This Angry Mom Calms the Eff Down...Sort Of

When my son colors, he colors aggressively.  He presses down hard and leaves a layer of wax on the paper so thick that he practically creates his own scratch pads.  It's a sensory thing, I think.  I don't mind because it seems to help him blow off steam and it's encouraging him to use his "bird beak" grip on the crayon.  Years of OT have gotten him to this point.

The boy has crap fine motor skills.  I know this.  When we work on papers that ask him to match a picture from one side of the page to the other, he can point to the correct answer, but drawing a line from picture to picture is difficult for him.  Not only does he have to grip the pencil correctly, but he also has to cross the effin' midline.

Last night, I received a large envelope with an order form.  It said, "Look inside to see the special card design your child has created!"  Considering that his homework the other night looked like this,---------------------------------->
I was expecting some kind of Pollock-esque, action-crayoning mess.  In fact, I was looking forward to it.  I pictured his intense little face--jaw jutted out--as he savagely scribbled.

Imagine my surprise when I saw this:

Aide-made!

What the actual fuck?  I can't even begin to talk about how wrong this is.  What am I supposed to do with this?

Here's the thing, folks.  Despite the fact that I curse often, I'm not an angry person.  I don't offend easily.  It takes a lot to piss me off.  I'm a public school teacher and I know the hoops we're expected to jump through, the daily insults to our credibility and profession, and the unreasonable expectations of parents and administrators.  I'm especially sensitive to all of this, but I can't fathom any reason why a teacher might think I'd want to order greeting cards designed by a paraprofessional.

I seethed.  I raved.  I ranted in private Facebook groups about the insult of it all.  This was the artistic equivalent of a pity fuck!  And then I poured myself a glass of wine and watched a few episodes of Key & Peele until my blood pressure went down.

I prepared to write the dreaded indignant parent email.  What I actually wanted to write would've looked something like this:

     Dear Art Teacher,

     Thanks a lot for the order form.  I was truly impressed with his self-portrait.  You must be an amazing teacher to improve his drawing skills so dramatically in two short months!  You have got to be kidding me.  Do you really think I would believe this was my son's work?  Or that I'm going to order cards designed by his aide for your little fundraiser?  Yeah, I'll send them out to all our friends and family.  "Look what the boy's aide drew!  Can you believe she's only 43 years old?!  We are soooo super proud of her!"

     Maybe he didn't feel like cooperating during art class that day.  Maybe he just scribbled.  You know what?  I'm happy with a scribble!  I don't give a flying rat's ass whether or not my child can draw a self-portrait.  We have bigger fish to fry--like learning to grip a damned pencil.  Send me his real work and don't waste my time with this bullshit.  Did you feel sorry for me that my son's drawing skills aren't up to your standards?  Well, your heart may have been in the right place, but your head is up your ass.  My son needs support and understanding, not your pity.

                                                                                                             Sincerely,
                                                                                                       Mrs. Effin' A. Mom

I did not send this email.  I thought about my mother-in-law's saying, "Kill them with kindness."  Reasonable friends suggested I give the teacher a chance to explain first.  And then there's the old adage, "Honey and vinegar and shit."

So I took some deep, calming breaths and wrote a brief email asking her why I received a design that was clearly not the boy's work.  She responded with an apology and explained that this was a graphic design fundraiser and it "didn't register" with her that this was something completed by the aide and that she hopes I've seen other projects that have "included his input."  I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth and composed this response:

     Dear Art Teacher,

     Thank you for clarifying.  I would be happy to order a card containing the boy's designs.  I know he's not yet at the level of creating self-portraits.  He still struggles to hold a pencil or crayon appropriately, and I'm proud of the progress that he has made in that area.

      I would hope that anything sent home is my son's work and contains more than just his "input."  In the future, if he refuses to do the task, please write me a note.  If he simply scribbles all over the paper, please send that home.  I would rather see my boy's scribbles than work completed by an aide.

Thank you.

                                                                                                              Sincerely,
                                                                                                      Mrs. Effin' A. Mom

Sometimes I think I ought to fly off the handle more often.  Maybe these bizarre stomach pains I've been having would be relieved if I just lost my shit on people.  Then again, I'd end up feeling guilty and developing an ulcer...if I don't have one already.
  
But maybe I don't need to freak the eff out.  People generally mean well, and I understand that meaning well is not the same thing as doing well.  It comes down to this:  I know my kid and I know what he can do.  If the school ever sends me his aide's work again, I will send it back with a sticker and a comment, "Good job, Mrs. Smith!"

