Saturday, April 9, 2011
Happy
On a whim, i took the boy toe Disney yesterday. Weather was good--that "storm" never showed up (as i internally predicted) and while it was a little chilly, it was a good time to be had by all. We even made it over to California Adventure, which i'd never been to. (and frankly, meh) Anywho--here are just some of the pics--i think someone had a good time..
Friday, April 8, 2011
Goodnight Autism
and ode to my so's favorite book, which we read at least three time a week--more if i didn't insist on something different...
In the Great Green Room
there was an abacus
and Thomas, blue and Percy, green
and a picture of...
the most perfect build of a marble machine
And there were twelve lined up trains between yogurt stains
and a big red trolley
carrying a stuffed Wall-e
and a sit and spin
that will mix him like gin
A PB&J cut in fourths twice a day
And a tired drunk blogger who is typing away.
Goodnight Room
goodnight cars that go zoom!
Goodnight trains and yogurt stains.
Goodnight Thomas, Goodnight Percy,
Finally some silence, Lord have mercy.
Goodnight trolley
Goodnight Wall-e
Goodnight sit and spin
Hello liter of Gin
goodnight PB&J
goodnight crying to get your way
And goodnight to the drunk blogger,
blathering away.
Goodnight screaming,
Hello drugs,
And goodnight to the boy who gives the best kisses and hugs.
In the Great Green Room
there was an abacus
and Thomas, blue and Percy, green
and a picture of...
the most perfect build of a marble machine
And there were twelve lined up trains between yogurt stains
and a big red trolley
carrying a stuffed Wall-e
and a sit and spin
that will mix him like gin
A PB&J cut in fourths twice a day
And a tired drunk blogger who is typing away.
Goodnight Room
goodnight cars that go zoom!
Goodnight trains and yogurt stains.
Goodnight Thomas, Goodnight Percy,
Finally some silence, Lord have mercy.
Goodnight trolley
Goodnight Wall-e
Goodnight sit and spin
Hello liter of Gin
goodnight PB&J
goodnight crying to get your way
And goodnight to the drunk blogger,
blathering away.
Goodnight screaming,
Hello drugs,
And goodnight to the boy who gives the best kisses and hugs.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
"Life is a Four Letter Word" --Lenny Bruce
It has been suggested by those who peruse my blog that I have, lets say, a rather…interesting way of explaining myself. An adult way. A rated R or PG-13 manner that suggests that I am quite familiar with the works of George Carlin and Lenny Bruce.
And they would be correct in their observations.
Yes, yes, i know, it doesn't seem to speak well of one's vocabulary or training. There are myriad biblical quotes to strike fear in he whose "mouth is full of cursing and deceit and fraud" (Psalms 10:7), or perhaps "As he clothed himself with cursing like as with his garment, so let it come into his bowels like water, and like oil into his bones." (109:18), for "because of swearing the land mourneth." (Jeremiah 23:10). Then again, the Torah also says to stone the damned queers and any child of yours who is disobedient, so perhaps another source?
George Washington called it a "foolish and wicked practice"--a phrase which would have been really funny to hear him spit out of his lipless, denture-filled mouth. Jefferson, not much of an orator, but having a way with words, probably loved to cuss!
Here are a few more:
“Profanity is the weapon of the witless.”
“When a man uses profanity to support an argument, it indicates that either the man or the argument is weak - probably both.”
“Profanity is the attempt of a lazy and feeble mind to express itself forcefully.”
In response, allow me to say...
HORSESHIT!
(I love old-man cussing. I find it carries the most weight, and/or comedic "Get off my damn lawn!" effect.)
Let me instead turn to American author and expert in the art of cussing...Mark Twain.
"When it comes down to pure ornamental cursing, the native American is gifted above the sons of men."
- Roughing It
"Under certain circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer."
- Mark Twain, a Biography
"If I cannot swear in heaven I shall not stay there."
- Notebook, 1898
Yes, i get it. Swearing is not very creative. Sure, it can be a crutch--and it can be clumsily used in the poorest of circumstances by dullards who wrap their ignorant nuggets of shared wisdom in ignorance and hate.
But, as Twain so eloquently put it, some circumstances demand it. It's just that I find my circumstances tend to be...frequent.
Do I lack the vocabulary? Hardly. Do I lack the creativity? Please. Do I lack respect for other folks' aural conservatism? Well....
Look, like any person with good home training, I know when it is appropriate and when it isn't. I don't cuss in front of my Rabbi nor my kid's teacher. I wish I could say the same about my kid...
