0 Fakebooking and Lies by Omission

This is my Facebook status:  My son got the game ball!  I'm such a proud mom!  :)

And it's true.  Today was opening day for Little League and my older son's first time in the "Majors."  He pitched--one inning was a 1,2,3--and had a great offensive game as well.  He crushed a line-drive double off a smack-talking pitcher, but rather than talk smack back, he just nodded and smiled.  He stole three bases.  They won.

And I missed all but the last half inning.

My ASD kid, The Boy, had an epic meltdown before the game even started.  Correction:  It wasn't a meltdown.  It was a rage.  He raged like I have never seen him rage.  And he hurt me and almost caused a car accident.

Before the game, the boy asked for ice cream and to go home.  I thought, OK, I'll take him for some ice cream and we'll be back in time for the game.  I got him into the car and drove in the direction of the ice cream shop.  And for some reason unbeknownst to me, the boy utterly lost his shit.

I don't know what triggered it, but he started screaming.  He took off his glasses--new ones we had just picked up this morning to replace the ones he broke last week--and broke them in half and threw them at me.  I pulled over to see what was the matter, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and hit me.

No ice cream, then.  I re-buckled his seatbelt and drove home.

I don't know if I can adequately describe the trip home.  "Nightmarish," "terrifying," "horrific," and any other drama queen words would be an understatement.  He scratched at my face.  He pulled out chunks of my hair.  He kicked me in the head.  He screamed and raged and punched and bit and completely lost control of himself.  I kept having to pull over so I could wrench his fingers from my hair or his teeth from my arm.  Both of us were sobbing.  Who was this child?

We finally made it home and I ran him a bath to calm him down.  I sat on the bathroom counter and emailed his doctor from my phone.  I'm not sure what I wrote, but I'm sure it was an incoherent, blubbering mess.  I sent my husband a text basically telling him that I hated his guts because he got to coach Little League and do typical parent things and I got to get the shit kicked out of me.  (This was totally unfair of me.  My husband is super-involved with both of our boys.  I was feeling sorry for myself.)  I cried a little bit.

Something you should know about me.  We're four years into this "journey" (and you know what?  Fuck that term, "journey."  I hate it.) and I've hardly ever let myself cry.  We got the diagnosis and I cried for about 30 seconds and got to work.  I cried the first time he hit someone.  Oh, and I cry for happy things and every damn commercial featuring a dog.  But for myself?  Not so much.

So I texted my husband and asked how Big Bro was doing.  Turns out, he was doing great.  He was pitching great, and I was missing it.  And that's when I really broke down into big ugly tears with loud, heaving, grieving-whale sobs.  My kid pitched a 1-2-3 inning and I didn't get to see it.

Then I got a second text that he got hit by a pitch. 

"Get out of the tub," I said to the boy.  "We're going back to the field."

We got back in time to see the last three outs, which my son pitched really well.  The smack-talker, hoping to unnerve him,  yelled "FAIL!" just as he released the last pitch.  It did the little shit no good.  The throw was a strike and the game was over.  The final score was 16-4 and the head coach gave Big Bro the game ball.

So you see, my son did get the game ball and I am a proud mom.

I just didn't tell them the rest of it.

Now if I post the proud mommy moments, but don't share the nasty stuff, doesn't it stand to reason that other people do the same?  Fakebooking is like farting or picking a wedgie--everyone thinks they're the only ones who do it.

And by the way--next year, I'm attending coaching clinics.  I will assistant coach and my husband will wrangle.  'Cause eff it.

Detail: Fakebooking and Lies by Omission

0 Zen and the Art of Oversharing: How You and This Effin' Blog Saved Me

A year ago, I felt exhausted, pissed off, and alone.

The boy wasn't sleeping, he was having behavior problems at school, and some potty-training relapses.  Every afternoon, I would anxiously open the communication book, silently praying for good news.  My stomach would twist in a knot when there wasn't any.  I spent my evenings cleaning poop, my nights in a groggy purgatory between sleeping and waking, and my days fueled with crazy amounts of caffeine.  Our speech therapist broke up with us, our occupational therapist was out-of-network, and the bills were mounting.  I was an angry, twitchy stress-ball.

And nobody had any idea.

Surrounded by well-meaning people who didn't understand our situation, I put on a brave face and acted like everything was fine.  I was complimented about my "great attitude" and told that God must have chosen us for this special assignment.

"I don't know how you do it!" they'd say.

"I don't do it!" I wanted to shout.  "I'm hanging on by a fucking thread and it's all I can do not to scream at you for your seven hours of sleep and your normal-people problems!"

