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Among all the little heartbreaks lately, this one is pretty up there: Joseph was in the pantry, foraging for a new favorite tea. He pulled out a Get Regular tea box, gave a little gasp and said joyfully, “I’m having this one!Get Regular

I looked at him and the world stopped. Trying to keep my voice light, I told him that the name referred to regular bowel movements. What I didn’t say, but what was implied, was that it did not take kids with autism and turn them into run-of-the-mill regular kids.

“Awwww,” Joseph responded, putting the box aside and continuing his search.

Doesn’t life make you want to flail and wail sometimes? 

A while back I wrote about the desperate need for social skills groups in our small town. I’m happy to report that the first one started yesterday, and that Joseph was in it! He walked out telling me he’d made a new friend. Given that things are pretty despondent socially at his school and we’re both just barely holding on waiting for 8th grade to finish up, this was a happy circumstance. The new friends waved goodbye in the parking lot and there was deep warmth between them. 

While the social skills group takes place, I am teaching those parents and more the “regular” (sorry, I couldn’t resist using that word) Parenting the Love and Logic Way® series followed by a 4-week add-on, Supporting Youth with Special Needs™. As each parent stood to introduce themselves yesterday, I felt two things: Empathy and awe. Empathy for the long, difficult path each has trod, and awe at the amazing people they have become through it. There is something about those who have visited deep, dark places: There is no need to break down egos to reach their authenticity. They stand there in all their agony and glory, and no pretense is necessary or even possible.

In other words, we are a tribe of sorts. The organization who is sponsoring this wants us parents to feel supported and no longer isolated, and I feel that potential deep in my marrow. Who knew, at a psychologist’s proclamation of autism 13 years ago, that I would wind up here, feeling such tender joy in my heart at this opportunity.

I guess that, if regular is not in your life description, there are profound options for union and happiness that may even surpass those drinking from the “regular” box.





“Mom, I can’t find my swimsuit!”

“Bummer. What are you going to do?”

Little exchanges like this are true Love and Logic moments. Don’t take on the kid’s problem, Love and Logic tells us. Turn it back to your kid with the simple little “What are you going to do?” question.

Is this applicable to special needs kids? You bet your flappy hands it is — perhaps more so even than typical ones. Special needs kids really need a focus on thinking for themselves, handling their own challenges, and doing things without reminders. Is Love and Logic harder for parents of special needs kids? I believe it is. It is super easy for us to be overprotective of our kids, to want to set things up to be a success for them. To protect them from not experiencing the consequences of their disability.

Love and Logic made such a difference in my life as a parent that I got trained to be a presenter. A few times a year now, I co-teach a six-week series with my friend, Ellen. This is one of the many gifts brought to me by autism. Standing up there and being really authentic about our own struggles helps the parents share what’s going on in their lives. Parents don’t attend these classes because their family lives are working: we might get parents who are having all-out arguments daily with their kids, or forcing kids into massive rebellions with their parenting style, or who are about to just plain give up on their kids. It’s sobering. And humbling. And amazing to watch how the simple techniques of Love and Logic can make such a difference.

A huge part of Love and Logic is the concept of empathy. Not sympathy, where you’re feeling sorry for your kid (and often want to avoid or fix the pain)– but empathy, where you go down the rabbit hole and feel with your kid. Let’s say, for example, that we make it very clear that we’ll take our kid to the ballgame if his/her room is clean by noon.

No reminders from the parent once the expectation is clear.

Noon comes and — you guessed it — the room is still a mess. Before we deliver a consequence, we first express genuine empathy: “Oh, this is so sad. We can’t go to the ballgame.”

If the kid is anything like my Joseph, begging begins. “Oh please, Mom. I’ll do it now, fast! I really will! Here I go!”

“Oh honey, I know this meant a lot to you, but what did I say?”

Then come the tears. This is where I will hug my son warmly and tell him how much I love him, how I’m sure he’ll do better next time. And that, as they say, is that.

Such a powerful little lesson: If we don’t meet our expectations, there are consequences. Is this an understanding that will be meaningful for a lifetime? Of course. Do we have to teach it a million different ways? Of course. Do we have to teach it five million different ways if we have a special needs kid? That’s been my experience.
Beyond that wonderful lesson, there is also the understanding that, not only does Mom mean what she says, but she is also on her kid’s side. Thanks to empathy, parent and son are side by side, looking out at the kid’s behavior and learning from it. Oftentimes these experiences bring a new closeness – as opposed to the anger, resentment and mile-wide divide between kid and parent that can result when consequences are delivered differently.

