Category Archives: Big Piece of Cake

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions

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Okay – I’m totally cheating. I wrote this a long time ago – but who remembers it right?

Since this is Moxie’s Around the Blogosphere in Five Days week, I’m trying to keep up with the writing carnivals (apparently by re-posting old material…). And I don’t have time to whip something up for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop Thursday, the theme of which is travel, moxie and superheros.” While this does deviate bit from the specific prompts, it involves both travel and a little moxie.

SO – here it is. An oldie but a goodie….

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions
March 13, 2009

Have you ever been in a foreign country and found yourself wondering if your cab driver might be kidnapping you? Well – this did happen to me once. And I suspect that it’s not all that uncommon (the suspicion as opposed to the actual kidnapping). I mean, with language barriers, unfamiliar scenery and standard issue paranoia – it seems like this could happen to the best of us.

Or – maybe it’s just me. Either way, here’s my story.

In September of 2000, Chris and I got married and then flew to Spain for a two week honeymoon in Andalusia. We stayed in Malaga, Marbella/Puerto Banus and Seville. And while we were in Puerto Banus, we decided to make a quick trip to Great Britain.

Yes – you read that right – we left the sunny beaches of the Costa del Sol so that we could enjoy an cool, overcast day in the city of Gibraltar. This British territory shares a border with Spain, and was just an hour drive from our hotel.

Our hotel was beautiful, but after a few days relaxing by the pool with a book, I got at little bored with my sedentary pursuits. Not the kind of bored that made me want to fly home and leave the fun filled vacation of suntanning and tapas bar hopping of course. But the kind that made me feel the need for a day trip.

So that morning at breakfast, I pulled out our trusty Andalusia book and said, “I’m tired of looking at topless German supermodels at the pool – I have to have an activity today.” And while Chris probably didn’t quite agree about the topless German girls, he was happy enough to leave the hotel to have a little adventure.

One of the reasons that we selected Gibraltar was that we would get to enjoy a drive along the coast. It was a beautiful day and the hour long cab ride felt more like minutes as we took in breathtaking views of sun sparking on sea.

Then we saw “the rock.” It’s almost shocking to see Gibraltar looming on the horizon. It is literally a giant rock under an ominous looking cloud. We immediately dubbed it, “Danger Island.”


While it’s not technically an island, it does kind of look like one as you’re driving down the coast.

I won’t go into detail about our arrival at Danger Island (where we brushed elbows with armed soldiers), or the time we spent there (purchasing hand stitched lace pillow cases and hearing jokes about Monica Lewinsky from the locals). But I will say that my only regret is that we didn’t take the cable car up to the top of the rock for a view of Africa. Oh well – maybe next time.

When we departed Gibraltar later that afternoon, I was very ready to put my shopping bags at my feet and close my eyes. Between the walking and the overcast sky I was feeling rather sleepy, and within minutes of entering the cab, I had dozed off.

At some point I felt sun on my face, and peered out from under my sunglasses to see that we were in fact, back in Spain proper. But the expected view of sun sparkling on sea had inexplicably been replaced by green hillside vistas.

While groggily trying to make sense of this new scenery, I realized that my husband was engaged in an animated conversation with our cab driver. This was no surprise since he feels the need to “chat” with pretty much anyone within a ten foot radius. But the fact that we were so obviously NOT driving back up the coast, made me extremely curious. I thought that if I could hear what they were saying, I would surely be clued into where the hell we were going.

Unfortunately, I don’t speak Spanish – so I was going to have to ask Chris to translate. Right before I sat up and announced my confusion though, the city girl in me held out a cautionary hand. Something wasn’t right. I mean, we were being chauffeured by the Spanish equivalent of a gypsy cab driver, and we were obviously not taking the familiar route back.

My first thought was that it might be a short cut. But in researching our day trip, we did look at a map which clearly showed the coastal road was the most direct route. I may be map-challenged, but Chris is practically a human GPS system. So he would be aware that we were taking the long way.

I had to conclude that we weren’t going back to the hotel – or at least not directly. And the fact that Chris and the cab driver were now BFFs indicated that they had made a decision to…well, I wouldn’t know would I? Because I was asleep when said decision was made.

