Signe and I grew up on the North Dakota plains, and we spent our time roaming through the countryside, prairie grass tickling our legs and grasshoppers whizzing through the air. We were left alone, and we took full advantage of the solitude, of the quiet landscape, of the slow moving creek that we had all to ourselves. 

School was another story. Looking back, it was obvious that we were different. We couldn’t understand playground etiquette, and forget about the rules governing sleepovers. My god, those were brutal (making a mental note to explore school age trauma in upcoming blogs). We sang in choirs, took ballet, competed in artistic roller-skating competitions, and were mentally and emotionally exhausted, mainly from the constant social interactions that pulled at our souls one snide comment at a time. 

We plowed ahead: college (and more college for Signe) work, husbands, kids – which created a whole new universe of awkward. Negotiating playdates, communicating with teachers, trying to work with doctors and occupational, speech and physical therapists, and special ed folks for our kids while struggling with physical symptoms and social issues of our own.  

When my third kid (this is Lizzi writing) was being evaluated for autism, the psychologist asked me if my child “had trouble reading between the lines.” I reassured her that I would get my kid into the eye doctor right away if something like that showed up. She just blinked slowly at me, then pointed our that my older two children had autism and that it ran in the family. You’d think that I would have gotten the message that I too, could *possibly be autistic, but hints like that went over my head for years. 

Skipping ahead (again, we plan to explore sooooo many of these topics in our new blog) Signe and I both got evaluated for autism a few years ago, and to the surprise of no one, we were diagnosed with autism. We joined a wonderful group of people (professionally and self-diagnosed) who are neurodivergent, which included our dad and our children. Looking back at old family letters and photographs, we are pretty darn sure that the autism gene goes waaaaaay back, from our great granddad who preferred the company of goats and his prized roses, to our beloved aunt that we never had the privilege to meet, who would sooth herself by rocking behind the family couch.  

We have done our best to raise our autistic children like how our autistic father raised us: to be kind to ourselves and each other, to enjoy the small gifts of life (watching the birds, savoring a good meal, reading a great book), to keep working on our goals, no matter how weird or strange they may be to others, to ignore the naysayers, and to believe in ourselves.