My husband takes me to task on this--although truth be told, he's got a potty mouth as well. And I suppose, in one aspect, Autism has helped us in this regard. Ben's speech continues to develop slowly. I mean, he does jabber away endlessly at times, with scripting and echolalia, but he doesn't always retain what is said unless it is repeated. And in this instance, that's a damn good thing.
Although yesterday I had a scary moment. I had a mini-tantrum of my own because I kept repeatedly dropping a toy I was trying to awkwardly pick up off the floor, and I burst out with a resounding "dammit!" (mild on my scale of cursing power) For a good ten minutes, Ben went around the house saying "dammit!" over and over. And i thought, "Oh, imma catch hell when daddy gets home," even though it was kinda cute. Luckily though, that mantra he soon replaced with a script from Bee Movie. Damn, that was close!
I've known people on one end of the parental philosophy wagon train who wouldn't dream of cursing themselves, let alone cuss in front of a kid. And I've known the opposite end--parents who are just themselves, and who have the most foul-mouthed little kids (hilarious, but foul-mouthed). We've actually taken to apologizing to Ben when we curse in front of him, as it's not fair to teach him words he cannot use without rebuke.
So, like many things in life, I strive to find the middle ground. I won't curse in front of my probation officer (teehee, j/k), but i might colorfully question another driver's ancestry if they cut me off in traffic. And my car window may or may not be down at the time.
[aside-->colorful--if it is so wrong to cuss, why such a loverly word to describe it? I like colorful language. It's like rainbows just pour off my tongue.]
So...no, mom. I'm not gonna stop cussing. And no, honey, I won't always be successful in keeping my language clean in front of Ben.
But I do promise to try to keep a sense of humor in this sometimes overwhelming world, and to teach Ben the lesson that language, like everything else in life, is a fluid and often hilarious thing.
And that sometimes, cussing is the most appropriate way to phrase something. Like how I love to fucking cuss, dammit!
And they would be correct in their observations.
Yes, yes, i know, it doesn't seem to speak well of one's vocabulary or training. There are myriad biblical quotes to strike fear in he whose "mouth is full of cursing and deceit and fraud" (Psalms 10:7), or perhaps "As he clothed himself with cursing like as with his garment, so let it come into his bowels like water, and like oil into his bones." (109:18), for "because of swearing the land mourneth." (Jeremiah 23:10). Then again, the Torah also says to stone the damned queers and any child of yours who is disobedient, so perhaps another source?
George Washington called it a "foolish and wicked practice"--a phrase which would have been really funny to hear him spit out of his lipless, denture-filled mouth. Jefferson, not much of an orator, but having a way with words, probably loved to cuss!
Here are a few more:
“Profanity is the weapon of the witless.”
“When a man uses profanity to support an argument, it indicates that either the man or the argument is weak - probably both.”
“Profanity is the attempt of a lazy and feeble mind to express itself forcefully.”
In response, allow me to say...
HORSESHIT!
(I love old-man cussing. I find it carries the most weight, and/or comedic "Get off my damn lawn!" effect.)
Let me instead turn to American author and expert in the art of cussing...Mark Twain.
"When it comes down to pure ornamental cursing, the native American is gifted above the sons of men."
- Roughing It
"Under certain circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperate circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer."
- Mark Twain, a Biography
"If I cannot swear in heaven I shall not stay there."
- Notebook, 1898
Yes, i get it. Swearing is not very creative. Sure, it can be a crutch--and it can be clumsily used in the poorest of circumstances by dullards who wrap their ignorant nuggets of shared wisdom in ignorance and hate.
But, as Twain so eloquently put it, some circumstances demand it. It's just that I find my circumstances tend to be...frequent.
Do I lack the vocabulary? Hardly. Do I lack the creativity? Please. Do I lack respect for other folks' aural conservatism? Well....
Look, like any person with good home training, I know when it is appropriate and when it isn't. I don't cuss in front of my Rabbi nor my kid's teacher. I wish I could say the same about my kid...
My husband takes me to task on this--although truth be told, he's got a potty mouth as well. And I suppose, in one aspect, Autism has helped us in this regard. Ben's speech continues to develop slowly. I mean, he does jabber away endlessly at times, with scripting and echolalia, but he doesn't always retain what is said unless it is repeated. And in this instance, that's a damn good thing.
Although yesterday I had a scary moment. I had a mini-tantrum of my own because I kept repeatedly dropping a toy I was trying to awkwardly pick up off the floor, and I burst out with a resounding "dammit!" (mild on my scale of cursing power) For a good ten minutes, Ben went around the house saying "dammit!" over and over. And i thought, "Oh, imma catch hell when daddy gets home," even though it was kinda cute. Luckily though, that mantra he soon replaced with a script from Bee Movie. Damn, that was close!