At this point City Girl started fuming. What the hell was Chris thinking? This stranger could be a criminal for all we knew. To let him drive us into the hills of Spanish no man’s land and to not even consult with me about it was inexcusable. I would NEVER agree to this. What if he planned to take our credit cards and passports and then leave us miles away from civilization. He could be a serial killer. He could be planning to sell me into white slavery. We didn’t know anything about this guy! City Girl was irate. I was a little frightened.

So I decided to feign sleep while I worked out what could possibly be going on. And soon enough we seemed to have reached our destination. The cab pulled up to a small group of buildings and parked in what could only be described as a rural ally.

I sat up an started to ask Chris, “exactly what the hell is going on?” But I never had a chance. Within seconds, my companions were out of the car and too busy talking and laughing to give me any explanation. Chris barely glanced over his shoulder as he said something about coming in with them and that we would “only be a minute.” Whatever that meant.

City girl and I huffed as we picked up every bag in the cab and dragged them over to the big wooden gate through which the two men had disappeared. There was no way I was leaving all of my beautiful lace napkins and pillowcases in an unlocked cab with open windows.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see when I followed them in, but I couldn’t make any sense of the scene that I encountered. I seemed to have entered a courtyard. To my right were rows of kennels and cages. Dogs barked and birds squawked at our intrusion, and flies buzzed around my head. The general effect was something like a barnyard pet store. Directly in front of me was a paddock with a huge brown horse – apparently, the source of the divebombing flies. On the left was what looked to be the side wall of a house.

Our host had opened a door to the house and gestured for us to stay where we were, saying something that seemed to indicate that he’d be right back. Again, there wasn’t time to interrogate Chris about where we were, let alone why we were there. Before I could open my my mouth (which was already agape), the man was back, now holding a box.

He looked at me and asked Chris something in rapid fire Spanish. Chris looked in my direction, and then with a smile shook his head. He laughingly held up his hands and said something that involved the words “no” and “gracias.” I couldn’t imagine what he thought I didn’t want – but I was happy to finally hear Chris say “no.”

Then it suddenly came to me. It was so obvious what was going on, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t figure it out earlier. I gasped internally as I silently articulated to myself, “oh my god – he’s trying to sell us drugs.“

But before I could begin to puzzle out why Chris would have even agreed to this detour trip, I was being ushered back to the cab. In a cloud of unintelligible banter and every fly previously stationed on the horse’s butt, I followed them.

Safely back in the car and surrounded by my shopping bags, my anxiety began to fade. City Girl was back and mapping out the tirade the Chris would hear as soon as we were alone. At this point, I was certain that we were in fact, on our way back to the hotel. And I let out the last vestige of the breath that I was holding when that sparking sea came back into view.

We finally arrived in Puerto Banus, and the minute the cab pulled away I rounded on a happily waving Chris. “What on earth were you thinking? WHY did you let him take us to that, that…whatever that place was? Did he try to sell us drugs?“

Chris just stared at me in utter bafflement and said, “What?“

Exasperated, I replied, “that weird farm-like place! What were we doing there? He came out with a box and asked you something. Then you said, ‘no.’ Was he asking you if we wanted to buy drugs?!“

Still dazed, Chris said. “He asked if you wanted a ride on his horse. And we stopped there because his radio had died and he needed to pick up another one. That’s what was in the box. I figured that you were sleeping and we weren’t in a big rush to get back, so it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t charge us for the extra time or anything.“

Oh.

Well – that didn’t sound quite so bad, the way he explained it. I may have overreacted just a little bit. But I’m still a city girl at heart, and don’t assume that I’m safe with a stranger – no matter how nice they may seem.

I doubt we would encounter a situation like this again – and now that we have kids, Chris would be far more likely to take a conservative view of friendly strangers with cars. But either way, I like to think that he would remember my feelings on the subject, and at least give me a vote the next time we encounter the unknown.

We were newlyweds – and with every year of marriage, you get to know each other better. I now know that Chris is a good judge of character, and would never have put us in a situation that seemed like it could be dangerous. And Chris now knows that I prefer to be be informed of what’s going on – AND to be asked for my opinion before it is assumed.

