So, it's that time of year when we take a moment to think about what it is for which we are grateful. Besides being grateful for understanding the rule of dangling participles (see previous sentence--and if you still don't get it, take a grammar refresher), and the fact that Kahlua and coffee is a damn fine combination, there are a few more things on that list. I'm not really the kid of person to say this crap--so better to write it here and then hide away with my blushes:
I am grateful for:
1) Motherhood. As much as I may bitch and moan and wish every morning for those pre-baby days of sleeping in and having responsibility to NO ONE, it has changed me for the better. While I may miss the carefree days of being able to pop out and do what ever activity struck me 2 minutes ago, it has mellowed me a little. It is the ultimate "hey! Think about someone else!" lesson you can get, and I do what I can to not only keep my son alive day-to-day, but to take that energy and give it to others as well. You might say it’s the ultimate pair of big girl panties you can get, and they are strapped on with duct tape and love.
2) Marriage. Again-as much as I piss and moan… well, that's not true. I'm of the opinion that bitching and moaning about one's marriage partner is overrated. Is my husband perfect? Hardly. But neither am I. The beauty of marriage is that you HAVE to deal with those imperfections, and that you know the other person is dealing with yours. I always know that, no matter what, my husband has my back, and that I can bring anything to him, positive or negative, and he will listen. Like when I tell him later today that there is no Peach Schnapps in this house. He will listen carefully before checking the bar and then writing it on the grocery list. But seriously, he's the only one whose been brave enough to deal with my baggage, and there's no one else with whom I'd rather grow wrinkly.
3) Family. This word perhaps has different meaning for me than for others. I don't just mean blood--because I think family is something bigger and greater than DNA. It’s the unconditionality that some people give you, no matter what. It's knowing that you are always home when you are with people that love you. It is taking the time to lift people up when they need it, and accepting them for just who they are. That's how I'm raising my son to look at it anyway. And while he obviously loves his Savta and Grandma, he also unconditionally loves all his "aunties" and "uncles"--and yes--that includes my favorite checker at Ralphs. Love is love, without strings, without judgment.
(and yes Manny, that includes you too! This family wouldn't be whole without you watching over our safety!)
4) intellect: I like that I have the ability, and freedom to think what I want. And to express it. And to just USE it. I don't have to be told by my government or media how to think--I gained that right when I began to make my own decisions. And nothing irks me more than to have someone take time out of their day to try to convince me to think like they do--and I mean in a harsh--"you should think like this" way, and not the "hey, this is how I live" way. I like taking time to make decisions, I like rolling an idea around in my head for a while, chewing on it, arguing with it, savoring it, rejecting it, and ultimately making peace with it. That's what the brain is for. Not to hold useless facts and regurgitate inanities. Any idiot with a keyboard and the internet can do that. It's what you DO with those facts that matter.
5) Difference. Autism came into our lives, and spent a good amount of time bitch slapping me until I acknowledged it's presence. And there are days when I wish she would just chill out for a moment so that I can catch my breath, and to spare my son the agonizing frustration he ultimately feels when he cannot communicate his needs, or when life is just to goddamn intense. But at the end of the day--even those hellish ones--I am grateful for who he is, warts and all. He will always see the world differently than I do, and I will spend the rest of my life being privy to that view. He is my constant reminder that we cannot all be perfect, and without our differences, we would be the most boring race in the universe. He may discover something none of us ever thought about, or he may compose a piece of music no one has ever heard before. He may have the right temperament to make the sacrifices needed to live on another planet, for all I know. He is amazing, and I am grateful for everyday he puts his little hand in mine.
Now, for my usual readers, I suppose this is where I am supposed to remark that I am also grateful for happy hour and a lock on the bathroom door. And I am. But I think those are gimmes. And in the end they are just things. Which are nice to have, but ultimately transitory. This house could burn down--but I'd still have all the things for which I am grateful--and that's all that matters to me.
(not to say I am wishing for disaster. it would still suck.)
So, while you gather around the table to celebrate our American holiday of gluttony--take a moment to give thanks--and not only that Aunt Hester brought more than one bottle of wine. Happy Thanksgiving!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Scribbles
I had a little moment today. Thought I would share.
Because we lack a magnetic fridge, I post Ben's schoolwork on the pantry door. Right now it's covered with work from last year, summer school, and a few items from this year. Today as I was making some tea, (Sadly NOT for a toddy) I turned and looked at one of his pieces from summer school. Its entitled Self Portrait.
Now, any 3 year old would have made a picture just like it. It's a multitude of scribbled lines in multiple colors with no shape or reason. At the time he had no concept of the work "draw"--he's just starting to pick it up now--and no idea whatsoever of "Self". The ability to "draw" comes with time--typical or no. And as for the concept of self--well, he'll get it one day. (hell, I've met some 30 somethings drinking cheap beer who barely had a grasp of it…) But it struck me this morning how this self portrait was a bit more true to life than imagined.
Lemme tell a story about the first time I saw a Van Gogh. (and don't worry, this is not a preface to saying my son is an artistic genius) My mother and I were at the Getty, and we walked into a gallery that held one of Van Gogh's iris paintings. Now, I'll admit I've never been a big fan, but when I came face to face with this painting, I burst into tears. Literally. I am not shitting you. Tears streaming down my face. A blubbering idiot over a picture of flowers. Because in that moment--I got it. I understood his madness, his despair, his intensity. When you come into the presence (and I think you have to be right there, to see the color, the brushstrokes--a book just doesn't cut it) of a van gogh, you suddenly see the world as he saw it--and it is so intense and maddening that, for me at least, it was too much. I have never forgotten that experience. At that moment, I understood all those damn art classes I had to take for my general ed requirements.
And today, as I stood and looked at this page, I felt it again. Ben experiences so much at once--his senses on overload, his mind racing from one thing to the next. All of it a blur sometimes, incomprehensible most of the time, a multitude of thoughts and emotions of which he cannot make sense. As much as this is the scribbles of a 3 year old who was told to draw himself--words he didn't really understand at the time--he did create a self portrait. This IS my little man--in all it's color and beauty, as well as its frenetic energy.
It was a fitting reminder to me today as we fight through this latest round of whining/growing/detox/general malaise that is being a child with Autism. I am finding that behavior can be cyclical. He can have weeks of fantastic behavior, and then a week of being demon spawn. Lately it feels like we've been getting the grand tour from Dante himself, but I know it won't last. (at least I HOPE it won't last) He's had a rough couple of days, having given up gluten, probably going through withdrawals or he may possibly have a cold, or he's hitting a growth spurt, or the time change has messed him up, or he ate raisins. As you can see, the reasons can be like his actions and subsequently, like this drawing.
I think when I start to remove things here in order to put more up, I'll keep this one around. As a reminder to me of what it's like to see the world through someone else's vision--whether they realized they were showing it to you or not.
Because we lack a magnetic fridge, I post Ben's schoolwork on the pantry door. Right now it's covered with work from last year, summer school, and a few items from this year. Today as I was making some tea, (Sadly NOT for a toddy) I turned and looked at one of his pieces from summer school. Its entitled Self Portrait.