Good, good people would give me books about Temple Grandin, and instead of feeling grateful, I wanted to throw them at their heads.  You know, that's really great that she's this brilliant scientist/researcher/professor, but my kid can't wipe his ass, I'd think to myself.  I wasn't ready for Temple Grandin.  I still don't think I'm ready for Temple Grandin.  (With all due respect to Dr. Grandin...but we're still in triage mode most of the time.)

Meanwhile, I had this secret little blog that I would write when I felt frustrated or worried and confused.  I didn't show it to anyone.  I wanted it to be a place where I could yell at the world without worrying that the world might yell back.  I vented, but it did nothing to make me feel better.

Another Pleasant Valley Sunday...

Then one day, I read a post by Autism Daddy that sounded so familiar, so like my own feelings, that I took a risk and put a link to one of my posts in the comments.  A stranger on the thread read it and messaged me to tell me that she liked what I wrote and felt the same way.  She sent me a friend request.  I accepted.  This was the first time I'd ever accepted a request from someone I didn't know in real life, but as we exchanged short but important messages, I felt like I DID know her.  (Yes, Amy.  It's you!)

Then I discovered Autism with a Side of Fries, and that settled it.  I had to "come out."  Here was a woman who was somehow inside my head, and being a Jersey Girl, she even sounded like me!  And she was telling her story and she was funny and honest and I thought, I bet that feels good.  So I showed her my blog, and she showed Fry Nation, and the rest, as they say, is...

...Where the story really begins--when I found my people.  When I found people who didn't wrinkle their noses and say, "Oh, really?" when I mentioned some simple term, like "fecal smearing."  No nose-wrinkling here!  Just head-nodding!  Just, hell-yeah-me-too-poop-is-everywhere-but-what-can-ya-do-right?

I wrote about poop and people didn't act like I was pathetic.  I wrote about sleeplessness and nobody suggested we try a "bedtime routine."  I wrote about the full moon, and instead of telling me that I was being superstitious, people said, "My kid, too."

I realized that if you get enough of the right people together, our wildly stressful, insanely funny, batshit-crazy existence can seem kind of normal.  Our normal.

It was the best feeling in the world.  I finally found people who understood, and I'm so, so grateful.

Finding these friends hasn't fixed anything, but it's changed everything.  My kid still has sleep problems.  My kid still has behavioral issues.  My kid still has ass-wiping difficulties.  Autism isn't going anywhere...but now I'm not going at this alone.

How can I show my appreciation for all the support I've found this year?  How can I tell you that you are more effective than a therapist and a helluva lot cheaper?  I couldn't come up with a poem to express how much you all mean to me, so I'm going to leave you with the words of my favorite modern American philosopher:

There's not a word yet
For old friends who just met.
--Gonzo the Great

Peace.

Detail: Zen and the Art of Oversharing: How You and This Effin' Blog Saved Me

0 The $22 Temper Tantrum

We generally avoid the mall.  It's 40 minutes away, noisy, and full of my students.  But there was stuff we needed to get and I had a coupon.

I sometimes bribe the boy with the promise of french fries if he behaves.  He wasn't too awful, but we didn't stay long.  (He let us know it was time to go by prostrating himself on the floor in front of a jewelry kiosk.  It was awesome.)

We got out of there and went to lunch.  We thought he'd be happy.  This time, though, it wasn't french fries that he wanted.  He wanted to go to the "Star Store," or Toys R Us.  (There's a star in the logo, so there you go.)  OK, eat your french fries, and we'll take a quick walk through the Star Store.

Ha-effin-ha.

So my husband and the ten year-old waited in the car, and I took the boy into Toys R Us.  He didn't wander or look around.  He didn't notice the gigantic Monsters University display.  He walked with purpose, making a beeline to the action figures.  He hadn't been there in months, but he seemed to know exactly where to go.

The Phineas and Ferb toys.  I took a quick look, and thought, OK, good.  Nothing he doesn't already have.

Ha-effin-ha.

He picked up a set of figures with a little car.  $22.  He hugged it to his chest.

"I want Phineas and Ferb toys, please."
"Yes, sweetie.  You have these at home.  Let's put this back."
"I want Phineas and Ferb toys!  I WANT PHINEAS AND FERB TOYS!"
"You have these at home."

This effin' thing.

But he was inconsolable.  He threw himself on the floor, clinging to the toy, and moaning, "Box, box, box!"

That's when I realized just how badly I'd screwed up. See, it didn't matter that he already has these toys.  It also didn't matter that he doesn't actually play with most of them.  See, what mattered is that these Phineas and Ferb toys were in the box.  He wanted them, but he was not going to get them.  I'd be damned if I was paying $22 for a box.

