0 Kids Make Us Say the Darndest Effin' Things

When Big Bro was little, I used to tell my friends all the adorable, funny things he said.  They'd crack up and urge me to write them down.  "These are priceless," they'd say.  "You don't want to forget them."  He's so precious--how could I forget? I wondered.  Well, I forgot.  I know, I suck.

What has stuck with me through the years is all the crazy stuff I've said.  I don't know where it comes from, but somewhere along the line, I lost the plot.  I groan like Marge Simpson.  Often.  When Big Bro told me I'm like a cartoon mom, I yelled, "Marge Simpson is real!  And she is me!  Or she is I.  I is her.  Oh, fuck it."

My children led me to this.  And I know, as an autism mom blogger, I tend the emphasize the impact of autism on our family and on my brain.  But guess what?  Both boys have turned me into a ranting lunatic.  My NT child is just as guilty as my ASD child.

So let's play a game.  I will list some crazy-ass things I've said, and you guess who made me do it!  What it the ASD Boy, or NT Big Bro?

1. Get the whipped cream out of your pants.
2.  Minnie Mouse doesn't want to see your penis.
3.  What's the rule about light sabers in the car?
4.  PEE IN THE POTTY, NOT THE FRIDGE!
5.  Don't rub your butt on the store window.
6.  Don't rub your butt on Harry Styles.
7.  No pants, no ice cream.  These are the rules.
8.  Get your foot out of your brother's potty!
9.  Do not wipe your nose on my butt!
10.  Just because you rub something on your penis, it doesn't make it yours!
11.  Did you really just poop in your hamper?
12.  Play the piano with your fingers, not your butt.
13.  If you pee on the potty, I'll give you candy.

Are you sensing a theme?  Yes, boys are gross.  That's my theme.

Answer key:  1) Big Bro 2) The Boy 3) Big Bro 4) The Boy 5) Big Bro 6) The Boy 7) The Boy 8) Big Bro 9) The Boy 10) Big Bro--he was trying to lay claim to a chocolate bar 11) Big Bro--he just wanted to see if he could 12) The Boy 13) Both of them.

As I'm finishing this, the Boy enters the room, butt-naked except for a large blanket arranged around his shoulders in a regal fashion.  He is pushing a stroller with Mickey and Minnie in it.  

"Mommy, sit on the couch please."
"But you're not wearing pants.  I couldn't possibly sit on the couch unless you put on pants."

Add it to the list.
 

Detail: Kids Make Us Say the Darndest Effin' Things

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 Autism Travel Log: Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Shove--Part 1

I've been a mom for eleven years, so I should know by now to keep my expectations low.  When Big Bro was born, I planned to breast feed.  I had images of serene bonding time with my angelic newborn.  Dressed in a white eyelet nightgown, with my hair cascading in long, flowing locks, I would relax in a white wicker rocker with my baby suckling contentedly, as the sun crept in through the gauzy curtains.  The reality was louder and messier.  He wouldn't latch on, neither of us could stop crying, and the whole thing ended with me standing topless in the kitchen, applying cold cabbage leaves to my tits.  (It's not as sexy as it sounds.)

So I've learned a thing or two about expectations versus reality.  But I really thought I wasn't crazy to imagine a fun and educational trip with my family.  After all, we'd had a very successful trip to DC six years earlier.  The boy cooed and giggled in the baby carrier and Big Bro was charmingly interested in everything.  Let's do it again!

Only now my adorable older son is eleven and turning into a surly tween, and his brother cannot be confined to a baby carrier.  But eff it, we're going anyway.  Philadelphia, here we come!

My husband was working in Atlantic City and would join us later, so I had to drive the three and a half hours with the kids by myself.  Three and a half hours of whining, seatbelt unbuckling, and fighting over leftover Halloween candy.  Three and a half hours of cursing my husband under my breath for getting to drink and gamble, while I dealt with the bitching and eye-rolling.  Three and a half hours to wonder if this was such a good idea.

Effin' tigers are so cool and nobody cares.