Now, any 3 year old would have made a picture just like it. It's a multitude of scribbled lines in multiple colors with no shape or reason. At the time he had no concept of the work "draw"--he's just starting to pick it up now--and no idea whatsoever of "Self". The ability to "draw" comes with time--typical or no. And as for the concept of self--well, he'll get it one day. (hell, I've met some 30 somethings drinking cheap beer who barely had a grasp of it…) But it struck me this morning how this self portrait was a bit more true to life than imagined.
Lemme tell a story about the first time I saw a Van Gogh. (and don't worry, this is not a preface to saying my son is an artistic genius) My mother and I were at the Getty, and we walked into a gallery that held one of Van Gogh's iris paintings. Now, I'll admit I've never been a big fan, but when I came face to face with this painting, I burst into tears. Literally. I am not shitting you. Tears streaming down my face. A blubbering idiot over a picture of flowers. Because in that moment--I got it. I understood his madness, his despair, his intensity. When you come into the presence (and I think you have to be right there, to see the color, the brushstrokes--a book just doesn't cut it) of a van gogh, you suddenly see the world as he saw it--and it is so intense and maddening that, for me at least, it was too much. I have never forgotten that experience. At that moment, I understood all those damn art classes I had to take for my general ed requirements.
And today, as I stood and looked at this page, I felt it again. Ben experiences so much at once--his senses on overload, his mind racing from one thing to the next. All of it a blur sometimes, incomprehensible most of the time, a multitude of thoughts and emotions of which he cannot make sense. As much as this is the scribbles of a 3 year old who was told to draw himself--words he didn't really understand at the time--he did create a self portrait. This IS my little man--in all it's color and beauty, as well as its frenetic energy.
It was a fitting reminder to me today as we fight through this latest round of whining/growing/detox/general malaise that is being a child with Autism. I am finding that behavior can be cyclical. He can have weeks of fantastic behavior, and then a week of being demon spawn. Lately it feels like we've been getting the grand tour from Dante himself, but I know it won't last. (at least I HOPE it won't last) He's had a rough couple of days, having given up gluten, probably going through withdrawals or he may possibly have a cold, or he's hitting a growth spurt, or the time change has messed him up, or he ate raisins. As you can see, the reasons can be like his actions and subsequently, like this drawing.
I think when I start to remove things here in order to put more up, I'll keep this one around. As a reminder to me of what it's like to see the world through someone else's vision--whether they realized they were showing it to you or not.
Friday, November 5, 2010
I've Lost My Mojo
I like to bake. And no, I am not making a Humboldt County reference. Eggs + flour + sugar = happiness. And not just because I like cake. (Which is like saying the housewives of Beverly Hills like plastic surgery)I like the fact that I can whip something together from scratch, and have folks ooh and aaah over it like I split the atom. I've even fancied the idea of learning to do it professionally (but fear the subsequent pounds on my ass that would follow). I like that I am the "dessert" at a potluck. (don't get me wrong, when it comes to savory cooking, I can keep hungry off a starving man, but I ain't Bobby Flay.) But I have been reminded that pride goeth before the alcoholic binge…
What does this have to do with parenting a child with autism, you ask? Well, it's because of Benji that I've been humbled in the world of baking. As of this week, we are officially Gluten free (well, Ben and Mr Mommy are) and the kitchen as I know it isn't working for me.
I should state here that the Gluten free Casein free diet has shown to be effective (anecdotally) in @50% of Autism cases. (its hard to get good empirical evidence because once parents put a kid on it and see improvement, they don't wanna take them off to prove the science) In my opinion it's a big enough stat. that you have to try, even if you have doubts, as I do.
Now there are MANY parents of children with Autism that aren't even willing to try because they see the glass half empty. Frankly, what can it hurt to try it for 6 months (*time period I've predetermined through no scientific study*) ? If you see no improvement, break out the chips ahoy in 6 months and celebrate the fact that you tried!
My previously stated doubt come from some unscientific observations I have made. I've noticed that this diet seems to be effective with those kids that also have gut problems. Which my son does not have. He's an optimum pooper. So, I am walking into this with a fairly skeptic eye. (which, honestly is how I approach all Autism treatments. There are 408 of them out there. If one was the end-all be-all, I THINK we'd know by now. Still, you gotta try) So, with a cocked eyebrow and shaker at the ready, I have brought us into the GFCF world.
We've been CF (no milk proteins) since September. In fact, I will prolly test dairy in a few weeks, once we're at least two-three weeks GF. Sometimes, Gluten can damage the gut enough that milk proteins (casein) cannot be tolerated. Remove the gluten, and you can then digest dairy. Sometimes. Kinda like sometimes you can drink Jager shots and not act like a dumbass. Sometimes.
Or it could be he has not problem with dairy at all and this last month has just been an annoyance to all of us. aaahh, the joys of science.
So, GF savory cooking is easy. Meat + rice or quinoa + vegetable=dinner. Eggs, GF pancakes, more eggs, and eggs= breakfast. Bloody Marys are optional.
But lunch has been, for some time now, the ubiquitous Peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter & honey to be exact--since we switched to Feingold and his usual jams were removed. But he likes it, and he gets a daily dose of raw honey. But that bread. That soft, spongy, multigrain wonder that served as the PB vehicle…it tasks me.
See--I make all our bread. From scratch. ALL of it. With a bread maker to do all the kneading, all I have to do is shape and bake. It requires some time on my part--but only that I "be around" for each step.
But now wheat gluten is gone, and I am left with a variety of flours that smell and taste funny, and must be measured just so, with the perfect ratio of liquids, everything at a proper temperature, holding my tongue just right, and whispering a prayer every 23 minutes. So far I have attempted two loaves from scratch--and yielded two bricks. (in my defense--Benji still ate them--slathered in PB & honey), but it 's messin' with my mojo.
I even bought a new breadmaker (I needed a new pan anyway for cross contamination issues, so why not replace my dinosaur with a new fangled wonder. It's got a GF setting and it even makes jam!) That's what yielded brick #2.
So today I caved. I bought a mix. Two to be precise, to see how they taste and work. Both are highly rated by users (I've done my internet research) and are similarly priced, so it will just come down to taste and performance.
(I can report that the mix loaf did, in fact, rise. And then fell like the Berlin wall. So it’s a concave bread. WE can practice our alphabet--C! C is for crying, which mommy does when the bread doesn't turn out right. U! U is for unhappy, unsatisfied, and unstable--mommy or the bread--you decide. Still--it's taller than the last two, so it's sort-of a victory. V! Victory. right.)
And for those of you thinking, why not just buy a loaf of GF bread? I did examine one pre-made GF loaf today. It was heavy enough to be useful as a doorstop. OR to thwart a bear or zombie attack. But that thing was so heavy, I have no doubt it would do as much damage to your stomach eating it than getting hit in the gut with it. I think I'll stick to baking. Or a poor facsimile of baking. Or drinking a beer while I stare at the ingredients and will them to become bread. Something like that.
What does this have to do with parenting a child with autism, you ask? Well, it's because of Benji that I've been humbled in the world of baking. As of this week, we are officially Gluten free (well, Ben and Mr Mommy are) and the kitchen as I know it isn't working for me.