I've known people on one end of the parental philosophy wagon train who wouldn't dream of cursing themselves, let alone cuss in front of a kid. And I've known the opposite end--parents who are just themselves, and who have the most foul-mouthed little kids (hilarious, but foul-mouthed). We've actually taken to apologizing to Ben when we curse in front of him, as it's not fair to teach him words he cannot use without rebuke.
So, like many things in life, I strive to find the middle ground. I won't curse in front of my probation officer (teehee, j/k), but i might colorfully question another driver's ancestry if they cut me off in traffic. And my car window may or may not be down at the time.
[aside-->colorful--if it is so wrong to cuss, why such a loverly word to describe it? I like colorful language. It's like rainbows just pour off my tongue.]
So...no, mom. I'm not gonna stop cussing. And no, honey, I won't always be successful in keeping my language clean in front of Ben.
But I do promise to try to keep a sense of humor in this sometimes overwhelming world, and to teach Ben the lesson that language, like everything else in life, is a fluid and often hilarious thing.
And that sometimes, cussing is the most appropriate way to phrase something. Like how I love to fucking cuss, dammit!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Elevators
Or the day shit just didn't work out right.
When I had originally set up my alphabet post ideas, I had E tagged for elevators and escalators. Like most kids with Autism, my kid loves 'em. He's not super obsessed with them (yet) but he loves him a good button to push. I had planned to spend a few paragraphs delighting in this strange fascination with moving boxes and stairs with some sort of analogy of being transported to a new place in life and development. It would have been lovely, I'm sure. But that's not what this post is going to be about.
Sunday was a bad day for Ben. I mean a BAD. DAY. He's been having some anxiety problems lately--his usual cycle of anxiety and frustration usually in response to growing, constipation or the cancelling of the Kennedy miniseries. I get it. We try to work with him. Usually a trip to the park or mall or just somewhere OUT OF THE HOUSE helps him burn a little energy and some of his stimming energy.
So, after a morning of whining, screaming, throwing scissors at my blade-paranoid husband and a general need for a STFU button, I declared that we would go to the park post-haste. So we piled into the hybrid (thank god i made THAT purchase 4 years ago!) and peeled out to the park. Where there was much swinging (his other obsession) sliding, sand sifting and general mayhem. It was good. Mama got to rest her tootsies for a moment while the Old Man took on slide duties. And then the weather turned brisk and sans sweater, I called an end to all park frivolities.
And like most toddlers, little man didn't want to go. And in an effort to get him to listen and follow instructions, we let him bawl it out a bit. Which didn't work and we had to haul him out of the sand pit anyway--only now he was crying AND being manhandled. Awesome.
And in my sheer brilliance, I decided that we should continue with our original plan to go to the grocery. How awesome am I?
It started out ok. I parked on the lower level ("thru tunnel" according to Ben) to appease him, and so that he could ride the elevator. Had you asked anyone else, they would have said, yeah! that's a great idea.
And it was, until we were 10 feet away.
Before we were at the "sidewalk" and out of harms way--I forgot to mention that i call this particular parking lot "lose your mind lot" because people forget all propriety and their California Driving manual rules. Anyway, before we stepped up to the curb that would somehow shelter us from inevitable Shriner-like driving patterns, Ben began to pull away from me and like anyone with a conscience, I wouldn't let go. In classic mommy mode, I stepped us up onto the sidewalk and got down to his level, trying to tell him that he had to hold my hand until we were safe. THEN I would let him go to push the elevator button--the only goddamn thing he really wanted to do. He didn't hear a word, pulled and bawled, and then I let him go.
But as he approached the elevators, one of them opened, negating the button-pushing. And Ben lost it.
LOST. IT.
So I tried to calm him down while gawking grocers stepped by us wondering what kind of abuse was taking place, with CPS pre-dialed on their phones for safe measure. And when the door closed i told him to push the button to light it up. He did, only to have the other door open--which Ben was having none of. He wanted the elevator on the RIGHT, and that was all that was acceptable.
And then the screaming began. The blood curdling, terror ridden screams. The kind that grab the attention of all who are near to ogle and wonder.
I believe at that point the Old MAn tried to get into the open elevator to negate the button again, but by that time it was too late. Knowing it could only go downhill from here, I sounded the retreat and we headed toward the car.
At this point, Ben seemed calm--he actually stopped crying, and was taking deep breaths. Ok. A trip home, the ubiquitous pb&j and then a well deserved nap. I'll hit the grocery later.
