All posts filed under: Across the Spectrum

Convergence

For the neurodivergent parents of neurodivergent kids I didn’t come here to tell you I love my kids. I came here to suck and spit venom. Have you ever looked down to see an arrow of your own making sticking out of your chest? That’s the job. I drag myself to the edge of the battlefield to pull these arrows out through the other side. I have been paying myself first, but honestly? I am hanging on by a tenuous spider’s thread. My responsibilities have sucked all the stone out of my bones and the meat from my muscles; Brittle I scrape across the ground; spite and stubbornness are the heaviest things I can carry are what hold me to the ground. The only fuel I have to toss into this engine is the compressed mineral of rage. Because there is nowhere to put this! Because I get shocked snatching you back from live wires Because I had to jump on the grenade you unlocked Because you start fights that I have to finish Because …

Morning Autumn

Mornings in the fall are subtle reminders that how things begin isn’t always how it ends. As the sun rises the frost thins, the leaves fall gracefully in silence, making a nest of colors beneath, unwilling to decay. Motherhood is like spring. We envision flowers blooming as our womb expands like accordions ready to sing. We guess the lyrics of the song and dance in the illusion of all the unknowns. We live in the symphony and speed past the breaks. That is the fallacy of dreams. Craving the touch of sun rays while leaping the sweat, wrinkles, and burns. We love to laugh but dislike laugh lines. We want the goodness without the mess. Being a mother to a diverse child is like Autumn. The third season that was thought of last. An ambivalence of slow mornings with unpredictable afternoons. We don’t call it fall because our children are not a decay. They are the transition between the two seasons most people skip, think of last. Everyone focuses on the beginning or the end of the story. The rising and falling action are …

depressions of symptom

If I ever become an acclaimed writer, I’d worry about the interviews because I don’t know many words. I don’t speak well. The interviewer might ask me about motherhood. I don’t know what I’d say because I don’t mother well. I stay in bed until it’s time for my child to eat and bathe. I tell them to eat and bathe from my bed. Doorbell eviction bell baby wipe showers. sheetsmattressconcaveprison. thesheetsrecyclemystink. sheetsdriedmenstruation. thesheetsaremyplate. Mush inside chrysalis, I hope. Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, please consider becoming a sustaining member to help us remain ad-free. Invest in amplifying the voices of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other parents of color at our many intersections. Tiers start at $5/month and reflect your financial comfort. 

Our Journey to an Autism Diagnosis

When my son Miyka-EL, affectionately known by his middle name Elijah, was born nearly 25 years ago, I did not know that he would be diagnosed with a lifelong neurodevelopmental disorder that would shape our lives in so many ways. Going into labor at only six months into my pregnancy, Elijah, my miracle baby, was born at 24 weeks and weighed only 1lb 6oz. Elijah was so small he could fit in the palm of your hand. Unbeknownst to me, there was another conversation happening among the doctors and nurses. One doctor who examined my baby eventually broke the huddle and talked to me. He discussed how babies my son’s size didn’t have a significant chance of surviving.  The doctor asked if I wanted to hold my son in my arms until he died or if the team of doctors should continue to work on him. At that moment, my tears dried, and I immediately felt a warm sensation over my body; I was beyond angry.  How dare he offer my son life or death.  …

The Broken Crystal Ball and The Zombie Killer

As a single woman, I walked through city streets, shopped at local stores, and strolled through Target, my eyes fixed on the red bullseye flyer advertising this week’s specials.  The piercing wail of an unruly child then abruptly interrupted my stroll down memory lane.  The crystal ball in my head once told me that when I have children, they will never behave this way.  Later that day, I sighed loudly at a parent who thought it was acceptable to bring their whiny kid to a movie and allow it to cry during the best part of the afternoon matinee.  A rubbing of the crystal ball, and I saw me and my immensely supportive husband guarding our child against any R-rated movies, home on a Friday night, enjoying family-friendly carpet picnics and Disney-inspired fun. But was my crystal ball broken all along? Now I am in Target with my three-year-old throwing a Titanic-sized tantrum. Who is this kid that is taking me to task with all 39 inches of his miniature frame? Where is the supportive …