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.

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?

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 and I’m here in Los Angeles, I had to sing her Happy Birthday over the phone.

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.

And he’ll eat cake.  THAT part of birthday he understands:

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.

A is for Autism

A is also for April, which is Autism Awareness Month. And I realized, when I started writing this post, which was looking to be the ubiquitous "Autism" post, "A" stands for a lot of other things too...

A is for ALL-ENCOMPASSING, which this disorder can be on the worst of days. And sometimes on the best of days. There is no hiding from it, no matter how long you stay under the bed.

A is for ANONYMOUS, which you sometimes feel in the sea of parents of neurotypical children who have no idea what you are going through. Or what you sometimes wish you were when your child decides to melt down in public.

A is for ASKING questions--which starts when you begin to suspect, and never ends, after the diagnosis, after therapy, after an IEP, after he grows, after he regresses…

A is also for ABILITY, ACCESS and ACADEMICS. You know how smart your kid is. And you know what they're capable of. I mean, this guy is a friggin genius here, am I wrong? Some parents are lucky enough to have teachers that know the same thing. And some have to fight to make sure these three words work hand in hand so that each child is receiving a quality education. Otherwise you have to open up that economy sized can of whoop-ass that is fueled by your…

ANGER, the anger you feel about the diagnosis, the anger you feel at the professionals you refuse to take you seriously, the anger you feel at (insert your deity/faith here) for forcing you to deal with this, the anger you feel at those neurotypical parents for no reason other than jealousy, the anger you have toward bok choy because you don’t know how to cook it, and the anger you have toward douchebags who judge and mock your child. Anger can be strong but so too is

ACCEPTANCE. Once you accept things get easier. You start working from a point of progression instead of fighting it. You move FORWARD, and everyone is happier for it.

A is also for ADAPT--the thing you have to learn quickly, because Autism doesn't let you make any long term plans. And you never know what it's gonna bring each morning. So you assume a boxer's stance, and get ready to rumble.

A is for AGENCY--the many, many agencies you'll have to work with to get your child the services he/she needs. Services your taxes may or may not pay for, or that you will have to pay for, or that the insurance company says your kid doesn’t need, making you engage yet another agency. State, local, national--there's an agency for everything, and everything has an agency.

A is for ANXIETY, yours and your child's. Everyday you are anxious that your child is gonna keep it together and not meltdown. And everyday, they are anxious because the world is so intense. It may require prescriptions, or therapy or sensory deprivation tanks. It’s like a weird houseguest who just stays and stays, and doesn’t really talk to anyone, but stares all the time. Like, you wanna kick them out, but it’s aunt Charla’s kid, and you can’t really.

A is for ADVOCATE. You are your best child's advocate. No one in the world knows your child the way you do. And no on would fight harder. A bulldog. A rottweiler. Teeth bared and snarling.

A is for ANSWERS, which you may never get. Or you may get too many. That contradict each other. And give you more stress and more anxiety and make you reach for...

ALCOHOL. Sometimes you have to remember that you are an adult, and that adults have special beverages that allow them to unwind after a particularly rough day. or hour.

A is for AMAZING--our kids are capable of amazing things, as long as you believe it.

As much as i hate how much this word is used in "Oprah-like" circles, A is also for AUTHENTIC. At some point, you realize that you must live as authentically as you can, otherwise Autism will chew you up and spit you out with no regrets. If you are not coming from a place that is true, then you will just be flapping and spinning and repeating the things other people say. Sometimes that authenticity will hurt, offend and discomfort others, and you have to be willing to live with that. That's what being authentic means--being YOURSELF above all other things. It requires a great deal of navel gazing and self-judgement, and sometimes the ghosts of your past can be frightening. But nothing feels better than waking up in the morning knowing WHO you are and what you want.


And lastly, A is for ALWAYS. This disorder may be with him for the rest of his life, but so will my love. ALWAYS.

tagging

so i got tagged in another meme...




the lovely Jen over at Living Life with a Side of Autism (a seriously great blog, people--check her out!) decided to tag me in her attempt at underachievement. So i'm supposed to give you 7 facts about myself--heretofore unmentioned.

hmmmmm

1. i am not perfect at it, but i really dig on keeping a clean house. Actually i live in fear of becoming a hoarder, so keeping the house neat and tidy (and empty) makes me feel sane.

2. I really hate folding laundry. I have no problem sorting, washing, hell, i even hang it outside to dry. But there is just something about folding that makes me avoid it.

3. I don't like, or "get" iced coffee. I mean, what IS the point?

4. i view buying bread as a personal failure. Unless it's from the bakery outlet for half the price.

5. i hate talking on the phone. and i've been like this LONG before the advent of texting. And thank G-d for texting.

6. I consider myself a solitary witch. And a Jew. I don't find them to be mutually exclusive. I'm sure my rabbi would disagree. None of my witch friends would, though.

7. i miss trees. but not mold.

now i'm supposed to tag 10 people for this--but i'm not sure i can even name ten bloggers i know that haven't already been tagged for this, so imma name a few that prolly don't follow my blog, and those who do? heh heh.

1. Jen at Unedited
2. Paddy over at Flusterkuff
3. Tulpen at Bad Words
4. Debi at HuntersLyonesse
5. Jodi at The Mean Mom

a new thingy

so, Not Just Another Mother Blogger just brought this to my attention, and it sounds interesting. and i loves me a good writing challenge to keep those creative juices flowing. TOmorrow starts "A". That one, i think will be pretty easy.

join me back here tomorrow! I'm off to look up words that begin with F...