I should state here that the Gluten free Casein free diet has shown to be effective (anecdotally) in @50% of Autism cases. (its hard to get good empirical evidence because once parents put a kid on it and see improvement, they don't wanna take them off to prove the science) In my opinion it's a big enough stat. that you have to try, even if you have doubts, as I do.
Now there are MANY parents of children with Autism that aren't even willing to try because they see the glass half empty. Frankly, what can it hurt to try it for 6 months (*time period I've predetermined through no scientific study*) ? If you see no improvement, break out the chips ahoy in 6 months and celebrate the fact that you tried!
My previously stated doubt come from some unscientific observations I have made. I've noticed that this diet seems to be effective with those kids that also have gut problems. Which my son does not have. He's an optimum pooper. So, I am walking into this with a fairly skeptic eye. (which, honestly is how I approach all Autism treatments. There are 408 of them out there. If one was the end-all be-all, I THINK we'd know by now. Still, you gotta try) So, with a cocked eyebrow and shaker at the ready, I have brought us into the GFCF world.
We've been CF (no milk proteins) since September. In fact, I will prolly test dairy in a few weeks, once we're at least two-three weeks GF. Sometimes, Gluten can damage the gut enough that milk proteins (casein) cannot be tolerated. Remove the gluten, and you can then digest dairy. Sometimes. Kinda like sometimes you can drink Jager shots and not act like a dumbass. Sometimes.
Or it could be he has not problem with dairy at all and this last month has just been an annoyance to all of us. aaahh, the joys of science.
So, GF savory cooking is easy. Meat + rice or quinoa + vegetable=dinner. Eggs, GF pancakes, more eggs, and eggs= breakfast. Bloody Marys are optional.
But lunch has been, for some time now, the ubiquitous Peanut butter sandwich. Peanut butter & honey to be exact--since we switched to Feingold and his usual jams were removed. But he likes it, and he gets a daily dose of raw honey. But that bread. That soft, spongy, multigrain wonder that served as the PB vehicle…it tasks me.
See--I make all our bread. From scratch. ALL of it. With a bread maker to do all the kneading, all I have to do is shape and bake. It requires some time on my part--but only that I "be around" for each step.
But now wheat gluten is gone, and I am left with a variety of flours that smell and taste funny, and must be measured just so, with the perfect ratio of liquids, everything at a proper temperature, holding my tongue just right, and whispering a prayer every 23 minutes. So far I have attempted two loaves from scratch--and yielded two bricks. (in my defense--Benji still ate them--slathered in PB & honey), but it 's messin' with my mojo.
I even bought a new breadmaker (I needed a new pan anyway for cross contamination issues, so why not replace my dinosaur with a new fangled wonder. It's got a GF setting and it even makes jam!) That's what yielded brick #2.
So today I caved. I bought a mix. Two to be precise, to see how they taste and work. Both are highly rated by users (I've done my internet research) and are similarly priced, so it will just come down to taste and performance.
(I can report that the mix loaf did, in fact, rise. And then fell like the Berlin wall. So it’s a concave bread. WE can practice our alphabet--C! C is for crying, which mommy does when the bread doesn't turn out right. U! U is for unhappy, unsatisfied, and unstable--mommy or the bread--you decide. Still--it's taller than the last two, so it's sort-of a victory. V! Victory. right.)
And for those of you thinking, why not just buy a loaf of GF bread? I did examine one pre-made GF loaf today. It was heavy enough to be useful as a doorstop. OR to thwart a bear or zombie attack. But that thing was so heavy, I have no doubt it would do as much damage to your stomach eating it than getting hit in the gut with it. I think I'll stick to baking. Or a poor facsimile of baking. Or drinking a beer while I stare at the ingredients and will them to become bread. Something like that.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Jackassery of Others
Who are you to judge the life I live? I know I'm not perfect, and I don't live to be. But before you start pointing fingers, make sure your hands are clean.
--Bob Marley
This is my third attempt to write this entry. Sometimes an issue is difficult to write about--but I had no idea how hard this one would be.
Today's entry is about other people. People who are…well…douchebags. Many of these people are people who do not have, nor do they know any kids with Autism. Some of them also happen to think they are the best parents around. And some of them don’t even want kids, but yet esteem their own opinion of parenting and all the strategies they read about once in a People magazine while waiting to get their nails done. Some of them are even parents of Special Needs kids, but have a system they "swear" by, and no other strategy matters. Most of them are people who, I must assume, have never had, in the old terms, any "home training". (that's southern for manners, y'all)
Parents of kids with Autism, or any variety of explosive disorders already know where I'm going.
Yeah, I'm talking to you miss Snooty McSnicker and your gang of giggling cohorts. And to you Frowny McWrinkly and your narrow nose of disapproval. And especially to you, Angie Mcstagewhisper, who feel it is necessary to voice your opinion just loud enough to hear, even if it is hurtful and ignorant. You are one of the reasons I had to give up coffee and start drinking chamomile tea. YOU are the reason I am angry 70% of the time and YOU are the reason this country is going to hell in handbasket dressed with fireproof ribbons!
*takes a deep breath*
(Disclaimer: yes I know this isn't a phenomenon limited to parents of kids with special needs--Typical parents experience it too. Perhaps not as commonly as we do, but they can get it too--especially if their kid is having a bad day. I get that. Its just that our kids have bad days A LOT, so this topic is near and dear.)
My question to these people is this: Who the hell are you?
Yeah, I know it's annoying that my kid is crying in the middle of Ralphs. And I suppose you think I should "just leave" so that you can buy your processed foods in peace, instead of enduring my kid for maybe 10 minutes of your life, while I have to deal with him all day? Or that I should just give him whatever it is he wants to "shut him up", because it is somehow smarter to spoil a kid and teach him to be a tyrant? Or better yet, that I have "spared the rod" and therefore have a child with poor training.
(and these are just the things I've heard)
Ok, you say--why let the comments of others bother you? Sure, why don't I just go out in public and let people say nasty things to me and just let it slide off my back? Yes, I know their opinions don't matter. Yes, i know they're just uneducated eejits with no sense of propreity. And yes, i know i shouldn't worry about the opinions of people whom i do not respect. (contrary to some of their voiced and unvoiced opinions, i'm not the moron here) But I challenge you with this: you step out every day and have at least one stranger say something negative to you, and never hear a positive thing from any of those strangers, and then tell me to just pour a cocktail and ignore what others say.
*gets the shaker ready*
Look, you deal with something enough, occasionally you gotta say something. If people keep cutting you off in traffic, eventually you flip someone off. If someone cuts in line repeatedly at Disneyland, eventually, they get the beat down. If the bartender keeps ignoring your empty glass, chances are his tip will no longer find it's way underneath your coaster. It's the American sense of "karma" (not really how it works, but the idea tends to keep some people in check) So if I hear one more unsolicited comment about the character of my child or how to raise him, I may have to open up a can of economy sized verbal whoop-ass. It’s really just an effort to keep sane, really. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're an asshole.
