Yesterday was a “get through it” day. The needs of my 7-year old autistic son, Benjamin, trumped the plans and preferences of everyone else. On those kind of days, I choke back parenting principles to let safety and regulation be the priority.

Wyatt, his 4-year old brother, tried to process the long, hard day at bedtime. With tears streaming on his pillow, he said he didn’t want his brother to have hard days. Wyatt confessed he had disobeyed because his brother was disobeying, and he wanted to have the same kind of day as his brother. Wyatt loves his brother fiercely. He does everything he can to stay in close proximity “to make sure he’s ok” and puts Benjamin’s needs above his own.

My youngest sons and I are one month into our USA trip, with at least one month to go while paperwork clears. We’re currently in my hometown, staying with a woman who’s like a second mom to me. My mom drove 24 hours from the west coast to be here in Texas with us.

Right now, my boys and I are struggling with allergies and bad coughs. My autistic son’s autoimmune condition is activated, making regulation impossible. There’s a whole lot of coughing, crying, and “body alarms going off”. Still, the admin has to get done. Passports, social security cards, drivers license renewals… lots of uncomfortable government waiting rooms.

Last week, my youngest sons, mom and I flew from Cape Town to Atlanta. We had no idea how my autistic son would handle the long trip. The kids didn’t sleep, but we stumbled through Atlanta’s airport with joy. One last security gate to go before a deep breath and a six hour layover.

That security line was like a scene from a horror movie. Hoards of Spring Breakers flights had been cancelled at the same time as a partial government shutdown. We walked into a huge room of at least 1,000 people, almost no employees, and immeasurable chaos. People were screaming, pushing, shoving - tired travelers and unpaid employees alike. By this time, we were in a medical emergency. My son was not coping well. Disgruntled employees said no one would help me.

I’m resharing a post from last year as I prepare to take my first trip back to the USA in over 10 years. My two youngest sons will come along for their first time in America!

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My neurodivergent six-year old is into creating nonsensical trivia. A recent car ride went something like this...

Him: "What color is an oval?"

Me: "Green."

Him: "NO! PINK! How many bricks are in a wall?"

Me: "Probably 96."

Him: "You were SO CLOSE. But sorry, it's 89."

Benjamin woke up at 5am vibrating with excitement about celebrating Valentine’s Day. We have never, not once, done a “thing” for Valentine’s Day. Needless to say, I felt wildly unprepared. I do, however, keep an emergency stash of treasures hidden away. I dug deep and found these two hand-me-downs given to us months ago. Valentine monkeys!

Friends and family of the Ladds, I’d like to introduce you to Johnny Ladd (Benjamin’s) and Johnny Firetruck Rainbow (Wyatt’s). I have already duct-taped Johnny’s leg on, but all monkeys and boys are living their best Valentine’s lives. 🐵🚒🌈

The little guys and I had a Saturday morning splurge: a trip to the blueberry farm! Despite the summer heat in a greenroom, it was easily one of the most special mornings we've had in a long time. It felt like a gift from God. Jam was able to stay fully present, fully himself. He reached for his brother's hand during the tractor ride and found peace in the unhurried pace of plucking blueberries from the bush. My favorite part was…

I had an encounter with my pride this week.

I was born with a fierce stubbornness that's helped me jump in, without looking back, to what God has called me to. I drove a U-haul from my small hometown in Texas on my 22nd birthday. I moved to Los Angeles to start work and seminary in a city where I didn't know a soul. I moved to Africa on my own at 25 and became a mom. Somehow though... Even though I've lived on donations for 16 years...

I asked my three-year old son, Wyatt, what I should write the call to worship about. He replied without hesitation, "You should write about everything because I just love my family so much."

Context makes that statement so profound. We've just finished a long, hard school holiday. Our six-year old son, Benjamin, struggled at the edge of autistic burnout. There were few peaceful moments and many meltdowns. Little Wyatt adores his brothers and has a special connection to Benjamin. We've watched Wyatt's love for Benjamin grow exponentially in the last months, even while Benjamin lashed out against him and dominated the attention of the household.

