Paperwork

I've never been afraid of paperwork.  I've got a mom who does it for a living, with great aplomb and efficiency i might add, and I can fill out forms like a pro--in fact where's my corporate sponsorship? 3M?  HP?  I could use a new iPad people...  Hell, an idea of a good time for me is to create more paperwork (sorta) by creating various spreadsheets to examine spending, budget habits, feeding schedules, vacation plans--you name it, i've prolly got a spreadsheet to cover it.

So why then am i so LOATHE to fill out every friggin piece of paperwork given to me by the school, regional center, ABA clinic, etc?

Perhaps it's because i am answering the SAME GODDAMN QUESTION EVERY TIME!  Efficiency people!

(it should be noted that this piece was written shortly after filling out the Vineland II--for those of you familiar, an evaluation that can take 30 min to over an hour to complete--and that's if you're doing it solo and your kid's under 5)


I get it.  I do.  None of these agencies are actually capable of talking to one another. And that "permanent record" we were threatened with as teens doesn't really exist, so the same questions have to be answered OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND...

So in case the powers that be are actually reading this, let's just settle some of these answers once and for all:

I had a normal pregnancy.  No hiccups, no issues, no diabetes.  Just swollen ankles and a bad attitude.  And he was born naturally--well, as naturally as a pitocin drip and the world's best Epidural can be.  And the only complication with his birth is that the wonderful, sweet, gentle and supportive nurses who were on staff all night and day while i labored were replaced with Beverly--the meanest, no nonsense, would have rather been somewhere else rather than do her job, uncommunicative BIOTCHNIT that i have ever come across.  So no--I did not grow a tail or develop ESP or eat sand.

I guess however, I was a horrible mother and did not write down every little drool and dribble my little larvae made (hell, i never finished his scrapbook!) --and as other things have happened since, the answer is no, I do NOT remember the exact month when he sat up, rolled over or crawled.  Walking--i remember.  Talking, definitely.  Two word phrases--got it--because those things caused concern as they happened a little later than usual.  But can't we just set up some kind of box  or chart with these questions that states:  he did this shit at the "normal time" so that i didn't go running to the doctor with questions, or spend umpteen hours on the internet looking at development charts.  Let's just call it "option A"--and then development issues that were of concern--you mark down.  How hard is this?

Or better yet--here's an idea--why not create some sort of spreadsheet or record that you give a parent--where all the questions area answered in one place (obviously only up to the age appropriate) that they can fill out and make copies of and carry around like that damn vaccination card i keep losing?  Then, whenever you get set up in a new agency, you hand over this report--lets call it the EFRH (Everything's Fucking Right Here) and your time isn't wasted and you don't end up with a hand cramp. Or my favorite--eye strain from having to squeeze an answer into a tiny tiny space meant only for leprechauns and elves  or prissy mommies with immaculate handwriting to fill out.

So, in lieu of an appropriate solution, imma just bring a crayon to the next meeting and write "YES" on everything and see where that gets me.  A green crayon.

Hater Humpday

so i ve' noticed a few bloggers having their special days where they post special stuff--pictures, or the like--on the same day each week.  And i thought--what kind of thing would i want to post weekly?

ANd then i was watching Tosh and a hate video came on and i realized--i LOVE to hate.  If hating could be a career, i might be in upper management.  Not CEO quality, mind, but there's a corner office with my name on it.

SO i hereby dedicate all Wednesdays to hating.  I shall endeavor to list five things i hate, with or without possible explanations.  I suppose some things will be naturally understood.


Hater Humpday #1

I HATE:

1.  People who do NOT look around and just make a left across your lane of traffic because their need for a Fat Burger is more important than the body of their car or mine.  Or better yet--the people who KNOW you're there, STILL do it, and then give a little wave without lookin' at ya as if you understood by royal decree that you must stop so that they could turn.  I hope you choke on your french fries and that the guy behind the counter spit in your shake.  douchebag.

2.  chainsaws. It's brush clearing season.

3.   crinkly wrappers at the movies.  You'd think by now SOMEONE would create some sort of silent cloth or box for all the confectionary goodies you shouldn't be eating in the first place.  I mean, yeah--they turned their phones off, and quit talking about their latest bikini wax, but that plastic wrap on a box of redvines will cancel out any explosion on screen--and the makers know it.