But Chris did get one thing right all those years ago… You couldn’t have paid me enough money to sit on that fly-covered horse. Especially if it meant that I’d have to abandon my shopping bags.

Hope Floats…and Flutters

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Last summer we thought we might lose my mother. I flew down to Key West with my son Oliver on literally a day’s notice.

Her cancer came back after nine years of remission.

It was sudden and terrifying and full of uncertainty.

And darkness.

But on an island that practically trademarked sunlight and sparkling water, it’s impossible not to look for hope.

Hope is something I do well. And of course my talent for dissociation doesn’t hurt…but I’d like to think that hope is the dominant of the two.

Pretty much everything we did that week involved entertaining Oliver, and what could be better inspiration for hope than a child?

From pushing my father into the pool (thanks Dad – great idea for a game!) to walking up and down the docks looking at fish (luckily the Push Grandpa in the Pool game didn’t seem to translate), Oliver kept everything light. We lived in the moment and were thankful for the distraction.

By far, Oliver’s favorite activity was visiting the Key West Butterfly Conservatory. It felt like we went every day, and I didn’t mind a bit. There is nothing more uplifting than walking into a room filled with fluttering butterflies.

It’s very hard to capture pictures of butterflies, especially when they are in motion, so this picture my father took seemed like a mini miracle.

As did my mother’s recovery. Something that wouldn’t have been possible a year or two prior.

Hope isn’t always easy to capture – but maybe it’s not meant to be held too terribly close. Letting it surround us without trying so hard worked best for my family.

Our hope didn’t just float – it also had roots. Ones that grow stronger every day. My hope now constant, and it’s both solid and lighter than air.

This post is part of 7 Clown Circus’ Wordful Wednesday. Angie is another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.

Oh Right – I Was Going to Write About Our Summer Vacations…

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Honestly, I kind of forgot about this.

I kind of forget about a lot of things of course… But this is such an easy one! Post a few pictures, complain about whining in the car, embarrass future adult age children with online stories about nose picking… Yet – I did forget.

For the exact same reason that people don’t write in the beautiful journals they purchase: there never seems to be time when they’re thinking about it, and they’re never thinking about it when there’s time.

Blogging for me isn’t online journaling. I don’t chronicle every day and I don’t record even 25% of the important things in my life. Partly because I can’t imagine that each and every one would be interesting to someone reading my blog and partly because I don’t have a computer keyboard permanently attached to my fingertips (remember – I forget stuff). That would be cool though, right? I mean a detachable one of course. Someone invent that please.

But back to my point. I probably had a ton of ideas for funny, touching and insightful posts regarding the two family vacations we took this summer – but they’ve left my short term memory for the moment. I hope they’ll check in from time to time, but for now it seems that we lost touch indefinitely.

So thank god for cameras!

Here are some highlights:

Rehoboth Beach, DE – July 2009





And then George (the deceptively angelic looking little guy on the right in the last picture) knocked the camera out of my hands and broke it. It’s come back to life a few times – but I can’t download anything. Sigh.

Road Trip to Long Boat Key, FL – August 2009

(using the camera option on our video camera – kind of grainy, but sometimes it looks like that was what I was going for…)














I was going to include some video clips too, but I hear Oliver’s school bus coming around the corner… Maybe another time! That is – if I remember…

This post was part of Tribute Tuesday at Mayhem & Moxie. Another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.

Step Aside Barbie – Mona’s on the Move

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You may have noticed a new sidebar button on many of your favorite blogs:


Moxi Media is a new social media network of over 30 blogs. All written by women. All different. Because Moxi is ALL about diversity.

And embracing your inner superhero.

Because we all have one.

Like Moxi Mona.


And as I mentioned in my title, Mona’s on the move this week. She’ll be traveling across the U.S., “visiting” the sites of approximately 65 different blogs.


A complete list of the participants and their post dates, can be found HERE on Mama’s Losin’ It.


