I've always been one of those kind of girls--rough and tumble, a dirt-beneath-the-fingernails gal that wasn't afraid of anything and willng to take risks. Always to my father's delight (and my friends' revulsion), I impaled my own worms and grasshoppers on hooks during fishing trips, and was the first to plunge feet-first into the pond and chase bullfrogs through the tall grasses. The end result was my being transformed into an eight year-old, hazel-eyed mud ball, and Mama rinsing me off with a water hose before I was allowed to put one sneakered foot in the house.
     June bugs replaced brooches on my dresses. Every week after Sunday school, I joined the boys in tormenting prissier young ladies with captured grasshoppers. And I wasn't above kicking off patent leather shoes, hoisting my freshly pressed dress over my thighs and crawling beneath the church to grab the prized daddy-longlegs. The latter was nipped in the bud when one Sunday a distinguished female parishioner watched me race past (daddy-longlegs in hand, chasing after a screaming group of girls) and said "My, my. Debbie certainly has a creative way to show everyone how you coordinate her outfits...right down to her underwear."
     Yes, I have that "girl power" attitude in everything I encounter--with the exception of snakes. They terrify me. Their eyes, dark and soulless, radiate a deadly slyness that seems to penetrate human thoughts. Or perhaps the deep fear I possess for these creatures stems from the Eve vs. Serpent encounter at the beginning of time. 
     Once, during my early college years, a boyfriend named Bradley decided he'd rehabilitate me. "Just remember, these little guys wouldn't harm a fly. They're more scared of you than you are of them."
     That was doubtful. He'd never witnessed my talent of creating new exits when snakes were present. And I started to re-think our relationship when he, dressed in a "Love Me, Love My Snake"  t-shirt, put a ball python in my lap. I swore the varmint smiled before slithering up my arm and draping itself around my neck. 
     Bradley shook his head and tsked  at the sight of my expression. "What's with the bugged out eyes and mushed up face?"
     "I'm trying hard not to look like a water buffalo. I've gained a bit of weight since Christmas..."
     "Don't be ridiculous. My python wouldn't eat a person."
     It was obvious he'd never watched Anaconda. 
     There was a happy-ever-after to this tale. Bradley and I parted ways after that night, and by chance he met a young lady with a mouse infestation. And with the exception of a few brief encounters, I never saw another snake again. Until a short time ago...
     The other night I heard my first rattlesnake of the year...on my front porch. "I got this, let a fella take of the problem," my son Jonathan said. "Besides, I know you're a chicken when it comes to dealing with serpents."
     I bristled, but realized he was right--I was terrified. A younger and more foolish version of me would have faced my fears and at least investigated the source of the noise. Was I going to my son, a child, take charge of the situation? Absolutely not. "No worries, I got this." 
     I eased out the door, Jonathan in tow, trying to locate the creepy thing. Judging from the sound of the rattles, it was a big one--large enough to eat my face off if it desired. The rattles whirred again, but this time seemed to come from several different directions.
      At that moment, a June bug decided to clamp onto my toe.  Letting loose a string of colorful words, I danced a one-legged chicken jig across the porch, certain my little piggy had been an appetizer for Joe Snake. In the middle of my screaming to the world that the snake was a son of a female dog, I saw it lurking just off my porch, beneath the protection of the Wandering Jew.
     Anger replaced fear. How dare it hide like a coward, laying in wait to attack my children. Not on my watch. Something primal possessed my soul as I grabbed the nearest weapon--a garden hoe. Screeching like a possessed woman in need of coffee, I struck the shadowy figure harder each time. I was re-inventing the girl I used to be by facing my fears head-on. Finally spent, but satisfied, I leaned again my weapon. I'm still that kind of girl. Someone who'll take risks, I congratulated myself. "Don't ever underestimate the power of a girl," I informed my son.
     Jonathan squinted and stepped closer to the corpse, eyeing it intently. "Uh-huh, yeah, face your fears, girl-power and all that jazz. But just so you know," he chuckled. "We're going to need a new garden hose because you just cut this one to smithereens."