And then the mantra started: "more grocery! More Grocery!" and it didn't stop, gentle readers, until @ a 1/2 hour AFTER we got home.
Worst. Elevator story. Ever.
Ok, not EVER, but it was pretty fucked up.
Now, some Autie parents are sayin' "yeah? big whoop!"--and they'd be right. This kind of meltdown is typical and prevelent with kids with autism--and it isn't as if we hadn't been through this before. But Ben had lulled us into complacency. He hasn't had a meltdown like this in AGES, and, cocky, we figured it would have to be something HUGE to set him off.
And we'd be right. Only our definition of huge and his would be vastly different.
This even may not have seemed huge to the rest of the free world, but it was HUGE just the same. So huge in fact, Trump wanted to put his name on this elevator fiasco.
So, lesson learned. That pesky meltdown can occur anywhere, anytime for any reason, and complacency is for the weak.
Oh, and to the old lady who tried to bring levity to the whole situation by shouting "stop beating that child!" as a gag, you can eat it.
When I had originally set up my alphabet post ideas, I had E tagged for elevators and escalators. Like most kids with Autism, my kid loves 'em. He's not super obsessed with them (yet) but he loves him a good button to push. I had planned to spend a few paragraphs delighting in this strange fascination with moving boxes and stairs with some sort of analogy of being transported to a new place in life and development. It would have been lovely, I'm sure. But that's not what this post is going to be about.
Sunday was a bad day for Ben. I mean a BAD. DAY. He's been having some anxiety problems lately--his usual cycle of anxiety and frustration usually in response to growing, constipation or the cancelling of the Kennedy miniseries. I get it. We try to work with him. Usually a trip to the park or mall or just somewhere OUT OF THE HOUSE helps him burn a little energy and some of his stimming energy.
So, after a morning of whining, screaming, throwing scissors at my blade-paranoid husband and a general need for a STFU button, I declared that we would go to the park post-haste. So we piled into the hybrid (thank god i made THAT purchase 4 years ago!) and peeled out to the park. Where there was much swinging (his other obsession) sliding, sand sifting and general mayhem. It was good. Mama got to rest her tootsies for a moment while the Old Man took on slide duties. And then the weather turned brisk and sans sweater, I called an end to all park frivolities.
And like most toddlers, little man didn't want to go. And in an effort to get him to listen and follow instructions, we let him bawl it out a bit. Which didn't work and we had to haul him out of the sand pit anyway--only now he was crying AND being manhandled. Awesome.
And in my sheer brilliance, I decided that we should continue with our original plan to go to the grocery. How awesome am I?
It started out ok. I parked on the lower level ("thru tunnel" according to Ben) to appease him, and so that he could ride the elevator. Had you asked anyone else, they would have said, yeah! that's a great idea.
And it was, until we were 10 feet away.
Before we were at the "sidewalk" and out of harms way--I forgot to mention that i call this particular parking lot "lose your mind lot" because people forget all propriety and their California Driving manual rules. Anyway, before we stepped up to the curb that would somehow shelter us from inevitable Shriner-like driving patterns, Ben began to pull away from me and like anyone with a conscience, I wouldn't let go. In classic mommy mode, I stepped us up onto the sidewalk and got down to his level, trying to tell him that he had to hold my hand until we were safe. THEN I would let him go to push the elevator button--the only goddamn thing he really wanted to do. He didn't hear a word, pulled and bawled, and then I let him go.
But as he approached the elevators, one of them opened, negating the button-pushing. And Ben lost it.
LOST. IT.
So I tried to calm him down while gawking grocers stepped by us wondering what kind of abuse was taking place, with CPS pre-dialed on their phones for safe measure. And when the door closed i told him to push the button to light it up. He did, only to have the other door open--which Ben was having none of. He wanted the elevator on the RIGHT, and that was all that was acceptable.
And then the screaming began. The blood curdling, terror ridden screams. The kind that grab the attention of all who are near to ogle and wonder.
I believe at that point the Old MAn tried to get into the open elevator to negate the button again, but by that time it was too late. Knowing it could only go downhill from here, I sounded the retreat and we headed toward the car.
At this point, Ben seemed calm--he actually stopped crying, and was taking deep breaths. Ok. A trip home, the ubiquitous pb&j and then a well deserved nap. I'll hit the grocery later.
And then the mantra started: "more grocery! More Grocery!" and it didn't stop, gentle readers, until @ a 1/2 hour AFTER we got home.
Worst. Elevator story. Ever.
Ok, not EVER, but it was pretty fucked up.