All of Moxie Media’s founding members, including Better in Bulk, Mayhem & Moxie, Mama’s Losin’ It, Scary Mommy, and Seven Clown Circus will feature these links on their blogs each day this week.

You can also get involved by participating in some of their weekly writing carnivals:

Tribute Tuesday (hosted by Mayhem & Moxie): Since summer has officially ended, take a moment to look back and pay tribute to one of the season’s most beloved past-times, the summer vacation.

Wordful Wednesday (hosted by Seven Clown Circus): Showcase and talk about a photograph from a favorite trip.

Writer’s Workshop Thursday (hosted by Mama’s Losin It): It’s Writer’s Workshop, Mama Kat style. Topics include travel, moxie and superheros.

Give Me Your Best Shot Friday (hosted by Better in Bulk): Superhero day! Post your best shot of your very own superhero moments.

I’m going to TRY to do at least a few of these. I am woefully behind on writing AND reading/commenting. But I will definitely be checking out Mona’s travels. Here are some highlights from what I’ve seen so far:

Mona modeling high end products from Ann’s Rants

Mona checking out the world’s largest ball of twine from The Extraordinary Ordinary

Mona the intellectual from The Petersons Go Public

Mona the groupie from Pooba

Mona the doula from Fighting Off Frumpy

That girl gets around! Hopefully she’ll make this an annual trip. I’d love to be on her itinerary.

Anniversaries, Hotel Rooms and the Full Monty

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Wednesday was my ninth wedding anniversary, and this weekend, my husband is giving me the best present EVER.

A room in a hotel for just me.

Meaning no kids.

Meaning no him.

Meaning no laundry.

Meaning no cleaning of any kind because there will be paid staff to take care of all of that.

(God – I miss business travel sometimes…)

Not that I don’t love my kids and my husband and…well, I guess I don’t love laundry – but I have enough Monica Geller in me to like it maybe a little more than I’m supposed to… I don’t even feel like I need a break from my family.

But I just really love being by myself. And I never am.

So I’ll be staying here this weekend:




And I’ll be having a spa day here.

I’ll also be meeting some friends out for drinks and lunch. And I WILL actually see my husband tomorrow night for dinner (though I’ll get to relive my college experience and send him on his way after he drops me off at my door…I was a nice girl in college…) So it won’t be lonely alone time.

I’ve got some books to read and some art supplies to try out (finally a use for the in-room newspaper – I won’t want to ruin the “ivory and khaki shag carpeting” with paint or charcoal dust!) And there is nothing I like better than a $50 in-room movie that I never actually considered seeing, but couldn’t find anything better in the options.

I mean, I really miss business travel sometimes.

The spa part is particularly exciting since I haven’t done that in years. There never seems to be any time (or money for that matter) and I’ve gotten really good at home pedicures, so other than a couple of haircuts a year, my maintenance is fairly low.

There is only one thing that gives me pause. You see, my husband set everything up for me and when I called to confirm some scheduling I found out that one of my treatments will involve wax.

Down there.

Where no wax has never been before (don’t judge! I’m not a hairy person and I’ve always been able to take care of these things myself…)

And it’s not just a little maintenance. It’s the full monty so to speak.

So I may be limping around a bit tomorrow. But dammit, I’ll be by myself!

Wish me luck.

My Children Are Gross and Annoying

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You think I’m kidding?

I’m not.

You think I’m awful?

Okay – maybe I am. But I’m just stating facts. As adorable as they may be, my children have their flaws, and the toddler/preschool years have been a real treat.

Let’s start with “gross.”

Oliver picks his nose. And he eats it. I probably shouldn’t admit this because there is nothing funny about it. No justification through laughter and commiseration. It’s just gross and embarrassing and I LIVE for the day when I can tell him how he used to torture me with this revolting (and seemingly unbreakable) habit. Later in life, I will in turn, torture him with the knowledge that he was a nose picker (and eater) as a long past due punishment. Probably in front of his high school girlfriend.

Also, he’s obsessed with dirt.


