I got to meet her. In person. For at least 14 seconds. In that fourteen seconds I chose to talk with her about chin fat. She probably wants to be my best friend now. She probably can’t stop thinking about that woman in St. Louis who was just so charming. Maybe some day in the future I’ll be able to attend another book signing and get a do over.

Until then, I just want to share the top ten reasons I think Ree Drummond hung the moon.

10. Her teeth and dimples are the cutest.
09. She is my sister in excessive perspiration.
08. Her food is yummy.
07. Her blog is funny.
06. Her book is impossible to put down.
05. Her ideas are inspiring.
04. Her photos are beautiful.
03. She frequently uses the phrase, “Help Me Rhonda”.
02. She’s so down to earth.
01. Her top two fans are, how should I say it? Well, stunning.

If you haven’t heard of her, you simply must now. My friend April introduced me to her blog in June and I’ve been a huge fan ever since. The Pioneer Woman.

This just happened. I’m not thinking about it too much as I write it or my mind will go completely Friday night DATELINE and may never come back. Also, it’s way too early for bourbon.

I just got out of the shower and was blow drying my hair. Ellie came into the bathroom still wearing her penguin nightie and winter boots (don’t ask). She handed me a flyer with an ad for tree services and said, “It wasn’t Daddy, just a man who gave me this.” Translation: Holy shit! I was naked in the bathroom, unable to hear sounds over my blow dryer, and my tiny nugget just answered the door to a stranger.

As the mom of a little one on the spectrum, I couldn’t be more aware of the challenges that presents. On a daily basis. Or by the minute, whichever comes first. And, let’s face it. For the three people who read some of my stuff, you’re well-aware, I’m not exactly shy about sharing those challenges.

From early on the things which have come naturally to me as a mother are often the very things Ellie doesn’t want. A second instinct had to kick in and push the first one down the stairs. Sometimes I get so focused on building that second instinct to give Ellie what she needs I don’t realize the initial instinct is feeling pretty bruised from that nasty fall.

Ellie never wanted to be hugged or snuggled. When she would fall and hurt herself, I, like any mother, would run to her aid. Just the movement of me getting close to her made everything worse. By two thousand percent. Yet, I continued to do it for some time and then finally gave that instinct its quick shove down a flight of stairs.

In the last few months, Ellie gives me hugs. Not the ones where she used to put her arms at her side and lean her forehead on my collar bone just to shut me up hugs. These are real, mushy, soft, larger-than-life, swallow me whole, melt in your mouth AND in your hands kind of hugs. And, when she gets hurt now, she comes to me to snuggle the pain away. And as I hold her, I cry. Every time. Every single time. While she thinks I’m healing her boo boo, she has no idea that her superhero secret powers are healing mine.

We had a play date on Friday with a family we met at TouchPoint (a four and five-year-old). The little girl actually has the same teacher as Ellie but in the afternoon class. Small world. Anyway, Ellie was SO excited, which alone is a major breakthrough. All morning she asked if they were here yet. Ten minutes before their scheduled arrival, Ellie announced that she was going to stay in her room with the door closed. Ellie never stays alone in her room with door closed.

When our friends arrived, I went to tell her. She said she wasn’t ready to come out. I told her that was okay and I would set the timer for five minutes, come back to get her, and then we could come out together to say hello to our friends. She did come out and in her own time had lunch with us all at the table, let her friends play with her toys, and on occasion interacted a bit. She did beautifully. Following is a conversation that took place between the two of us that evening.

Ellie: You know Mom. I was feeling a little jealous this morning about coming out of my room to play.

Me: Do you mean nervous, honey? Jealous is a word that means you want something someone else has.

Ellie: No. I meant jealous. I was feeling jealous that I wasn’t able to come out of my room to play.

She knew what she meant. Stupid mother. Sometimes the line between talking with a preschooler and another adult in our lives becomes extremely blurred.