But I was determined.  The Philadelphia Zoo, you guys!  Check out all these amazing animals! 
Tigers!  Look at the tiger!  I said, look at the tiger!  It's right effin' there.  Will you look at the effin' tiger for eff's sake?  I did not drive all this way for you to look at pigeons.  French fries?  Are you kidding?  You just ate.  Fine, I'll buy you $6 french fries, but then we are looking at some effin' animals.  Ice cream?  It's freezing.

"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!" the boy wailed.
"We ARE in Pennsylvania," I insisted, but he was having none of it.

How about the carousel?  Yes, the carousel was good.  How about the train?  I bought train tickets before seeing the actual train, which was a glorified golf cart with some wagons attached to it.  It just went in circles.  Big Bro and I went with him, and made snarky comments about the scenery.  The boy made choo-choo sounds, so we thought he was liking it, until we disembarked and he made his next demand.

"I wanna go to Disney World!"  Translation:  This place is not cool.
"We're not going to Disney."
"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!"
"We're IN Pennsylvania!"  Effin' hell.  Time to meet my husband at the hotel.

After much hectic driving through city traffic and begging for some cooperation and/or quiet, I pulled the car up to the hotel, at which point the boy cheered, "Hooray!  Pennsylvania!" 

That's when I realized that Pennsylvania means hotel. 

(Note:  A whole lot of other crap happened, but nobody has the attention span for long posts, so I'll write a part 2.)

Detail: Autism Travel Log: Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Shove--Part 1

0 Autism Dress Code

Many kids have "lovies" they get attached to.  Whether blankets or stuffed animals, they are prized possessions to our kids and therefore, prized possessions to the parents.  We know all hell would break loose if something were to happen to them.  The house is burning down!  Grab the kid and blankie and go!  When my older son was two, he loved his Elphie.  Elphie was a stuffed elephant with matted fur and hardly any trunk because the kid loved to chew on it.  Elphie was also absolutely rank because I was never allowed to wash it, but my son didn't mind.  He slept with Elphie on his face.  He adored Elphie.  So when Elphie went missing on Christmas morning, I actually prayed to God.  Please, God.  I would trade all of the presents just to get Elphie back.  Help me find Elphie, God.  We found him in the Christmas tree on New Year's Day.  But for that week between Christmas and New Year, my son did not sleep.

This effin' thing is in sorry shape.

That was Big Bro.  My ASD kid is a little different.  He obsesses on clothes.  A few years ago, he took a liking to a couple of his brother's Phineas and Ferb shirts and made them his own.  They were so big, he'd wear them like dresses.  He'd wear one and carry the other around like a security blanket.  I'd have to wait until he got in the tub to wash them.  Then the boy caught on to my scheme and decided he didn't need to take baths anymore.  Then he'd want to wear them to school.  I had a dirty, smelly kid in some dirty, smelly shirts, but his teacher was kind enough not to judge.

Every once in a while, the shirt obsession rears its stinky head, and I'm back to the cycle of laundry and deceit.  

Sometimes, the boy will obsess on something and make other people follow his dress code.  This responsibility usually falls to Big Bro.

     "Wear green shirt from Grandma!" the boy demands.

     "But I don't have a green shirt from Grandma.  Grandma bought me a red one," Big Bro patiently explains.

     "Green shirt from grandma!  GREEN SHIRT FROM GRANDMA!" the boy shrieks, drags Big Bro into his bedroom, and presents him with a t-shirt.  It seems Grandma gave the boy two green shirts and Big Bro will have to wear one, even if it's three sizes too small and makes him look like a Hooters chick.

Sometimes the boy will insist that they wear certain hats.  These hats are almost always a) out of season and b) embarrassing for Big Bro.  

     Oh, we're going shopping for Easter outfits?  Let's wear Santa hats! Oh, you don't want to wear a Santa hat?  Then I'll just throw a snot-flying tantrum.

And he does.  The boy pitches the biggest fit at the worst possible time, and I end up telling his brother, "Oh, for the love of God!  Will you just wear the Santa hat already?  Please!  Do you want to listen to this all the way to the mall?!"

I'm not even going to get into the time the boy tried to make his brother wear Mickey ears to baseball practice.  