Meaning that he can’t walk past a patch of dirt and NOT shuffle through it. He likes the big dust clouds that result since they are reminiscent of the steam clouds he sees in his bajillion Thomas the Tank Engine DVDs. He calls this “down tracks” (as in trains going down the tracks). I get it. I know what he’s going for. But to the rest of the world? It just looks like a giant four year old in a cloud of dust. We’ve started calling him Pig-Pen. Which sounds much cuter than it actually is.

But the real gross out factor of this love affair with dirt is that ANY form of dirt or dirt-like substance will do. Rolling around in sand at the beach? Acceptable. Shoving your hand into public ashtrays on the street? Disgusting. “Oliver! No dirt!” has become my signature bellow around the neighborhood.

Then there’s George.


And George? Pees. Everywhere. On the carpet, on the stairs, on the basement couch (by the way – you should TOTALLY come over to watch movies one night…sit down, make yourself comfortable…), on the bathroom floor IN FRONT OF the toilet… It’s like having a puppy. Except I can’t whack him on the nose with a newspaper when he does it.

There is no potty training-related excuse for this behavior because he LOVES going potty. Especially flushing. While Oliver gained 10 lbs eating mini marshmallows as he sat on the potty, George has needed no incentive beyond flushing. And he’ll keep going if I let him. We’ve had to enforce a strict one flush rule in our house for fear of George running up the water bill – or just breaking all of the toilets. Which is entirely possible since he will go from potty to potty if I don’t watch him. It’s a “round the world” of potties if you will. Maybe he’s marking his territory? That would explain all of the peeing on the floor…

While I wouldn’t say that Eleanor is gross, her delight in anything gas-related would put a twelve year old boy to shame. I’ve already written about this – but it doesn’t seem to be a phase that she’ll outgrow anytime soon. She also loves to simulate the noises, and has become quite good at it.

I’m trying to get her to replace her squeals of laughter with a simple “excuse me” when she does “furt” (her pronunciation), but she’s not picking it up. Here is a recent conversation we had:

Eleanor: Mommy! I FURTED!

Me: Well what do you say when you fart?

Eleanor: I say PPTHTTTT!

Me: Let me clarify that…What do you say AFTER you fart?

She only came up with “excuse me” when I gave her the answer.

Oh – and if you think it’s crass that I actually let her use the word “fart” instead of “toot” or “pass gas” or some other more ladylike variation…we’re so beyond that at this point…I don’t even try.

Eleanor is probably more annoying than she is gross though. So I’ll start with her on that topic.

Eleanor has to be the center of attention at all times. And she’s a quick study. So I have to think long and hard about what might constitute positive reinforcement.

She used to be such a tough little cookie and would barely pause to brush the bloody gravel off her knees after a fall while playing outside with her brothers. So OF COURSE I would fuss over her when she did cry. That always meant that she must be really hurt.

I’m not entirely sure when this changed, but at some point my little Camille figured out that a few tears would be her golden ticket to spotlight city. So now she’s always hurt.


I should really count the number of times that she says “I hurt my neck” on a given day. I’m not sure why that’s her injury of choice, but the fact that she usually points to her stomach or her elbow when she says it, doesn’t provide any clues. And she can squeeze out some real tears too. She’s got skillz, that one… But you know – it’s really annoying.

My mother recently noticed that every time she talks to Eleanor on the phone, she gets an update on all of her granddaughter’s boo boos.

Good god, but it’s like she’s an old woman! If you ask her how she’s doing, you’ll hear all about her ailments “well…I’m coming down with a head cold and my sciatica has been acting up…but I’m getting by…” Sheesh!

But her twin brother, George has an even more annoying method for getting attention: he screams.

And when I say, he screams, I don’t mean he cries or yells or even bellows. I mean, he makes noises that would rival the shrieks of any Von Helsing vampire bride. He can shatter glass with his screams.

As an “intense” child, George seems to find a multitude of triggers for his screams. It could be something as obvious as a sibling snatching a toy from him to more unusual transgressions, such as my insistence that he wear pants when out on the front lawn.

Either way – his screams are unsettling. And cause sharp pains in your ears. Hopefully, he’ll grow out of this. Or cultivate a successful future career as an opera singer.

And last but not least, there is Oliver. The dirt flinging is pretty annoying – but he’s got so much more to offer than just that!