You know, now that I think about it, I think I've held my tongue plenty of times when it would have been funny and hurtful to say somehting. I think it was enough to warrant a little tit for tat. So perhaps you will let me share a few thoughts I kept to myself over the past few years:
See? The world is much nicer if we just keep these things to ourselves--or at least blog about them in an anonymous fashion so that the original recipient isn't hurt or insulted. By all means--take a moment and update your FB status with your opinion about my parenting, but maybe you can remember your good manners and keep your comment there, and not 2 feet from my ear--loud enough to hear but just out of striking range? Coward.
Or better yet--here's an idea: take a moment and think about what that mom or dad is dealing with. It might be bigger than anything you've ever had to deal with. And it probably does not have an instant off switch to make your world more peaceful. And realize this, if you are annoyed by it, I'd say it's a good guess that the parents DIRECTLY DEALING WITH IT are annoyed as well.
I don't know--maybe it's the Midwest upbringing. I mean, I was taught that if you don't have anything nice to say, keep it to yourself. That includes all opinions and views on Jesus too. That's why G-d created liquor--to keep your mouth busy. It was one thing to think all manner of things about parents of whom you do not approve, but it was a social taboo to state it out loud in their presence. hell, i remember any time my grandmother would say ANYTHING about someone else, she had the decency to wait until she got home (or in the car) and even then she STILL whispered it as if the taboo police were right outside. To make a remark that could be heard by ALL was a sign of "poor breeding" or "lack of home training" and was the one thing that would single you out as white trash. That and the dirty cut offs with a torn monster truck rally tee. And a sixer of Natty light.
I've noticed it in the last few years--the uprising of rudeness. I mean, it's one thing to stop in the middle of a grocery aisle not allowing anyone to pass while you peruse the choice of Jell-o flavors, but we are way beyond that now. There is some sort of entitlement/my opinion is the most important/how dare you drink milk in my presence attitude that has taken over. And it is this attitude that seems to justify people telling me or any other stranger around that my child is monster.
So here's the deal, douchbags. If I ever turn to you while my son is screaming his head off for a chocolate milk I would never let him have in the first place, and ask you, "what do you think of this situation?" you will then be free to regale me of all opinions, bible verses, song lyrics and casserole recipes that you think are appropriate at that moment. Because I would have asked for it. Until then, shut it.
I can't stop the looks and the frowny head waggles, and while it may bug me, at least you are keeping your mouth shut until I am gone. And good for you for trying to have some semblance of manners. I cannot teach you compassion. I only hope that at some point in your life, you will learn some, and maybe instead of judging me, you'll pat me on the back, make a joke, or even pour me a drink. Until then, I can only model the behavior that would be helpful at that moment, and then later eviscerate you online. Yeah, I'm talking about you, miss picklepuss at Ralph's last Friday, over by the eggs. And btw, that top made you look ten pounds heavier AND a middle aged tramp--which is no mean feat.
As I come down from this well deserved tyrade, I am reminded of an old lesson. Having recently returned to some of my Wiccan habits, I remind myself daily of the one basic teaching, or rede: "an if it harm none, do what ye will". Similar lessons exist in all religions. So here's a thought: maybe it would benefit us all to return to the spirit of that lesson and just give everyone a break. Odds are, they've got their own issues to deal with, just like you do. Ain't nobody got the right answer, because everyone has their own paradigm to live. So ease up a little, eh? And move your friggin' cart over when you stop in an aisle at the grocery, for petesakes.
--Bob Marley
This is my third attempt to write this entry. Sometimes an issue is difficult to write about--but I had no idea how hard this one would be.
Today's entry is about other people. People who are…well…douchebags. Many of these people are people who do not have, nor do they know any kids with Autism. Some of them also happen to think they are the best parents around. And some of them don’t even want kids, but yet esteem their own opinion of parenting and all the strategies they read about once in a People magazine while waiting to get their nails done. Some of them are even parents of Special Needs kids, but have a system they "swear" by, and no other strategy matters. Most of them are people who, I must assume, have never had, in the old terms, any "home training". (that's southern for manners, y'all)
Parents of kids with Autism, or any variety of explosive disorders already know where I'm going.
Yeah, I'm talking to you miss Snooty McSnicker and your gang of giggling cohorts. And to you Frowny McWrinkly and your narrow nose of disapproval. And especially to you, Angie Mcstagewhisper, who feel it is necessary to voice your opinion just loud enough to hear, even if it is hurtful and ignorant. You are one of the reasons I had to give up coffee and start drinking chamomile tea. YOU are the reason I am angry 70% of the time and YOU are the reason this country is going to hell in handbasket dressed with fireproof ribbons!
*takes a deep breath*
(Disclaimer: yes I know this isn't a phenomenon limited to parents of kids with special needs--Typical parents experience it too. Perhaps not as commonly as we do, but they can get it too--especially if their kid is having a bad day. I get that. Its just that our kids have bad days A LOT, so this topic is near and dear.)
My question to these people is this: Who the hell are you?
Yeah, I know it's annoying that my kid is crying in the middle of Ralphs. And I suppose you think I should "just leave" so that you can buy your processed foods in peace, instead of enduring my kid for maybe 10 minutes of your life, while I have to deal with him all day? Or that I should just give him whatever it is he wants to "shut him up", because it is somehow smarter to spoil a kid and teach him to be a tyrant? Or better yet, that I have "spared the rod" and therefore have a child with poor training.
(and these are just the things I've heard)
Ok, you say--why let the comments of others bother you? Sure, why don't I just go out in public and let people say nasty things to me and just let it slide off my back? Yes, I know their opinions don't matter. Yes, i know they're just uneducated eejits with no sense of propreity. And yes, i know i shouldn't worry about the opinions of people whom i do not respect. (contrary to some of their voiced and unvoiced opinions, i'm not the moron here) But I challenge you with this: you step out every day and have at least one stranger say something negative to you, and never hear a positive thing from any of those strangers, and then tell me to just pour a cocktail and ignore what others say.
*gets the shaker ready*
Look, you deal with something enough, occasionally you gotta say something. If people keep cutting you off in traffic, eventually you flip someone off. If someone cuts in line repeatedly at Disneyland, eventually, they get the beat down. If the bartender keeps ignoring your empty glass, chances are his tip will no longer find it's way underneath your coaster. It's the American sense of "karma" (not really how it works, but the idea tends to keep some people in check) So if I hear one more unsolicited comment about the character of my child or how to raise him, I may have to open up a can of economy sized verbal whoop-ass. It’s really just an effort to keep sane, really. It has nothing to do with the fact that you're an asshole.
You know, now that I think about it, I think I've held my tongue plenty of times when it would have been funny and hurtful to say somehting. I think it was enough to warrant a little tit for tat. So perhaps you will let me share a few thoughts I kept to myself over the past few years:
--You do NOT look good in that top--in fact it makes you look like a tramp. Would Jackie O be caught dead with camel toe? Then neither should you.
--What, did you spend the morning eating paste?
--No, I'm sorry, your kid isn't that cute. In fact, he's a little bug-eyed.
--Seriously--you're letting your kid have ANOTHER ice cream cone? Mix in a salad for chrissakes.