4.  People who simply CANNOT accept that Obama may have actually done something right, and can't give a brother credit, but will give credit to that asshat who was there before him--the same asshat they refuse to blame for the economic crisis, but are quite content to place that at Obama's doorstep.  Yeah, i'm talkin to you Sarah Palin.  Yes, our troops deserve all accolades, as does their COMMANDER IN CHIEF.  Assenheimers.

5.  The godawful amount of paperwork required to do ANYTHING in this state.  I may have an entire blog post about this later--but if i have to answer how old my kid was when he crawled, or whether or not I smoked crack or  was abducted by aliens while i was pregnant, i might just jump across a desk and hurt someone.

That's all for today.  Join us next week when i take on LA hipsters and people who hate on the homeless.

ZZZEEEEYYOOOOWWWMMMM

Like any boy, my son like all things vehicular.  Trains, cars, airplanes, trolleys, bicycles, hell--he'd prolly like rollerskates if he saw some.

And like many boys with Autism, he's got a few "stims" (a repetitive movement hypothesized to stimulate one or more senses).  One stim he's had since I can remember is peripheral gazing.  Basically--he brings things up to the corner of his eye and watches them go by right in his periphery.    Usually, those things are vehicular.

And lately, he's added sound effects.

Because, like other kids on the Autism Spectrum, he loves him some you-tube videos of trains. And most of those videos have sound.  And that sound, besides the "clack clack" (which he also scripts) sounds like the title of this blog.  ZZZEEEEYYOOOOWWWMMMM!

So, whether he is playing with his train tracks in his room, a car out in here in the livingroom, a straw that has suddenly become a rocket at a restaurant, or his favorite 99 cent store train in the car, his gazing now has a soundtrack.  Sometimes, a very LOUD soundtrack.

Better, I guess, than scripting the sound of ice clinking in mommy's glass...

Yesterday

Yesterday, i had a big headed, stubbornly NOT wanting to be born little boy with a future full of possibilities.

Today, I've got a smaller-headed, but still stubborn boy with just as many possibilities--but now neither of us know what they are.

Yesterday i had a little munchkin who ate pumpkin soup, green beans, meat and a myriad of other foods.

Today i have a child who will eat 5 things, and a much easier and equally frustrating menu plan.

Yesterday I had quiet bonding mornings with baby to breast.

Today i still miss it.

Yesterday i had a little grub who labeled everything in sight, and never asked a question.

Today i've got a kid who actually asks me what i'm doing.  constantly.

Yesterday we had playdates and mommy & me and friends at the park

Today, we don't.

Yesterday, i would watch him spin and shake his head, and worry.

Today i watch him toe-walk and peripherally gaze, and i don't.

Yesterday i had Yo Gabba Gabba and Thomas

Today i have Thomas, and even more trains.

Yesterday he closed one circle.

Today he can close 5 or more.

Yesterday we had routines.

Today we have routines.

Yesterday i had doubts.

Today, i have doubts.

Yesterday i had meltdowns.

Today i have meltdowns.

Yesterday i had questions.

Today i have questions.

Yesterday, tomorrow made up most of my day.

Today, i put both yesterday and tomorrow aside.

Because, in the end, they don't matter.

XANAX

So, every male in this house has some sort of sensory "issue"--and yes that includes the dog. Thus, i spend my day tiptoe-ing around them, trying not to be too loud, or too chewy, too babbly or too....too. And before you say--oh you poor thing--that sentence just made it sound worse than it is. Most days I clomp around the house in loud clothing, babbling on about nonsense, munching on celery and banging on pots and pans in the kitchen. They usually don't have their issues all together, (and one of them i can actually REASON with) so I only have to tiptoe around one of them at a time. (as if i REALLY take into consideration what the dog feels. HAH!) But sometimes--oh SOMETIMES--I end up with a trifecta of sensory overload, where anyone without ovaries in the house is having a BAD FUCKING DAY, and they are letting me know about it.

THIS (and the state of Democratic politics, Somali pirates, the crisis of potable water and the fact that I am 40 years old and STILL don't know what i want to be when i grow up) is why the doctor looked over her glasses at me, and told me in her Filipino accent that I have an anxiety disorder. 

yay. for. ME.