I’d have to say that he is most annoying when he’s feeling particularly boisterous. Sensory issues play a huge role in his special needs and this boy really likes physical contact. He doesn’t just sit next to you…he sits on you. And if you think you’ll just teach him a lesson by sitting on top of him for a change, you should save yourself the effort. He’ll love it.

I can’t bend over to pick up toys without bracing myself for the inevitable impact of his assault. He’s not a violent child. He just feels the need to lunge at the people he loves.

I’ve decided that I’d make a fantastic line backer now (minor league of course since I’m only 5′ 6″ and not exactly beefy). I can shift my center of gravity on a dime. I now have a sixth sense for detecting a sneak attack, and I rarely lose my footing. I went to Fordham University, so my sparse knowledge of football history includes Vince Lombardi. And I think I’d make a very respectable eighth block of granite.

But for all of their annoying qualities, I’m sure the feeling is mutual. I can only imagine how sick they are of my constant nagging:

“Don’t touch that!“

“Get out of the street!“

“Come back here!“

“Don’t hit!“

“Don’t eat that!“

“Don’t throw dirt!“

“Not around the neck!“

I suspect that a lot of eye rolling goes on behind my back. “God – she’s so shrill.“

So we all have our quirks. But I’m not nearly as gross as they are. Unless of course you count the mass quantities of junk food I put away each day. Though I don’t consider that gross as much as just flat out survival.

Esty Shop(ping) Dreams

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Ever since I discovered Etsy, I’ve had daydreams of having my own little shop.

I’m so inspired by the wonderful artists that I find, and I wish I had something lovely to make and sell.

I would design beautiful clothes for me:

The Canary Dress by Holly Stalder (also at www.hollystalder.com)

…and for my children:

Branches Reversible Jumper Dress by mountain aven baby

I would design handbags made with gorgeous textiles:

Mum Orangy Red by Brooke Galardi of BeeGee Bags (official site with more bags: www.beegeebags.com)

And I would create detailed illustrations of beautiful things:

Anna Spiro’s Chair by Anne Harwell of Annechovie (you should make her wonderful blog, www.annechovie.blogspot.com, a must read!)

But I don’t do any of those things…

What I can do is a little scribbling, which I wrote about recently. In fact, I chose to practice with pictures of Brooke Galardi’s lovely bags:


I have neglected my new hobby with such a busy summer and first week of school. I’d like to get back to it though. And maybe if I improve, I’ll use my Etsy artist muses as inspiration to become one myself.

What is your current muse?

Don’t forget to grab a button and add your Monday’s Muse link over at Cinnamon & Honey every Monday!

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Polarn O. Pyret Winner and Other Giveaways to Enter

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First: the winner of MY giveaway!


Congratulations Tara from Two Wishes! You’ll be contacted with information how to collect your prize.

If you are looking for other giveaways to enter, I’ve seen a couple of great ones this week.

First, everyone’s favorite daddies-to-be (also known as Jeve of John and Steve are Having a Baby) are hosting a Hot Daddy/Hot Mama Giveaway. They have some very good news to announce, and what better way to celebrate than handing out free stuff to loyal readers? Prizes include:

1. Scout Journey Pack Diaper Bag from PoshTots
2. BABYBJÖRN Baby Carrier Synergy
3. WeeGo Baby Bottles from Life Factory
4. Pacifier Protector and Changing Station from Diaper Dude
5. $30 Gift Certificate from Freshpair.com
6. Nursery University on DVD

That’s quite a haul! You have until October 10 to enter.

Next up is a chance to win a print from none other than the fantastic Janet Hill. Visit Whimsy by Victoria for full details! I’m new to Whimsy by Victoria, but I’m a longtime fan of Janet. You may remember the interview I did with her last year. She’s as lovely as her paintings. If you’re not familiar with her work, run don’t walk. It’s magical…

The Island of Misfit Toys

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I’m over at DC Metro Moms today writing about something very close to my heart. Please read it even though it’s a bit long (of course it is – I wrote it!) and comment if you have your own story to share, a different perspective to present, or even if you only have time for a quick “so-and-so was here.”