--Nice work. Can I take a day to suck at your job, too?
--Why don't we save some time and just send you home to re-dress yourself.
See? The world is much nicer if we just keep these things to ourselves--or at least blog about them in an anonymous fashion so that the original recipient isn't hurt or insulted. By all means--take a moment and update your FB status with your opinion about my parenting, but maybe you can remember your good manners and keep your comment there, and not 2 feet from my ear--loud enough to hear but just out of striking range? Coward.
Or better yet--here's an idea: take a moment and think about what that mom or dad is dealing with. It might be bigger than anything you've ever had to deal with. And it probably does not have an instant off switch to make your world more peaceful. And realize this, if you are annoyed by it, I'd say it's a good guess that the parents DIRECTLY DEALING WITH IT are annoyed as well.
I don't know--maybe it's the Midwest upbringing. I mean, I was taught that if you don't have anything nice to say, keep it to yourself. That includes all opinions and views on Jesus too. That's why G-d created liquor--to keep your mouth busy. It was one thing to think all manner of things about parents of whom you do not approve, but it was a social taboo to state it out loud in their presence. hell, i remember any time my grandmother would say ANYTHING about someone else, she had the decency to wait until she got home (or in the car) and even then she STILL whispered it as if the taboo police were right outside. To make a remark that could be heard by ALL was a sign of "poor breeding" or "lack of home training" and was the one thing that would single you out as white trash. That and the dirty cut offs with a torn monster truck rally tee. And a sixer of Natty light.
I've noticed it in the last few years--the uprising of rudeness. I mean, it's one thing to stop in the middle of a grocery aisle not allowing anyone to pass while you peruse the choice of Jell-o flavors, but we are way beyond that now. There is some sort of entitlement/my opinion is the most important/how dare you drink milk in my presence attitude that has taken over. And it is this attitude that seems to justify people telling me or any other stranger around that my child is monster.
So here's the deal, douchbags. If I ever turn to you while my son is screaming his head off for a chocolate milk I would never let him have in the first place, and ask you, "what do you think of this situation?" you will then be free to regale me of all opinions, bible verses, song lyrics and casserole recipes that you think are appropriate at that moment. Because I would have asked for it. Until then, shut it.
I can't stop the looks and the frowny head waggles, and while it may bug me, at least you are keeping your mouth shut until I am gone. And good for you for trying to have some semblance of manners. I cannot teach you compassion. I only hope that at some point in your life, you will learn some, and maybe instead of judging me, you'll pat me on the back, make a joke, or even pour me a drink. Until then, I can only model the behavior that would be helpful at that moment, and then later eviscerate you online. Yeah, I'm talking about you, miss picklepuss at Ralph's last Friday, over by the eggs. And btw, that top made you look ten pounds heavier AND a middle aged tramp--which is no mean feat.
As I come down from this well deserved tyrade, I am reminded of an old lesson. Having recently returned to some of my Wiccan habits, I remind myself daily of the one basic teaching, or rede: "an if it harm none, do what ye will". Similar lessons exist in all religions. So here's a thought: maybe it would benefit us all to return to the spirit of that lesson and just give everyone a break. Odds are, they've got their own issues to deal with, just like you do. Ain't nobody got the right answer, because everyone has their own paradigm to live. So ease up a little, eh? And move your friggin' cart over when you stop in an aisle at the grocery, for petesakes.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Resolutions...
Tonight marks Rosh Hashanah, a.k.a. the Jewish New Year. Now, I know I don't talk much religion with y'all--just being polite really, since my beliefs tend to differ from…well…society...including my own Jewish community. But this is a big day, and as I've been preparing myself to greet the year 5771, I have, of course, turned my thoughts to my own parenting and wifing, as well as the care of myself. This time of year--as many New Year's celebrations can be--usually bring about thoughts of renewal and change. And indeed, it is always good to reevaluate what's going right and what's going wrong in your life and make adjustments as need be. For instance, my blender is a consumer model, and I think we all know that a professional model blender is more fitting for me.This is the opportunity one takes to "change your life". Now, I am not in the habit of making "new year's resolutions", but I am in the habit of listening to my doctor when she tells me a few things. Turns out I had to see her last week because of some chest pain, and was told I have anxiety.
Nice. Like I need something ELSE to worry about.
It's not a coincidence that these pains started in earnest when I got the official diagnosis that Ben has Autism. I suppose there was a part of me that was hoping the "evaluation team" would come back with a report saying my child was just having a strange reaction to Pirate Booty, and to cut back a little. Or at least that my 3-year-old pirate should cut down on the pillaging and looting.
So, now is it not only time to start a new phase of therapy and work with Ben, it's also time for me to make some adjustments. Not only in my actions, but in my thinking. Easier said than done, I suppose.
It is easy for Autism moms (and dads) to stop caring for themselves because their focus is so targeted on their kid(s). Which therapy do I engage, how do I pay for it, how much floortime have I given today, when to change the diet, how can I get him a few more playdates, how to quell the meltdown, how to NOT sock other people when they look at you funny, how to sneak a flask into Mommy & Me Class--it's completely understandable how Anxiety can take over.
So now I guess it's time for me to relax. It's funny, though, I thought I WAS relaxing. Lately I've been taking the time to really examine my thinking about Ben's Autism and how I look at it. And that's not lip service folks. I've made a concerted effort to work in more yoga & meditation, and to ask Mr. Mommy for help when I feel overworked. I've been focusing on letting the negative go, and embracing positive thinking. I'm making a serious attempt to release myself from attachment and live in the now--right now. ( My old professor Harry Wells would be proud: he spent a great deal of time during my education trying to teach me the Buddhist concept of non-attachment. I was quite attached to my local brewery, you see.) I guess now that I am actually working on healthy thinking, my body has finally relaxed enough to let me know its been working on overtime for too long. It decided to catch up. And not just on drinking.
So...out with the coffee, in the with herbal tea. (snarl) Goodbye, chocolate. Hello, yoga. Goodbye, heroin. Hello, methadone...OK, not really, but I'm convinced that quitting coffee is harder!
So today, as I think about the last year whilst methodically chewing another chalky antacid, I will focus on what I need to do to take care of me--besides a daily cocktail and harping on the inequities of life. These next ten days between today and Yom Kippur, I need to focus my actions to be "inscribed in the book of life". It is the belief that G-d opens the book of life on Rosh Hashanah--a sort of muster for those in attendance, and closes it on Yom Kippur. This book contains your destiny, and it is a Jew's goal through the days of awe to recognize and confess your sins before G-d with true remorse so that you'll be put on the muster for another year. While I am not a literalist--I do like this concept of reevaluating and getting your shit together for another year. And while I may not believe that G-d is in charge of my destiny, I do know that I have to do more to make sure I am healthy and strong to keep up with all the men in my life: Mr. Mommy, Benji, and of course the terror of Fredonia Drive, Manny the seven-pound security task force Chihuahua . I need to be inscribed in THEIR Book of Life. It's a signature I'm willing to renew every year.
