Most Talented? Not Here.

If I were to ask any of you, "What's my talent?" I guarantee that 99% of you will answer that I sing. Y'all, I don't just sing. I SING. It's what I do to feed my soul. It's always been how I serve and how I worship. I do it even when I don't realize I'm doing it. I've sung for so long, it's part of who I am. I feel most comfortable in my own skin when I'm singing.

Clay. Hates. It.

Yeah, you heard me. Clay hates when I sing.  He loves music and he listens to all kinds of songs on his ipad.  Anyone elses's singing is just fine. My singing is torture for him. If I sing one note or even talk in a sing-song manner, he loses his shit. I'm not allowed to sing in the car. I get yelled at from the back seat. If I sing in the shower, he will come in the bathroom, screaming and crying real tears, open the shower door, and beg me to stop.  When I sang at my grandfather's funeral, and then three years later at my grandmother's funeral, he buried his head in my husband's lap and squeezed his hands over his years. Whenever I was asked to sing at church, he refused to go. I haven't been asked to sing in over a year, and he has let it be known that he is so glad Mommy isn't singing on the microphone. He was playing soccer in the backyard this afternoon and I took that time to sing some Etta James. He burst through the door screaming at me, demanding I stop. Before you start suggesting I just do it anyway, you have no idea. We have tried to work through this since he was 14 months old. We have worked with his speech therapist. We have worked with his occupational therapist. We have worked with his ABA therapist. We clearly haven't been successful. The only time it's remotely allowed is when it's bedtime. But even then I have to sing the same 5 songs, in the same order, in the same key. He has perfect pitch. Really, bro?

My sweet boy has overcome so many obstacles and has far surpassed my initial expectations. He's smart. He's sweet. He's funny. He. Is. So. Pure. Autism may hide in the shadows most of the time, but it really does rip a stinky fart now and then just to remind you it's there. We spent last week in San Antonio with my best friend and her family. Clay was on cloud 9. We played. We swam. We ate junk food. We stayed up late. It was a wonderful week. We came home and he's terrified to sleep in his own bed. Wanna know why? He's afraid of Adolf Hitler. Adolf. Freaking. Hitler. How in the world does he even know about Adolf Hitler? Because he heard about him on an episode of his favorite tv show, "The Office" and wanted to know more. Hubby gave him the most appropriate description, but the kid knows how to google. Thanks a lot, Michael Scott. Thanks a lot.