I know.  I make it work.

Then there was the time with the effin' bike helmets.  One morning, I was rushing around, trying to get ready for work.  I knew I was going to be observed that day, so I wanted to get my power-teacher look just right.  My hair wasn't cooperating.

I heard a knock at my bedroom door.  I opened it to find the boy standing there, butt naked except for his bike helmet.  He held my helmet out to me.

     "Mommy, put helmet on, please."

     "Honey, Mommy can't right now.  I'm getting ready to---"

     "PUT HELMET ON, PLEASE!"  he wailed.  

A pair of dress shoes appeared behind the boy.  I looked up to see my husband, all suited up for work, wearing a bike helmet and a look of total resignation.

     "Just put on the fucking helmet," he whispered.  

So I did.  And you know what?  We went about our morning routine--all of us wearing bike helmets.  My husband bumped his head on the cabinets while making breakfast--"Good thing I was wearing this helmet!"--and the boy had to wear a button-down shirt because he wouldn't remove the helmet so we could pull a shirt over his head.  But it was all right.  I left for work in a good mood with a happy, well-protected family.  

And my observation went well, despite the helmet hair.

Detail: Autism Dress Code

0 Doing Right By My "Typical" Kid

I am so lucky.  I have two beautiful boys.  One of them, J, you've heard about.  "The Boy" is five, has autism, and often sets the tone for the house. He's hyper and loud and funny.  You've heard all about his crazy hijinks.

But he's not the only one.  My 10 year-old, N, is the unsung hero of the house.  He's had his room trashed, his homework ripped up, and his sleep interrupted by his brother.  He rarely has both parents in attendance at baseball games and scouting events because one of us has to watch the boy.  He's had to leave playgrounds and parties early because of meltdowns that weren't his own.  He's given up his favorite shirts and hats because the boy wanted them so badly.

He didn't sign up for this, but he doesn't complain too much.

When we're out at the beach or the playground, he runs interference between his brother and other kids.  At the lake, he warns newcomers to the dock.

"This is my brother.  He likes to push people into the water.  He doesn't mean anything by it.  Just say 'quiet hands' and he should leave you alone."

He's a master of redirection.  At the dock, for instance, N realized that what J really wanted was to hear a scream and see a splash.  So, with his friends, he made a game of it.

"Use your words, J.  Do you want me to jump in?"
"Yes!" 

And N and his friends would do screaming cannonballs into the water, and the boy would laugh delightedly.

Those are the good days.  On bad days, nothing works and we go home.

My older son is the de facto Autism Ambassador to the neighborhood.  He takes it in stride.

"Why does your brother make those noises?"
"He has autism.  It just means he's happy."
"Why does your brother do that thing with his hands?"
"He does that when he's excited."

He's also fiercely protective.

"Dude, your brother is weird."
"Yeah?  You're weird, too.  He has autism.  What's your excuse?"

He's so good at this, but he's just a kid.  N has some attentional issues himself, and often does some pretty boneheaded things.  We try not to freak out when this happens.  "Just think before you do something, pal.  I need you to think," is a common refrain in our house.  We don't want to put too much pressure on him.  When he leaves his saxophone on the bus, I don't say what I'm thinking.  I don't yell, "Get it together, man!  You are our only hope!  You will have power of attorney over all of us one day!  The fate of this family is in your hands!"

That's a bit too much for a 5th grader.

We try to make sure that he feels special, too.  The whole family turns out for his school concerts--grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts and uncles.  He has a rather loud cheering section at his games.  My husband and I also take him out to movies without his brother.

I worry that it's not enough.  Can I really say that taking him to Iron Man 3 makes up for the fact that every restaurant decision is based on whether or not there are gluten-free options?  Or that a secret ice cream cone after a baseball game compensates for the thousands of times I will drag the poor kid to the zoo this summer?

I worry that I'm screwing up my first born.  But then he'll say something like, "Mom, if being a major league baseball player doesn't work out, I think I'll be an occupational therapist."  And then I feel better.

For a little while.





 

Detail: Doing Right By My "Typical" Kid