I somehow got the box away from him and marched him out of the store without having to resort to the fireman's carry.  I was so jazzed by this minor victory that I ignored the people staring at my sobbing son.  I set my face in an expression that I'll call "determined serenity"--if there is such a thing.

By the time we got in the car, he was in full-blown tantrum.  He was screaming, sweating, and kicking the back of my seat.  The funny part is that while he was rhythmically and savagely kicking my seat, he was screeching, "PLEASE!  PLEASE!  PLEASE!"  Good manners!  Then he noticed that our car was moving away from the store, and belted out, "GO THIS WAAAAY!  GO THIS WAAAAY!"  Our 10 year-old pointed out that he sounded just like Steven Tyler, and I about burst with pride.  Not only did he handle his brother's meltdown with humor, but he also made an Aerosmith reference.  Excellent!

Eventually, the boy wore himself down enough that my husband and I could hear each other over the screaming.

"I didn't want to set a precedent.  And I sure as hell didn't want to spend $22 on a box," I explained.
"No, you did the right thing," my husband replied.

Just then, the boy took off his shoes and flung them at the dashboard.

"But you know," my husband continued, "whatever money you saved on not buying the toy, we will more than make up for in alcohol consumption tonight."

Detail: The $22 Temper Tantrum

0 Squeaky Wheel

The boy is in his third year of special needs pre-K.  (He's a November baby and so he aged out of Early Intervention with almost an entire school to go.)  In previous years, we'd get lovely reports from his teachers.  So happy!  So charming!  What a sweetheart!

The boy is in a decidedly un-charming phase.

I'm starting to think that's a good thing.  You see, when he wasn't a problem, we weren't getting a lot of input as to how to help him.  Now that he's being a royal pain in the ass, his teachers, therapists, doctors, and parents are being really proactive. 

Today, the boy had a victory!  We all had a victory!

He's been hitting and pinching when he's frustrated and not getting his way.  When he gets angry, his teacher prompts him with a picture of an "angry face" and cues him to say, "I'm mad."  Then she asks him to tell her what he wants, and he eventually calms down and uses his words.

Well, today was a big day!  During circle time, the boy grabbed his teacher's hand and was about to pinch, when he stopped himself.  He let go of her hand, looked her in the face, and said, "I'm mad."

"Why are you mad?"

"I want the monkey book."

"OK, you can work for it during work time."

And that was it!  He accepted that and returned to the circle.  He didn't hulk out or throw a fit or anything.  And he did it all without prompting.

A miracle.

If you a parent of a child on the spectrum, you understand what a big deal this is.  If you are not, you probably feel sorry for me.  Don't.  It's been a good day.

Detail: Squeaky Wheel

0 "Quiet Hands"

My son hit a baby in the childcare room at the gym.  I knew something was wrong by the quiet way one of the office people approached me on the elliptical.  A director was sitting outside the playroom with him, and my boy had no sense that anything was wrong.

When he saw me, his face lit up and he said, "Mommy!  Wanna go on the swings!"

No swings for him.  We've talked about this.  Very recently, he's gotten "aggressive."  He will pinch and hit me if I don't give him what he wants and will push other children for no reason.  He'll even say, "No pushing!  Pushing is bad!" as he pushes someone.

This is not the boy I know.  The boy I know might not listen, might laugh at you when you tell him to do something, but he is a sweetheart who would never hurt anybody.

Except he did.  I could hear the baby crying in the playroom as the mother emerged to say there was no calming him down and she was just going to take him home.  I felt awful.  She was just another drained mom who wanted an hour to herself.  I tried to apologize, but I could barely get the words out for fear of crying and she could barely look at me.  Who could blame her?  What do you say to the mother of a giant four year-old who's just hit your baby?

He was wearing his "Peace, Love and Autism" shirt.  Irony of ironies.

It's not just the embarrassment or the fact that I don't get an hour to myself, either.  What really breaks my heart is that my son doesn't seem to understand that hitting is wrong.  He sees the kid crying and it doesn't affect him.  He sees me crying and it doesn't affect him.

"Mommy's crying," he observed.
"Yes, Mommy is crying because hitting is bad," I replied.  "Hitting makes Mommy sad."
Then he smacked me in the face.

Reading this, you would think I have some kind of spoiled monster on my hands.  That's not him at all.  My son is sweet and affectionate and loves to cuddle.  I don't know where he went.  I've tried all the cue words from school, the "quiet hands," modeling appropriate behavior, time-outs, consequences, and nothing seems to stop him.

After a good cry, I resolved to call his doctor in the morning.  We need help.

Detail: "Quiet Hands"