L'shanah Tovah, ya'll. May your year be sweet. You know, like Manischewitz--the FIRST time you try it.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Floortime
Benji has a game he likes to play--it's called "play Thomas?" Here's what it sounds like:
(mommy typing furiously on her computer)
Ben: play Thomas, please? (big doe eyes)
Mommy: you want to play Thomas? (duh, dumbass)
Ben: (jumping up & down) Play Thomas! Play Thomas!
(mommy gets up to go arrange the track for Ben. She sets up the track and places a few cars on it. For a few minutes mommy & Benji play with the train cars, adding them on to one long train, watching them go through the tunnel. Then unexpectedly, Ben pulls up the track causing major derailments and proceeds to destroy the whole track system, leaving the train table in a post-Katrina-like shambles. Ben then runs out of the room.)
Mommy sighs and grabs a beer.
It's pretty much the same each time--a few variations mind you. Sometimes I pour a glass of wine. But I've noticed that Ben has this fixation to destroy the tracks each time he is "finished" with playing Thomas--and that my only function in this game is to set the stage for Godzilla to roll through.
So the other day, when Ben came to me asking to "play Thomas," I was a little peeved at the idea. Other moms may get this--the idea that I'm only here to serve meals and set up train tracks was beginning to grate. So this time I switched tracks, so to speak. When I went into his room, I told him that I wasn't going to set up the tracks, but that I would help him. Of course, I don't think he understood a word of that, but he did seem to understand that I wasn't setting up the tracks when he pushed one into my hand and I pushed it back to him. The usual whine/cry/shout fest began, but them I told him to put one down on the table, pointing to one piece of track already there. With a little fine motor wrestling, he attached the track piece. So I handed him another. And another. And suddenly a track was being created, with the pieces he wanted, going in the direction he wanted. My only job was to "help fix it" when we came to the closure and it needed some engineering with the last pieces. That track was his, and I think he knew it. It did not get torn up for the majority of the day--I think Godzilla or Mothra struck @ 4:48pm, but I did not personally witness the attack.
Later that night--after I filled Mr. Mommy in on the new plan of attack, Ben built an even more elaborate track with his daddy. (they usually play trains better than Ben and I do, so he was more willing to be patient and get help from daddy and resist his internal urge to destroy) That track was still standing 24 hours later. Hell, I think it's still standing now--only missing a bridge piece that frankly falls off if you just look at it wrong, so I'm not sure that counts. I'm not saying it won't fall before the day is over, but he seems to have taken some pride in that track.
What happened here wasn't just brilliant parenting on my part, but rather a type of therapy called "floortime." it involves getting down on the floor and playing with your kid. It's a little more work than that--but you get the picture. You play with your kid, looking for and creating opportunities for communication, letting them guide/rule the play. You play the way THEY want to play, not the way you want to, obstructing or guiding when they get too focused or inward. Now granted, he wanted me to set up the tracks, and i didn't--but this was the "obstruction" part of my play. It's not just about him being a play tyrant.
The method was developed by Stanley Greenspan in order to help kids on the spectrum and like conditions to learn to communicate effectively. What I love about it, other than the utter simplicity of it, is that it seems so positive. There are mental steps each kids has to meet, and once they are met, you move on to the next one. Kid is changing body language when you engage him? He's ready to start making eye contact and getting your attention. Kid is making eye contact and pointing? He's ready for closing conversation "circles" (back and forth conversation in its simplest form). Closing more than one circle? She's ready for more pretend play and emotional ideas. It is scaffolding at its very best. That's a fancy term that will be familiar to my teacher friends--its building upon what you have instead of bombarding them with what you know. Benji was obviously ready to move on to the next level--he knew how the tracks were built--having watched mommy create them, and he had also developed the finer motor skills to put them together. A little budge (or rather hard shove) from me, and he was on his way. When it comes to scaffolding, you can always spot the good teacher and therapist: they can do it effortlessly (or seemingly so).
For me, I will admit, floortime can be a struggle. Raised as an only child, and fairly a loner in all things, play doesn't involve a lot of speech for me. I can get down on the floor and play with Benji anytime, but it isn't always effective speech time. Sometimes we're just building Lincoln Logs (old school baby!) quietly, and sometimes we're just kicking a ball back and forth. I don't have a natural inspiration to turn this into a lesson for speech other than "don't hit the TV with the ball" . In this kind of activity, or anything creative, I'm not a chatty Cathy. In my own studio, whether alone or working with others, my workspace is generally quiet. I actually have to remind myself to turn on some music--it isn't a natural inclination to do so. Even at the bar, which is a social place by nature, I'm not the chatty one. I will respond to conversation--well, WORTHWILE conversation--but I rarely initiate it, except perhaps to shake my empty glass at the bartender. So to imbed speech into Ben's play isn't just work for him.
That being said, floortime is an awesome way to get to know your kid. When they aren't as communicative, it can be hard to get a grasp of who they really are, other than an occasional screaming pile of hair or banana chugging monster. But by getting down on the floor and playing the way THEY want to, you start to get a clear picture of the personality inside your offspring. And sometimes you need that change of perspective. As grown-ups, we tend to get comfortable in one world view--we own the world and control it--but how liberating it can be to see the world from a kid's point of view! Not worrying about cleaning up the latest spill, not thinking about bills to be paid and the TV fall line-up but instead marvelling in the mix of colors on the paper and hands, creating a scenario where trains knock down walls of pigs and chickens or feeling the joy of being surrounded by bubbles on a hot day. Floortime definitely takes you out of the mundane--something a lot of adults could use. Yeah--I'm talking to you miss "I can't stop talking on my phone while I drive and drink a soy latte."
If you think about it, it's kinda awesome. I have a legitimate and scientific reason to postpone my chores and play with my kid. You hear that, Laundry? Now, if only I had the same scientific backing for a daily cocktail...
(mommy typing furiously on her computer)
Ben: play Thomas, please? (big doe eyes)
Mommy: you want to play Thomas? (duh, dumbass)
Ben: (jumping up & down) Play Thomas! Play Thomas!
(mommy gets up to go arrange the track for Ben. She sets up the track and places a few cars on it. For a few minutes mommy & Benji play with the train cars, adding them on to one long train, watching them go through the tunnel. Then unexpectedly, Ben pulls up the track causing major derailments and proceeds to destroy the whole track system, leaving the train table in a post-Katrina-like shambles. Ben then runs out of the room.)
Mommy sighs and grabs a beer.
It's pretty much the same each time--a few variations mind you. Sometimes I pour a glass of wine. But I've noticed that Ben has this fixation to destroy the tracks each time he is "finished" with playing Thomas--and that my only function in this game is to set the stage for Godzilla to roll through.
So the other day, when Ben came to me asking to "play Thomas," I was a little peeved at the idea. Other moms may get this--the idea that I'm only here to serve meals and set up train tracks was beginning to grate. So this time I switched tracks, so to speak. When I went into his room, I told him that I wasn't going to set up the tracks, but that I would help him. Of course, I don't think he understood a word of that, but he did seem to understand that I wasn't setting up the tracks when he pushed one into my hand and I pushed it back to him. The usual whine/cry/shout fest began, but them I told him to put one down on the table, pointing to one piece of track already there. With a little fine motor wrestling, he attached the track piece. So I handed him another. And another. And suddenly a track was being created, with the pieces he wanted, going in the direction he wanted. My only job was to "help fix it" when we came to the closure and it needed some engineering with the last pieces. That track was his, and I think he knew it. It did not get torn up for the majority of the day--I think Godzilla or Mothra struck @ 4:48pm, but I did not personally witness the attack.