But you know what else gives me anxiety? taking pills. You ever see that scene in "As Good As It Gets" when Jack Nicholson is talking about taking pills? that's me--without the compliment to Helen Hunt and her fussy little look. I have TRIED to take pills regularly throughout my life. Let's just say it's a wonder I didn't get pregnant in college, that Ben exited my womb with an intact spine and that my bones are still in working order. I TRY. I get the friggin pill containers. I fill them up. I look at them daily, and I just forget to take my pills.

G-d help me when I am an old woman (keep yer cracks to yerself) and I have to take pills daily in order to keep myself from dying.

Look, as much as routine is important to my kid--that's how much it ISN'T important to me. It chafes. I can't do it. Yes, I know, my world would be much nicer if I could just swallow that damn B-vitamin horse pill every day and watch my pee turn bright yellow, but I have some sort of internal demon that just won't let me do it.

So when the doctor "suggested" I take some sort of pill to deal with my anxiety--after acknowledging that i have a VERY full plate (seriously--the dog can't even sit his butt down on anything that isn't carpeted), i looked at her like she was suggesting an exorcism. Me. take a pill. yeah.

But it turns out she isn't quite the quack I've made her out to be in my head. She gave me a lovely prescription for Xanax, to "take as needed"

THANK. YOU. G-D.

Someone out there understands that I live life as it comes to me. Some days only need a moment in the sunshine to recharge. Others need a fifth of SOMETHING and my little pill bottle. (not that i actually condone the mixing of alcohol and anxiety pills, or anything else that might lead to me having to take more pills after my liver kicks it.) So now I can deal with it as I come to it, and not have to dive deeper into my own "issues" to take some stupid pill daily.

Now if something could just help me deal with the strange anxiety i feel when the carpet in the main room gets flipped back or "scrunched", I'd be just about perfect. After a cocktail, of course.

Wind

So the wind picked up this morning.  I'm talking the kind of wind that makes the palm trees in front of our house look like they are gonna SNAP!  The kind of wind that redirects the air traffic to Burbank Airport directly over the house, looking like they are gonna slam into the NBC universal building.  The kind of wind that makes my kid a little...nutty.

All i can figure is that the noise, the feeling of the wind, the visual (we have a lot of trees around our place) must be a lot for him to take in.  On these days he gets super stimmy, toe walking, scripting, and the head shaking.  He doesn't shake his head much (he used to do it a lot) but I've noticed when he's on sensory overload--or visually overloaded, he shakes his head back and forth (as if to say no), but he seems happy doing it.  We called it "the beans" when he was little, so sometimes he'll add a squeaky voice saying "beans!"

I kinda understand it.  The wind has always invigorated me.  I love the feeling of being in strong winds, being whipped about.  One of the many Hebrew names for G-d--since we're not supposed to call him by name--is Elohim, which means "winds."  So maybe i am partial to the winds because they engage a certain spirituality within me.  Perhaps, my own version of "beans".

Or maybe i like a good excuse to mix up a batch of hurricanes.

For now, though, imma run around with my kid outside so we can both feel the wind on our faces.

Vexation

It vexes me.  I'm deeply vexed.

Ben has this thing.  Usually when he's tired, hungry, anxious or breathing…he will ask for something, you give it and then he cries for it as if you are withholding it.

It's like a john crying through sex with a  hooker.  I don't get it. 

Just a few minutes ago he cried woefully to his father for "DVDEEEEEEEE!" to which my Old Man said--"we're already WATCHING dvds dude.  Look at the TV!"

Frankly, its making me a little batty.

I realize, it's prolly just some independence thing or what-have-you that he can't really explain at the moment, and in a few months we'll all be laughing about it--mostly because I refilled my xanax prescription.  But until then, I'm gonna lose it if I have to hear that whine again.

And on top of it, its making the dog howl.  When Benji starts his scream/tantrum/outburst/song and dance, Manny (our fierce 7lb chihuahua) will join in with his own whines and howls.  Of course, if ANYONE has the right to howl and whine in this house, it's Manny.  What with the being tempted with food, being yelled at by me, being chased/terrorized/strongly loved by the boy and being growled at by the Old Man every time Manny tries to eat whatever food he leaves on a plate on the couch without any claims of ownership (scent marking being frowned upon by she who cleans), and being taunted by a local squirrel that sits on the other side of the picture window and just twitches his tail, it’s a wonder he doesn't howl more often.

Now if you'll excuse me, the little man is in tears over a peanut butter sandwich sitting right in front of him.  And my glass is empty.