Now, some Autie parents are sayin' "yeah? big whoop!"--and they'd be right. This kind of meltdown is typical and prevelent with kids with autism--and it isn't as if we hadn't been through this before. But Ben had lulled us into complacency. He hasn't had a meltdown like this in AGES, and, cocky, we figured it would have to be something HUGE to set him off.
And we'd be right. Only our definition of huge and his would be vastly different.
This even may not have seemed huge to the rest of the free world, but it was HUGE just the same. So huge in fact, Trump wanted to put his name on this elevator fiasco.
So, lesson learned. That pesky meltdown can occur anywhere, anytime for any reason, and complacency is for the weak.
Oh, and to the old lady who tried to bring levity to the whole situation by shouting "stop beating that child!" as a gag, you can eat it.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Dreams
What does he dream about, I wonder?My guess would be numerous vehicular collisions involving robots and dinosaurs, an endless row of elevator buttons, steam engines and trying to make peanut butter sandwiches by himself.
What do i dream about?
Him playing with other kids, telling me what he's feeling, joining a baseball team, graduating high school and solving the world's global warming crisis.
(and yes, i dream of tropical beaches, endless fruity drinks, daily spa treatments and writing for a living--but this isn't about me...)
That's the thing about dreams--they aren't necessarily impossible, but sometimes they need a tweak or two. So i wouldn't say either list is out of the question. But they may not present as we have imagined them. And there's nothing wrong with that.
What do YOU dream about?
Monday, April 4, 2011
C is for Celebrate (or the tales of the Birthday Nazi)
Today is reason to celebrate. My own mother, in this house called Savta (Hebrew for grandma because Bubbe just didn’t set well with her), is celebrating a birthday today. And since she lives in San Diego Los Angeles
But only once my son was at school.
You see, he hates, HATES, the song happy birthday. Gets violent. Screams. Attacks the singer kind of hate. In a manner that made his teacher ask, “did something happen on his birthday?”
No. In fact, his birthday is a bacchanalia of sorts for presents and general Benji spoiling. Since he was born just a few days prior to Christmas, instead of getting the shaft where presents are concerned, he gets the lion’s share. Lemme ‘splain.
First of all, as I stated here, we celebrate Hannukah, Christmas AND his birthday—usually in the span of a week or more, depending on when Hannukah falls. And his Savta usually works on Christmas, so she usually comes up to visit the weekend before his birthday (unless it luckily falls on a weekend) so there’s usually more than one celebration day. With cake.
And then there’s the fact that I feel bad he doesn’t have a “party” (because everyone leaves town @xmas) so I throw him an unbirthday party in June, complete with bouncer, party games, and of course, cake.
At none of these events do we sing that song. We sang it once for his first birthday, which he tolerated (on video as proof) and actually watches almost everyday. (one of his favorite DVD’s is one the Old Man made of his first year videos, and he watches it ad nauseam.) The Old Man has a song that his family sings which Benji can tolerate (totally different tune), but other than that, no singing! Es ist Verboten! We’ll call him the birthday Nazi.
You vill eat your cake, und open your presents und das ist alles!
Now of course this extends to other people’s birthdays as well. I usually have to corral him out of the room during the happy birthday singing portion (but as this usually involves opening presents, I have to anyway because he is 4 and doesn’t understand why the booty and treasure isn’t being bestowed upon HIM instead of the birthday recipient.)
We don’t do a lot of birthday parties.
Now, this isn’t to say there is no singing in the house. I sing all the time, the Old Man is always making up silly songs, and Benji lately have developed a habit of singing to himself and to me, as if I’m sort of Paula Abdul. Although I suppose that makes sense—what with the loving of every song he sings, and my questionable sobriety.
Just not the birthday song.
So no, my little angel will not be singing into the phone for his Savta today. In fact, I won’t even be mentioning that it’s her birthday to him, lest he start looking around for “presents?” Instead, next time she comes up, he will give her a hug and a kiss, and maybe snuggle for a bit in the early morning, as they are both friggin early birds.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Benjamin...
Born in December of 2006. Diagnosed with Autism in March of 2010. Benefactor of free kisses, hugs, waves and loud salutations. Purveyor of train and domino videos. Terror of all Chihuahuas. Chomper of goldfish and enemy of any green vegetable. Declarer of NOM NOM NOM!
The most popular kid in class, and completely indifferent to the fact...
king of the sweater vest...
creator of sandcastles...
California baby...
Your smiles melt even the Grinchiest of hearts, and this new skill of manipulating me with sweet eyes and hugs is going to be the death of me.
B is for Benjamin, king of my heart.
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