The Island of Misfit Toys

Parenting is hard, and with school starting for Oliver this week, I’m in a very “we’re all in this together” frame of mind…

The Island of Misfit Toys

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(click image if you have never heard of the “the island of misfit toys”)

On Friday, I went to the open house for my son, Oliver’s preschool. He’ll be in the afternoon class with the older kids, but the morning class for the younger ones was there as well, making it twice as chaotic and confused.

Everyone had questions about bus schedules, school forms and cafeteria lunches. Everyone tried to keep one eye on their children while maintaining appropriate eye contact with the teachers providing answers. Everyone forgot half the questions they wanted to ask as well as each other’s names seconds after every awkward handshake.

And since I had to bring my two year old twins along for the ride, I was probably the worst of the overwhelmed, overstimulated bunch. But there was one conversation that didn’t end with the tug of a small hand or the sudden realization that a child was no longer visible.

I met one woman who tugged at my heart with her obvious loneliness and her own perceived invisibility. Her need for connection and understanding was palpable. And I recognized all of this in her pleasant smile and bright small talk because I have felt all of the same things myself.

I too have a special needs child.

All parents of children with special needs have felt alone and confused. And we all need to find others. People just like us, who know what it’s like to watch other children effortlessly join playground games and amaze grownups with their precocious conversation. We’ve all been on the other side of that social fence, blending in like chameleons. Hoping that no one notices our own child’s challenges and questions them. Or worse – makes uninformed excuses for them.

I listened to this woman’s story about how friends she’s had since childhood now avoid her. They have typical children and no tolerance for her son’s “bad” behavior. They either don’t want to put up with it, or possibly they just feel uncomfortable around her. But the outcome is the same. She is alone. She doesn’t fit in with them anymore.

I gave her my phone number and told her to call me any time. Maybe we could have a play date since her son and my twins are very close in age. My twins are what I’ve learned to call “typical,” but I have no fear of exposing them to a child who isn’t. They live with one already. And I know how much that little boy, like his mother will need friends who understand.

Oliver is four years old and has been in Fairfax County’s special preschool program since he was two. Looking back, I realize how incredibly lucky we were to find out about his delays so early on.

He was our first baby, so we had no means of comparison. Sure, we have plenty of friends with children the same age, but when they’re so little, those differences can easily be explained away. You can say that all babies develop at different rates (true) and that their very unique personalities would encourage different areas of strength (also true). But without that personal experience of watching another child grow and learn, you just don’t have that instinct that tells you “something isn’t right this time.”

Some mothers claim that even without older children, they just knew. But I looked at my big (and I mean HUGE), healthy 18 month old and thought he was fine. In fact, I thought he was better than just fine. I thought he was beautiful, wonderful…miraculous. And he was…he is. But he does have significant speech and social delays.

He did then too. But he was so young. And so much could be explained away. AND he had just become a big brother to newborn twins.

What child wouldn’t withdraw, act out and even regress a little? So what if he didn’t quite fit in with the others? His whole world had been turned upside down. Of course it affected him. It all seemed pretty normal to me. But months later I had to admit that he just wasn’t catching up. He wasn’t like my friends’ “normal” toddlers.

With some prompting from concerned relatives, we took him to a private child psychologist who established that he was in fact very delayed and would benefit from early intervention as soon as possible.

Then we got smart and started talking to people. We discovered that there were county funded programs for special needs children (although we weren’t actually using that term yet…not yet…) And we contacted Child Find.

We learned that we never needed to pay for that first round of testing since our tax dollars afforded us free services. But of course this is the lot of special needs parents – to continually learn what we didn’t have to do, what we should have done, what we could have given our child, but just didn’t know…

But we quickly learn to move on from that and not beat ourselves up. Or at least we try.

It’s hard to accept this inability to identify your child’s need. Your baby cries and you feed him, change him or hold him. He gets sick and you take him to the doctor. He grows and you buy him new clothes. Your job is to meet these needs. Any and all needs. It is your new reason for being. The most important job you’ll ever have.

And then, one day you find that you failed.

But these new needs allow no room for self flagellation. There is too much to learn and do. And to waste time on guilt seems pretty selfish.