I could go on but I won’t…for now. Suffice it to say that, of all the techniques and interventions we’ve used with Joseph, Love and Logic stands high on the mountaintop as one of the most powerful. If you haven’t looked into it, I suggest you do!



Twenty-two years ago, on Labor Day Monday, our house burned down. Blue Eyes and I were working fifteen miles away when we got the

It was a neighbor on the phone. He said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but your house burned up and everything you own is gone.”

“Everything?” I asked, unbelieving.

“Yes, everything,” he answered.

“Everything?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes, everything,” he answered again.

“EVERYTHING????” I asked, as the reality started to sink in.

“Yes, everything,” he answered.

Toward the end of our drive home, we turned onto our rural road and five fire trucks passed us, one at a time. We knew where they’d been, and we knew that nothing was left.

Ashes. Everything we’d owned was ashes.

The fire had been put out, but the burn continued. It felt like a burning to lose so many of the things I loved. It burned to have no clothing, no photos, no toothbrush. It burned to have nowhere to live. It especially burned to be helpless, to be so in need of other people’s generosity.

One of the things I remember most about that time was that, only days after the fire, I went to a business convention with a colleague. One of the booths was giving out free t-shirts, as they often do, but they had a restriction: only one per company.

They were really nice shirts. George and I looked at each other. “Oh, go ahead,” I told him. However, I said it with an agenda: George knew of my situation, so I was pretty sure he’d insist I take the shirt.

He didn’t. Happily, and with some greed, he claimed a shirt in his size and walked away.

I remember that burn, too: the indignant burn of one more nice thing that had come close to my grasp and slipped away.

I only write about this because this morning I was listening to Gangaji, and she talked about the burn. I didn’t know anyone else had ever defined it as a burn, so it caught my interest. She spoke of our wants, our desires, and how, when we don’t get them, it burns.

That’s why autism can burn. It’s the club we never wanted to join. It’s taking our kids to the social skills group when we’d rather they be in scouts. It’s staying home from the crowded gatherings when we’d rather be part of the gang. It’s often a slow, steady burn, but sometimes it bursts into flames.

One of our biggest personal burns centers around music. Blue Eyes and I are very musical, but whenever we try to play music, whether it’s live or on a CD, Joseph has screamed, cried, and basically thrown a fit. We have let that control us for many years now.

jamboxRecently I taught a yoga class, but arrived without anything to play my music on. A student came forward with his Jambox, a  great-sounding little speaker that played my music beautifully. I was so pleased that I came home and ordered one for myself.

How, though, to deal with the Joseph Factor? — I wondered. I decided to start in one place: my bathroom. When I took my morning shower, I played music, loud enough that I could hear it with water raining down around my ears. When Joseph complained, which, of course, he did, I expressed empathy, but told him it was my  Jambox and I could do what I wanted with it.  If he didn’t like it, he was welcome to leave the area.

After a few times, the crying, moaning and complaining stopped. Then he started hanging out in the bedroom next to the shower so that he could listen to the music.

Then Blue Eyes started playing while he took his shower. No complaints this time.

My next push is going to be to play a little bit of Jambox while I make dinner. This ought to be good. Get ready to burn, Joseph.

He still hates my harmonium (keyboard) playing, though. I used this to my advantage the other day. Joseph was messing around, taking a long time to get ready for bed. I was nagging him to stay focused, hurry up, and all the other parental drones that happen around bedtime. Then my Love and Logic training kicked in, and I stopped nagging.

I remembered that I can’t control Joseph. The only person I can control, with any success at all, is myself.

So I said to Joseph, “I’m feeling stressed that you’re messing around at bedtime. I’m going to go play  my harmonium in order to calm myself down.”

It was great. “No, Mom!” Joseph said, ‘I’ll focus! I’m focusing now!”

And indeed he did. For a few minutes. Then he forgot and started mucking around again.

I didn’t say a word. Just sat down and played a lovely, uplifting chant on my harmonium.

By the time it was over, I felt better and Joseph was completely ready for bed. Can’t beat that!

In the Hindu world, the fire ceremony is a sacred act of purification. You offer into the fire all the obstacles, desires, etc that are blocking you from Self-realization — from knowing your oneness with the Divine. Twenty-two years ago, Blue Eyes and I had a big, real-life fire ceremony, but, happily (I guess) the burning continues.

My wish for you and for me is that we experience the burning with gratitude and awareness, knowing that what is being burnt is all that is non-essential to our highest Selves.

Autism and Spirituality: the Dance