There are a couple of things I’m struggling with lately. One, as a person who LOVES being with family and friends whenever possible, having a little one who is diametrically opposed to that particular approach to life creates the ultimate social conundrum. Thankfully, now that Ben is finished with school I am afforded the opportunity to spend some wonderful time with friends. That has done wonders for my mental stability. The issue though is attending or hosting functions that include all of us. We can’t just go somewhere or have people over. There’s prep time. Social stories. Practicing what will happen and how long it will take. Once prep time is covered, the actual event involves assisting with interaction, troubleshooting sensory issues, encouraging new things, distracting uneasy moments, and redirecting potential meltdowns. Constantly. From beginning to end. When all is said and done, I usually end up pretty exhausted and feel a tad sorry for myself that I didn’t get to socialize.

The second issue I’m battling (mostly in my head) is handling Ellie’s rigid routines. I get out-of-my-mind excited at the prospect of doing something new and fun with her. Case in point. She has one of those big wheel looking trikes with a handle on the back for adults to help out with when needed. She’d paddled it around the driveway for a good hour the other day and loved it. I told her that the following day we could drive it on our walking trail and she couldn’t wait. The three of us packed up and no sooner did we get there and she didn’t want to try it, didn’t want us to help, instead screamed and wanted to go home. This went on for fifteen minutes. Is this situation a big deal? No. It’s just that 93% of all new situations are like this. Today I got some sculpey clay to make little bugs with her and it was the same thing. Not wanting to do something new. My ends are frayed and frankly, I’m running out of “Hi, I’m Julie your Cruise Director” enthusiasm.

I’ve been treating my blog, well, like a red-headed stepchild. The truth is, I have been having an affair. A full-blown, throw caution to the wind, ignore all responsibilities, giddy, sick to my stomach, mind-reeling, love affair. With crafting. I’ve had little time for anything else and it’s been glorious. It feels fabulous to make things again. Not only are handmade gifts meaningful, they can often be made for a fraction of the cost of store-bought gifts. Everyone wins.

These are my latest no-sew applique projects. I’m starting to collect fabric because it’s all about inventory.

Here are some blocks made from scrapbooking paper and then Mod Podged to painted plain blocks found at Mecca Hobby Lobby.

Also at Hobby Lobby, I found 2″ canvases. These are so great for teacher gifts (shown). When I redo Ellie’s room (after I complete my re-purposed, dyed, white tshirt, shag rug project), I plan to paint or decorate these canvases with images of her favorite insects. What three-and-a-half-year-old girl shouldn’t want a room full of bugs? The ideas are reeling and I can’t wait to get started.

With dr. kit in hand, Ellie took charge of examining a sick meeper (beloved blanket). And, none too soon. Light pink meepers is a dingy shade of gray and I suspect typhoid. I’ve enjoyed listening to her carry on the conversations of both doctor and meeper.

Dr. Ellie: Now meeper, I’m sorry you’re sick. First I’ll listen to your heart with my mediscope. Take a deep breath. Now say “ahhhhhh” so I can see your throat. This instrument with the light is for looking in your ears. Now, turn your head.

Meeper: But doctor, that’s my eye!

In October, Ellie wanted to be sure there were no ghosts in her room at bedtime. Promising her that they are just pretend seemed to do the trick. We’ve had to tell her every night since that there are no ghosts in her room. The list has grown and our goodnight routine now consists of the following conversation.

Ellie: Mom, can you tell me all the scary bits.

Me: There are no stinging bugs, scorpions, aliens, ghosts, or monsters in here, Sweetie Pie. Have sweet dreams.

Ellie: Thanks Mom. I love you

A few nights ago Ellie must have had a bad dream. She asked me if there were such things as mean mittens. I told her no. Only soft, squishy mittens that keep our hands warm. Apparently, last night (which in her world means any period of time prior to present day), when she was older, she heard a noise on the wall. It was hopping mittens and they tried to tickle her and she didn’t want them to. So now, when she has to go potty, she won’t go in the bathroom until I answer her question, “Are there any hopping mittens in the bathroom?”.

This playbook gets trickier and trickier by the week.

Last Wednesday was our maiden voyage at school and out in public in our undies. Well, for Ellie. I was wearing undies too, but that’s not as noteworthy. Just a point of detail, we both had pants on as well. I don’t need anyone thinking the Wilson girls are dancing through St. Louis without clothes. Also, Ellie has put her dudes in the potty three times. I’m calling it official. She’s through with diapers. Her final croup de gras was whizzing on the floor in fresh pants. While looking right me. As I was telling her to remember she no longer wears diapers.