Earl, do me a favor. Next time you see a parent having difficulty with a child, they could use a smile and a nod of understanding rather than a smirk of disapproval. And if you’re in a restaurant, send a bottle of wine or a dessert to their table.

A huge thank you to everyone who has been on this journey with Earl thus far. And thank you for all who work with Autistic children every day.

Finally, hats off to all my Autism parents this month and every month. You got this.

Source: Good Fences Make Good Neighbors (but yours isn’t the right color so I’m telling the HOA)

For the next few moments, I am going to nominate myself spokeswoman for race relations in this country. You don’t have to agree, but seeing as I am 47% African and 53% European (thanks to the Europeans who penetrated my mother’s side, welcomed or not), I may be the best example you’re going to get.

First of all, I am not a militant anything. I am, however, passionate about the fair treatment of ALL people. I call it as I see it. I have the ability to walk within both races, black and white, and witness the good and the not-so-good. For those of you who refuse to believe there are two separate and defined races in this country, I’m here to tell you that denial makes you unattractive.

Let’s get one thing out of the way fast, quick and in a hurry. I identify myself as a black female. Why? I was born in 1965, in Chicago, to loving parents, a black mother and a white father. In that day, a child was considered the race of the mother. Also, back in the day, a drop of black made you black. My mother was the predominant caretaker at home while dad worked as an Airline Captain. My mother was my rock. My father, simply put, was and is my hero. As a young lady, I wanted to be just like my mother as I began to understand her struggles, her pain and her triumphs. She was a dark-skinned woman, no confusion about her blackness. I felt a comfort with her that somehow she was stronger than most, and she was. I married a man who happened to be white, which is incidentally what my mother always told me about my dad. I married a man who most reminded me of the values and strength exhibited by my father, who taught me how a man should treat his wife. So, let’s move on..

White people are still winning. Yes, it’s true. Yes, I said it. My white friends, rich or poor, Ivy League or trade school educated, city or rural folk have it better than most. When I say better, I’m not talking about bank accounts or net worth. I’m talking about a day in the life. I have never once had a conversation with my white friends about fear of their young boys being beaten or murdered by the police. Not once have we ever discussed discrimination in the workplace based on color. Their white children are never concerned about what they can grow up to be, because they won’t have roadblocks placed in their paths (except maybe Affirmative Action). Before you start freaking out, my fair friends, think of the last time you were in a group of fellow pale citizens discussing academic opportunities for white kids and how you can help to advance their education. You haven’t, and you don’t. You don’t have an NAACP or a UNCF because you don’t need them. White people I know rely on the police for assistance and protection. They take comfort in knowing that 911 will respond. White people I know haven’t the slightest clue what it’s like to be profiled because of skin color.

There is an unspoken freedom granted to white people which blacks and other minorities, let’s face it, may never know.

I have lots of black friends. Unlike some of you, I’m telling the truth. Black people have white friends… to a degree. You will never be on the inside. Hell, I’m not even all the way accepted in the inner workings of the black community. My husband is just a confused bystander. There is much distrust in the black community of other races. Some is warranted, some isn’t. Here’s some of what makes me shake my head:

• Tanning

• Butt implants

• Hair Extensions

• Lip injections

• Elvis (ask Chuck Berry)

Listen, I understand that we all interact in diverse groups to illustrate that we can communicate with many kinds of people, but at the end of the day, we are most comfortable in the companionship of our own race of people. That’s natural. However, within that security and contentment cannot come unresponsiveness to the plight of the HUMAN RACE.

Here’s where the rubber hits the road, folks.

White people, imagine for a moment, if you will, that your dog Fluffy was walking down the middle of the street and a policeman rolled up on it and shot it. Would it be justified if your dog had stolen a bone from the butcher and growled at the butcher as it left the building?

By all means No, I am not equating a young man’s life to a dog, it’s just that using a canine in this scenario is more believable than a white kid.

Let’s say it happens time and time again. You complain about the police brutality but nothing ever changes. Sometimes, your Golden Retriever is minding its own business, sometimes its behavior is less than stellar. But your dog has no teeth and really can’t seriously hurt anyone. Still, it’s dead. You’d fight for change. I know you would. Who would stand for such behavior? When is it okay for police to round-up innocent Labradors and take them to the pound without cause? Since when did it become routine for police to murder Schnauzers for no reason. See where I’m going here?

As someone who has a teensy more European blood than African blood, it still boils when I see mistreatment of ANYONE.

Get angry. Don’t stand for it. Speak up. Inaction is a sign of apathy and indifference.

The only hope that our children and grandchildren will see no color, is if we all see RED.

“I’m looking for a man to love me, like I never been loved before. I’m looking for a man who will do it anywhere, even on a limousine floor.” You know you sang it, but did you do it? The answer is, probably not. If you did, you were skanky way before Vanity 6.

Are we really so adversely affected by song lyrics? I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest not. If you have the opportunity, sit down and take a listen (if you can stomach it) to some of the songs on your kids’ playlist. Here’s one for the ages:

After we go to the bathroom, can we go smoke a cigarette?
I really need one
But first, LET ME TAKE A SELFIE

How about these words of wisdom:
Turn down for what Turn down for what Turn down for what
Turn down for what Ball and Out

In the scheme of things, I don’t really pay too much attention to what my daughters are listening to. I realize that there are song lyrics that are raunchy and even downright nasty, but I’m pretty sure these do not illicit a desire for my girls to drop everything and get busy.

Yesterday, I sat down with my daughters to probe this burning question: Will you be surfboarding instead of attending class today?
After a rousing chorus of “Maaaahm! That’s disgusting”, I was determined to get to the bottom of this. As it turns out, my kids are not taking direction from Mr. & Mrs. Carter’s inebriated exploits. In fact, they don’t pay a lot of attention to the words but seem to concentrate on the beat.

This. Is. Shocking.

My oldest even went as far as to explain that she will not be wearing gold teeth, drinking grey goose or tripping in a bathroom or driving a Cadillac in her dreams. Another bonus is that I don’t have to call her Queen Bee. However, the song bumps.

Feeling fairly comfortable that my children are safe from the evil spell of Beyonce, I turn my attentions to young girls who do not have good parental role models, who may take Beyonce seriously and begin to mimic her songs through slutty behaviors. So let me get this straight. We should fear that young girls will behave like a woman who is married, waited until marriage to have a child, and waited until she had her own successful career before marriage and starting a family, who sings about having freaky sex with her husband?

I would also like to add that your daughter probably doesn’t even know what getting Monica Lewinsky-ed all over her gown by her husband in the back of a limo even means. When you explain it, like I did, her response is probably not going to be “How do I get in on that action?”

Teens aren’t complete idiots, mostly, but not completely. Let’s give them some credit. Beyonce is no more responsible for your daughters’ behavior than Sir- Mix- A-Lot is for my big butt or the Beatles were for the Manson Family crimes. They are, however, responsible for opening up an interesting dialogue with your kids.

In the meantime, since Jay- Z has stated that my breasteses are breakfast, think of the money I’ll save on Cheerios.