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     I’ve always had a taste for adventure. My joy, when I was ten years old, was to catch one of my horses in the pasture and in one fluid motion jump onto their back. I loved the feel of their hair, slick and shiny after months of concealment under winter coats, warmed by the sun, smooth as satin beneath my bare legs.
     Yelling, I sent my mount off at gallop with nothing for control or guidance—that’s right…no bridle. The tall prairie grasses whipped my calves as we raced across the sunbaked ground, as if punishing me for my recklessness. At that age I didn’t worry about the dangers that loomed. Truth is, I didn’t care. I was tasting excitement and loving it. I had adventure that is, until my grandmother stepped out onto her back porch one afternoon and witnessed my indulgence.
     I never saw her look so serious as made me promise not to embark on any more adventures that were so obviously reckless and selfish. And she sealed the deal by uttering four words every child wants to hear “I won’t tell Mama.” And let’s face it, seeing my seventy-year-old, prairie skirt-wearing grandmother hurdle a three board-high fence and run toward me, arms flailing like a scarecrow in a windstorm, wasn’t a sight I wanted to see again
     Now, I have different adventures as a parent. There have been times when my younger son (angry because he couldn’t get his way) has announced in Costco that I was “having fainting spell” and would “go home with anyone who had a bed.” In the same time span he asked if I planned to cook chicken for supper. Hmm…I guess the offer to be rid of me came with restrictions. And there was time that the same child announced to our grocery store’s door greeter that I planned to keep my pants on so the meat wouldn’t become rancid.
     My older son is subtler. Born with my snarky sense of humor, Jonathan once dressed the family dog in my rattiest underwear and encouraged it to model the attire for company—our new neighbors, a prudish couple by the names of Tomi and Paul. The next day I found a gift card for a local boutique shoved in my mailbox.  Of course Tomi, red-faced with embarrassment over the suggestion, denied doing it. But I had my doubts. A pup wearing undies with the words “Red Hot Mama” on the rump is enough to make even the most straight-laced person take action.
Yes, parenting is an adventure, sometimes containing more dangers and snares than riding a half-wild, bridleless horse, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

What's your most humorous adventure moment?

Honoring the adventures of parenting, I will be giving away one (1) prize consisting of a signed copy of my book and a necklace set. Check out Rafflecopter below to enter.

A couple of weeks ago I was honored to be a guest on the George Wilder Jr. show, and during the course of our conversation we discussed several topics, including autism.

The show was a joy to be on, George is a great host, but I was caught flat-footed when he asked me to read an excerpt from The Toilet's Overflowing and the Dog is Wearing My Underwear.  Yep, I wasn't prepared--I missed that lesson when I was a girl scout.

So, in honor of National Autism Awareness Day, I thought I'd share a story from the book that also originally appeared in Mothers Always Write.

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL, EVEN WHEN IT'S A ROLLER COASTER

  “Bless your heart, you‘re burdened,” is usually the comment from strangers to me after my twelve-year-old son, Joseph, has a meltdown. In the past, I almost fell over myself in my haste to offer an embarrassed apology and scoot away from what seemed like a throng of people as quickly as possible.
     Now an older and wiser me, with teeth gritted, smiles and offers an explanation for Joseph’s actions–he has autism, and something in his surroundings has over-stimulated him, thus the meltdown. Like an infomercial host, I explain ASD–what it is, symptoms, and how things in our environment might affect someone with autism. Sometimes, that’s followed by a sad look from the other person, and they mutter, “My, my…you didn’t ask for that, did you?”
     In those circumstances, I bite my lip to keep sarcastic, almost hysterical laughter at bay. The stranger meant well. She was offering compassion, something often lacking in our society. But no, I didn’t ask for my child, my heart, to have a neurological disorder.
     Having a child on the autism spectrum is comparable to a roller-coaster ride. There are the up moments. Like when your child says for the first time “Mama, I love you,” and you’ve waited seven years to hear it because he’s been almost completely non-verbal. Or countless hours of teaching and tears (because there doesn‘t seem to be comprehension), trying to get him to kick versus dribble the soccer ball into the net. But at the state Special Olympic games he kicks it in on the very first try.
      Then there are the times when you’re at a restaurant, and your child is having a screaming, kicking fit because the waiter cut the burger in half, and Junior never eats his burger cut in half (kids on the spectrum like routine). Every eye (it seems) is focused on your family, and you wish you could crawl into that darn sandwich and hide from the world.
But, this has been a journey of learning for me. I have discovered how to look past physical appearances and abilities and see people’s determination and beauty within. Though I’m a perpetual work in progress, I have been a scholar of lowering the walls, practicing empathy, moving past emotional scars, and loving with my whole heart.
     And Joseph has become my biggest teacher. He has taught me to appreciate the smaller things in life: the majesty of the sun setting on the hills; the magic in a bird’s song; delicious aromas of the earth as it awakens in the mornings. Nothing is to be taken for granted, especially the sweet, sing-song chant of a child’s conversation.
     One Saturday, Joseph walked into the living room and watched as I danced to “Uptown Funk.” Wordlessly, he stepped in front of me and began stomping in time to the music–an accomplishment for someone on the Autism spectrum. Tears clouded my vision. I was grateful when the song ended because I have all the grace of an ostrich on ice and I wasn’t prepared to spend Saturday morning in the emergency room.
     Joseph chewed his finger as he studied me. “La vita e bella, Mama?” he questioned, reading the front of my shirt.
     “Yes Joseph, La vita e bella. It means ‘Life is beautiful.’”
     And it is, even when it’s a roller coaster ride of emotions.
 
First appeared in Mothers Always Write e-zine (07/2015).
 
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