So does the new source of anxiety for a special needs parent: the fact that you no longer fit in either.

Special needs don’t start and end with the child. They are part of the family as a whole. You become a group of misfits. A band of intrepid explorers, thrust into uncharted territory without a map or a compass. All families are different, as are the journeys they take together – so no one gets a guide. Survival hinges on everyone doing their part. Loyalty to the team is imperative. There are no solo missions.

Unfortunately, the leaders rarely volunteer for the post. It’s the lottery ticket that no one really wanted or expected. And not one of us could claim to be instantly skillful team captains. Basically – it all really sucks, and our initial reaction is to avoid ever leaving the ship.

Suddenly the voice mail from a friend wanting to set up a play date doesn’t make you smile and run to check your calendar. It makes you begin the endless cycle of “what if” worrying: “What if he doesn’t want to be there and cries? What if he plays rough and hurts the other child? What if he refuses to listen to me and I have to go through the motions of yet another ineffectual time out, just to look like I’m TRYING to be a good parent?” And the deepest, darkest of worries – the one we so rarely speak aloud: “What if he embarrasses me?”

It’s so tempting to go for the isolation option. To stick with your own kind.

But all of that changes when you meet other special needs families. It’s so comforting to be with the other misfits. They get it. They don’t look uncomfortable when your son is rolling around on the ground. Or kicking up dust clouds without any regard for the people next to him. Or pushing other children to get their attention. They don’t assume that his age or size would make him more mature. They don’t assume anything. They just smile and nod. There’s no need for words. They just know. We all know.

And that is what special preschool has become for me. A safe haven. An oasis in a desolate landscape. A private island where no one gets voted off. Acceptance is mandatory. In fact, it’s second nature.

The children get the special services they so desperately need, but they also become part of a community. They meet children with the same challenges, with worse delays, with higher functionality and with very limited scope for improvement. They are all misfits. All broken to one degree or another. But all deserving of love and appreciation.

They are safe on their island, and they are loved. Their needs are recognized and prioritized, and their triumphs – no matter how small – are celebrated.

The parents spend no more time in the special preschool classroom than do parents of children in private preschools. But our hearts are there every second of the day. And not just in the expected way that parents claim to leave a piece of themselves behind at drop off. For those of us with special needs kids, those classrooms aren’t just a place for learning – they are a place for hope.

And oh – but isn’t that the most beautiful, terrible, spirit lifting, soul crushing, incandescent word that a parent can say, feel, pray….”hope.”

Because that’s what it boils down to in the end. We sit on that island with our polka dots and square wheels and inability to fly and our…what exactly was wrong with that doll again? I never did understand that one… But we all sit there together. And we hope.

Together.

Which is the opposite of alone.

But it doesn’t end there. It can’t. Because hope isn’t enough. You can’t live on an island.

It’s nice to have a port in a storm, but we all live in the real world where (to really beat a metaphor to death) it isn’t always smooth sailing. People are unkind. They are busy and cranky, and they would rather gossip than research. The real world isn’t perfect and neither are the people in it.

Which brings up an interesting point: no one is perfect.

No child is perfect. No parent is perfect. No family is perfect.

We’re all flawed. We’ve all felt like outsiders at one time time or another. We’ve all felt lonely – even invisible. So in a way, we’re all misfits. Atypical.

And what defines typical anyway? I think it’s simply a majority rule. But a majority based on sweeping generalizations.

Which is fair. Because who has time for case by case living?

But I would ask one thing of the more typical misfits out there. Please try to make time for compassion.

Don’t assume that a child is “bad” based on their behavior. Don’t assume that their parents aren’t trying. Don’t assume anything.

You never know when you might be on that side of that fence. And when you are, you’ll appreciate a little empathy. Not sympathy – never sympathy – but an acknowledgement that things are usually more complicated than they appear. Something that everyone knows from personal experience.

Your polka dots may not match my square wheels. In fact, you probably look like that totally normal doll (I think she may have had a psychological problem?) But we’re all misfits in our own way. And you should make a little time to recognize this.

Because it takes one to know one.