Later that night--after I filled Mr. Mommy in on the new plan of attack, Ben built an even more elaborate track with his daddy. (they usually play trains better than Ben and I do, so he was more willing to be patient and get help from daddy and resist his internal urge to destroy) That track was still standing 24 hours later. Hell, I think it's still standing now--only missing a bridge piece that frankly falls off if you just look at it wrong, so I'm not sure that counts. I'm not saying it won't fall before the day is over, but he seems to have taken some pride in that track.What happened here wasn't just brilliant parenting on my part, but rather a type of therapy called "floortime." it involves getting down on the floor and playing with your kid. It's a little more work than that--but you get the picture. You play with your kid, looking for and creating opportunities for communication, letting them guide/rule the play. You play the way THEY want to play, not the way you want to, obstructing or guiding when they get too focused or inward. Now granted, he wanted me to set up the tracks, and i didn't--but this was the "obstruction" part of my play. It's not just about him being a play tyrant.
The method was developed by Stanley Greenspan in order to help kids on the spectrum and like conditions to learn to communicate effectively. What I love about it, other than the utter simplicity of it, is that it seems so positive. There are mental steps each kids has to meet, and once they are met, you move on to the next one. Kid is changing body language when you engage him? He's ready to start making eye contact and getting your attention. Kid is making eye contact and pointing? He's ready for closing conversation "circles" (back and forth conversation in its simplest form). Closing more than one circle? She's ready for more pretend play and emotional ideas. It is scaffolding at its very best. That's a fancy term that will be familiar to my teacher friends--its building upon what you have instead of bombarding them with what you know. Benji was obviously ready to move on to the next level--he knew how the tracks were built--having watched mommy create them, and he had also developed the finer motor skills to put them together. A little budge (or rather hard shove) from me, and he was on his way. When it comes to scaffolding, you can always spot the good teacher and therapist: they can do it effortlessly (or seemingly so).
For me, I will admit, floortime can be a struggle. Raised as an only child, and fairly a loner in all things, play doesn't involve a lot of speech for me. I can get down on the floor and play with Benji anytime, but it isn't always effective speech time. Sometimes we're just building Lincoln Logs (old school baby!) quietly, and sometimes we're just kicking a ball back and forth. I don't have a natural inspiration to turn this into a lesson for speech other than "don't hit the TV with the ball" . In this kind of activity, or anything creative, I'm not a chatty Cathy. In my own studio, whether alone or working with others, my workspace is generally quiet. I actually have to remind myself to turn on some music--it isn't a natural inclination to do so. Even at the bar, which is a social place by nature, I'm not the chatty one. I will respond to conversation--well, WORTHWILE conversation--but I rarely initiate it, except perhaps to shake my empty glass at the bartender. So to imbed speech into Ben's play isn't just work for him.
That being said, floortime is an awesome way to get to know your kid. When they aren't as communicative, it can be hard to get a grasp of who they really are, other than an occasional screaming pile of hair or banana chugging monster. But by getting down on the floor and playing the way THEY want to, you start to get a clear picture of the personality inside your offspring. And sometimes you need that change of perspective. As grown-ups, we tend to get comfortable in one world view--we own the world and control it--but how liberating it can be to see the world from a kid's point of view! Not worrying about cleaning up the latest spill, not thinking about bills to be paid and the TV fall line-up but instead marvelling in the mix of colors on the paper and hands, creating a scenario where trains knock down walls of pigs and chickens or feeling the joy of being surrounded by bubbles on a hot day. Floortime definitely takes you out of the mundane--something a lot of adults could use. Yeah--I'm talking to you miss "I can't stop talking on my phone while I drive and drink a soy latte."
If you think about it, it's kinda awesome. I have a legitimate and scientific reason to postpone my chores and play with my kid. You hear that, Laundry? Now, if only I had the same scientific backing for a daily cocktail...
Thursday, August 12, 2010
reality vs. reality
So, I found myself the other day watching one of those shows about "real" housewives. I catch myself watching them from time to time--never enough to know what the hell is going on, but often enough to fulfill my need to just hate on someone. And their hair alone sure makes it easy.
Then I started thinking--what if they made a show about the "real" moms of Autism? Not the celebrity moms who have almost all avenues open to them, but the REAL moms--you know the ones. The frazzled, haven't worn make-up in a year, tired of eating gluten free pasta, wishing she could just put in earplugs at some point in the day, and definitely 2 cocktails short? Yeah, her. What would THAT show look like?
I've noticed these shows break down into the following kinds of episodes:
Dinner parties:
A lot of us have adopted special diets for our kids. Evidence has shown that it does help some kids (I think I saw a doctor say about 50%--which makes it a pain to try, but also a necessity). So our dinner parties would have to be a gluten-free, nutless potluck--hardly Real Housewives material. There might (read WILL) be recipe swapping, especially if Bertha brought a gluten free dish that actually tastes good and the kids haven't resorted to creating giraffe-based murals on the walls with it. This would also be an effort to get our kids to socialize, which they may or may not do. But they will eye one another suspiciously, and perhaps take a moment to try the black-bean-and-beet hummus with homemade pita chips. Or maybe it's the hummus they're eying suspiciously. I know I am. It looks a little like a lumpy bowl of Steve Buscemi.
Outings:
In our world these are referred to as playdates. Again, an attempt to force socialization. Because even if they won't talk to one another, they have to learn to be next to one another without throwing punches. It's the precursor to developing "personal space." Something we all have to learn--like the asshat at the bar standing a "tad" too close to you and NOT picking up on the body language and verbal clues that you would rather he take a hike into traffic than tell you about his pet iguana and its crazy lettuce-eating antics.
By the way, never feed an iguana lettuce. At least not sober. Ya gotta get the iguana drunk first. Rookie mistake.
Shopping:
So instead of hitting Rodeo Drive or whatnot, this would be an episode of how we get the errands run with our kids in tow. Keeping them occupied in the cart; keeping their hands off of EVERY item within their reach; listening to their whines, your whines, and the people around you's whine, while you try to shop for your own wine; coping with the meltdown just as you get to the checkout stand--this close to escaping--and having to see every dirty look and "harrumph" from the old biddies around you. Luckily though, the screaming tends to drown out any comments, and the biddies are easily distracted by the haunting fluorescent light shining off of the tabloids that steer their "family values."
Gossip:
This usually accompanies the Outings episode. It's what we're doing when we're chillin' on the side of the playground while our kids get busy eating sand or obsessively going down the slide. Usually about whose marriage is on the rocks, what some old biddy said to us while we were shopping, how much a particular therapy or treatment costs, or the latest crazy antics of our child in public.