It's 2026! Some are working out new year's resolutions, while others are still shaking the dust off of 2025. I tuned in (a week late, as usual) to a raw WhatsApp conversation about the new year in my neurodivergent parent support group. Weary parents disclosed visceral reactions to the social standard of dreaming big for the year ahead or even celebrating it as they stagger across the finish line of 2025. They found solace in relatable stories and sentiments, and then resolved together to take one day at a time. I was too late to join the conversation, but I related deeply as I read it.

Our beloved van might have had its last adventure, and we’re back to being a one-car family for now. We’re still in the thick of a long, hot summer holiday. The people (specifically, me) are going crazy.

But here’s the cool thing... We’ve unintentionally written some default codes into our family system for a time such as this…

The South African school year just ended, but it ended extra early for my differently-wired son. His sparkle has been losing its luster since the middle of this year. School breaks, weekends, and our family's accommodations brought no relief or restoration. He loves his school, family, soccer team, and the church community growing around him more than you've ever seen a six-year old love. But even good old-fashioned childlike zeal costs him much…

Better question: How many times did Wyatt shout, “I’M RIGHT!” when he guessed the right answer?

We kicked off school holiday with a tour of a sea bird conservatory and rehabilitation facility. Wyatt was absolutely FERAL. He and I were asked to leave the tour for the sake of the penguins. But not before he answered the tour guide’s questions correctly with his favorite number.

How many times a day does a penguin poop? ONE HUNDRED.

They had uncovered every bug on our property before 7am - and brought them all inside for me to see. So hit the park for some fresh bug hunting terrain. You just never know what a Saturday morning’s going to be until you get there.

We’ve found another happy place in our beautiful city. The Atlantic Seaboard promenade is not new to us - but exploring the rock pools at low tide has become our new favorite pastime this spring. (We’ve been three times in a week.) Benjamin catches crabs. Wyatt plucks pin cushion stars and throw rocks. We fill our faithful traveling aquarium (a plastic measuring cup). And we always pause to reflect on the Creator. The infinite details. The immeasurably loving masterpiece. He is so much more than good. But He is indeed so so good.

Another Friday. Another field.
Jam was there to play some serious rugby. Wyatt was absolutely unhinged. He brought the best kind of combination of soccer, basketball, rugby, and spontaneous dance moves. This is one of those videos I made for myself to watch over and over. The dance solo at the end is next level.

Join me on a journey…
A story of a boy and his snail.
Snail goes missing. Snail is found. Snail professes his love for Christ. Snail goes on road trip. Snail survives a fall. Mom vacuums soil. This is Saturday morning.

A perspective I didn’t expect from a bug hunt…

A sunny winter afternoon. One in shorts. One in sweats. We were armed with cups and plastic spoons - on mission to find every bug in Africa. We found exactly zero. It might have had something to do with the intensity in which those flimsy plastic spoons hit the dirt, the sheer volume of the hunters’ excitement, or the fact that they can turn anything into an extreme sport. This particular bug hunt included a long-jump practice, rock rolling, sprint jumping, cat counting, and flower petal pulling. Just not bugs…

Benjamin didn’t want to go to his rugby training today. He’s faced waves of anxiety about the sport he loves so much since he saw his brother get carried off the field on a stretcher. Lifa is on the mend, but Benjamin still felt scared today. But we got there. We showed up without expectation.
And GRIT came out of that kid! …

Our six-year olds's auto-immune condition has been flaring up. My nerves crackled and popped all night last Friday from the intensity of caring for him, and I couldn't sleep at all. On Saturday, we watched a medic team carry my oldest son off the rugby field on a stretcher. My three-year old and I rushed to the hospital to open his file while my husband rode in the ambulance with him.

You'll never believe what happened next... I LOCKED MY THREE-YEAR OLD IN MY VAN IN THE HOSPITAL PARKING LOT. My sleep-deprived, nerve-frazzled, broken heart was just about ready to stop beating at this point.

In our current season of life, we don’t go to OT. We go to fields. We bring balls and brothers. It’s everything. (Lifa is often with us, but he’s still recovering from his rugby injury.)

Hard kicks. Full contact tackles. And a PRO MOM game of kicking balls up a hill (recorded on double speed bc it was so intense for so long). It’s always been the best way for Benjamin to find himself and feel like himself…