Of course that's just the venting stuff. It's also where we share the milestones met, and the little things that may not mean much to the Typical moms, but mean the world to us. The kids of events, like your kid saying "I love you" or giving you a spontaneous hug, that require around of cocktails and a few handkerchiefs.
Catfights:
Hmmm. I suppose any time you get a bunch of women together, one of these is bound to occur. Although I'm not sure what we'd fight about? Vaccine causality vs. genetics? DAN! vs. ABA? Being a "everything is rainbows and puppies" kind of mom vs. "pass me the vodka"? Sounds like my kind of fight - the kind I can win, as I am well-armed with tiny, plastic cocktail swords in 4 colors.
Manstealing:
I don't know what kind of man we'd be trying to steal, unless it was someone's therapist or doctor.
"I heard she was taking her son to him, but she just doesn't appreciate what he's trying to do!"
"Why does SHE get the good therapist?"
"If he would only see my son for a few minutes, I know it would change everything!"
Because, let's face it ladies--we are too exhausted to be spending our time trying to make time with someone else's husband. We barely have time for our own--why would we want ANOTHER one?
Interventions:
Inevitably someone on these shows needs help in some way to get themselves out of the whorish--I mean selfish--I mean, oh hell--situations in which they find themselves. An intervention with the Autism moms would probably sound like this:
"Bertha--we're here to help. No--put down that damn gluten-free pasta and listen. You need to take a break. You're making us all crazy. Your son has Autism. It's not the end of the world. And he hates that pasta--we all do. Stop trying to be the perfect mom, and just be a mom. Your son will appreciate it more if you play with him more and see the world from his point of view. By all means, keep trying new things and trying to improve his situation as best you can. But remember--you have to take care of yourself too. Have a spa day. On us. But just this once, mind you. We're trying to maintain our sanity here too, so chill out, or I'll leave a bag of soiled diapers in your Lexus SUV."
In the end, it probably wouldn't be a very entertaining show because, well, it's just day to day living. We don't live for the camera, so it wouldn't always be a flattering light. We're not as skinny and made-up as those "real" women: we don't always have time to get put together. We're too busy parenting--which is something I notice those "real" women don't seem to do much. Maybe it's why we like to watch them--to think "at least I'm not that bitch." Or at least a glorious moment to think, "My kid has better manners than most Orange County housewives. I guess I've earned another drink."
Then I started thinking--what if they made a show about the "real" moms of Autism? Not the celebrity moms who have almost all avenues open to them, but the REAL moms--you know the ones. The frazzled, haven't worn make-up in a year, tired of eating gluten free pasta, wishing she could just put in earplugs at some point in the day, and definitely 2 cocktails short? Yeah, her. What would THAT show look like?
I've noticed these shows break down into the following kinds of episodes:
Dinner parties:
A lot of us have adopted special diets for our kids. Evidence has shown that it does help some kids (I think I saw a doctor say about 50%--which makes it a pain to try, but also a necessity). So our dinner parties would have to be a gluten-free, nutless potluck--hardly Real Housewives material. There might (read WILL) be recipe swapping, especially if Bertha brought a gluten free dish that actually tastes good and the kids haven't resorted to creating giraffe-based murals on the walls with it. This would also be an effort to get our kids to socialize, which they may or may not do. But they will eye one another suspiciously, and perhaps take a moment to try the black-bean-and-beet hummus with homemade pita chips. Or maybe it's the hummus they're eying suspiciously. I know I am. It looks a little like a lumpy bowl of Steve Buscemi.
Outings:
In our world these are referred to as playdates. Again, an attempt to force socialization. Because even if they won't talk to one another, they have to learn to be next to one another without throwing punches. It's the precursor to developing "personal space." Something we all have to learn--like the asshat at the bar standing a "tad" too close to you and NOT picking up on the body language and verbal clues that you would rather he take a hike into traffic than tell you about his pet iguana and its crazy lettuce-eating antics.
By the way, never feed an iguana lettuce. At least not sober. Ya gotta get the iguana drunk first. Rookie mistake.
Shopping:
So instead of hitting Rodeo Drive or whatnot, this would be an episode of how we get the errands run with our kids in tow. Keeping them occupied in the cart; keeping their hands off of EVERY item within their reach; listening to their whines, your whines, and the people around you's whine, while you try to shop for your own wine; coping with the meltdown just as you get to the checkout stand--this close to escaping--and having to see every dirty look and "harrumph" from the old biddies around you. Luckily though, the screaming tends to drown out any comments, and the biddies are easily distracted by the haunting fluorescent light shining off of the tabloids that steer their "family values."
Gossip:
This usually accompanies the Outings episode. It's what we're doing when we're chillin' on the side of the playground while our kids get busy eating sand or obsessively going down the slide. Usually about whose marriage is on the rocks, what some old biddy said to us while we were shopping, how much a particular therapy or treatment costs, or the latest crazy antics of our child in public.
Of course that's just the venting stuff. It's also where we share the milestones met, and the little things that may not mean much to the Typical moms, but mean the world to us. The kids of events, like your kid saying "I love you" or giving you a spontaneous hug, that require around of cocktails and a few handkerchiefs.
Catfights:
Hmmm. I suppose any time you get a bunch of women together, one of these is bound to occur. Although I'm not sure what we'd fight about? Vaccine causality vs. genetics? DAN! vs. ABA? Being a "everything is rainbows and puppies" kind of mom vs. "pass me the vodka"? Sounds like my kind of fight - the kind I can win, as I am well-armed with tiny, plastic cocktail swords in 4 colors.
Manstealing:
I don't know what kind of man we'd be trying to steal, unless it was someone's therapist or doctor.
"I heard she was taking her son to him, but she just doesn't appreciate what he's trying to do!"
"Why does SHE get the good therapist?"
"If he would only see my son for a few minutes, I know it would change everything!"
Because, let's face it ladies--we are too exhausted to be spending our time trying to make time with someone else's husband. We barely have time for our own--why would we want ANOTHER one?
Interventions:
Inevitably someone on these shows needs help in some way to get themselves out of the whorish--I mean selfish--I mean, oh hell--situations in which they find themselves. An intervention with the Autism moms would probably sound like this:
"Bertha--we're here to help. No--put down that damn gluten-free pasta and listen. You need to take a break. You're making us all crazy. Your son has Autism. It's not the end of the world. And he hates that pasta--we all do. Stop trying to be the perfect mom, and just be a mom. Your son will appreciate it more if you play with him more and see the world from his point of view. By all means, keep trying new things and trying to improve his situation as best you can. But remember--you have to take care of yourself too. Have a spa day. On us. But just this once, mind you. We're trying to maintain our sanity here too, so chill out, or I'll leave a bag of soiled diapers in your Lexus SUV."
In the end, it probably wouldn't be a very entertaining show because, well, it's just day to day living. We don't live for the camera, so it wouldn't always be a flattering light. We're not as skinny and made-up as those "real" women: we don't always have time to get put together. We're too busy parenting--which is something I notice those "real" women don't seem to do much. Maybe it's why we like to watch them--to think "at least I'm not that bitch." Or at least a glorious moment to think, "My kid has better manners than most Orange County housewives. I guess I've earned another drink."
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