 I'm reminded of the old saying that Irish Diplomacy is the ability to tell a man to go to hell so that he looks forward to making the trip.  

Or as my husband explained, "You're good at telling people to fuck off, but you do it classy-like."

Thanks, hon.

Eff You For Not Suffering With Me

There's lots of talk of resentment in our community.  It makes sense.  We see our children struggle with something that has no known cause or cure.  We resent our NT friends for getting to take naps.  We resent ignorant people who suggest that autism can be fixed with a "good spanking."  We resent each other for suggesting that we're doing it wrong--wrong diet, wrong shots, wrong therapy.  And we resent insurance companies for refusing to cover any of the above.

We're a sensitive bunch.  So it gets even tougher when the resentment hits closer to home.  As in, it hits in our home.

My husband and I handle this pretty well.  We have a running joke.  We tell each other to fuck off.  It's nice.  If he's at home with the boys, and things aren't going so well, I might get a text that reads, "He dumped an entire box of cereal on the couch, but it's under control.  Enjoy your cocktails.  Fuck you!  Love you!"

Such fun!

Because of the nature of my husband's job, I'm more likely to send the "fuck you" texts.  He travels and has to stay overnight at least once a week.  He says it's boring, but I'm jealous.  I've never stayed in a hotel room by myself.  It seems like an extraordinary luxury.  You mean I don't have to go looking for quiet?  Quiet is already here?! 

My husband was in Boston last week for work, and I was getting the house ready for the ABA therapist.  As I was putting the cushions back on the couch (again!) I became aware of a poop smell.  I looked up to see a naked, shit-smeared boy.  He was going to need a shower pronto.  But before I could stop him, he jumped on the couch.  Now the couch was going to need cleaning, too.  I got him into the tub, and as I was soaping and scrubbing and cursing under my breath, I could hear the ding-ding of my cell phone.  A text.  I ignored it, dressed the boy, handed him over to the therapist, and went about getting the skid mark off the couch.  Ding-ding!  What now?

A picture is worth a thousand f-bombs.

I washed the turd remnants from my hands and picked up the phone.  It was a message from my husband!  His company set him up in a much nicer hotel this time!  He sent a picture!

My response:  "The boy just shit somewhere and smeared it all over himself.  Had to wash him and the couch.  Fuck you and your fancy hotel room.  xoxo"

And I was kidding.  Mostly.

But it's hard not to get resentful.  I know he'd rather be home.  I do.  I also know that I'd rather he be home, too, so I could be in a hotel room.

He's away again today.  We had a doctor's appointment with the sleep specialist and I couldn't find the paperwork.  I was in an effin' rage because my husband cleaned the kitchen and moved the papers.  Let me repeat:  My husband cleaned the kitchen, which he does every night.  He also made dinner and dealt with a serious Code Brown.  This man is the best.  He's a great husband and a great father, but I was pissed at him anyway, because he had to work.

It doesn't make any sense.

On the way to the doctor, the kids were shoving each other and whining and moaning.  The boy announced that he had to go potty and promptly began shrieking.  What the--?   I pulled over and discovered that he had loosened his shoulder belt and wrapped it around his foot.  When the seatbelt tightened, it pulled his leg up over his head like he was in traction.  He was stuck and screaming and the three of us were yanking and yelling and causing a major scene, until we eventually pulled him free, at which point he peed on the side of the road, bitching all the while.

Was I angry at the boy for messing with his seat belt?  No!  I was angry at my husband for not being there to suffer along with me.

It doesn't make any sense.

When we finally arrived at the hospital, I was so exhausted, I almost cried.  I was sorely hoping this sleep specialist could give us some answers.  I'd been up since four with the boy.  One problem, though.  The hospital screwed up.  They made our appointment with the wrong effin' doctor!  We have to go back on Thursday at 6 pm--an appointment my husband can make.

Which is what he wanted all along.

 

Uncomfortable Truth

My well-meaning husband linked this blog-in-progress to his Facebook page without my permission.  I was livid when I saw it.  I immediately called him up and quietly asked for his password.  He could tell I was angry because I didn't raise my voice even a little.

"OK.  Why?"
"Because you linked to my blog and I didn't want you to.  I wanted it to be private."
"You didn't tell me that.  Why write a blog if you don't want anyone to see it?"

Why, indeed?  I wanted people to see it, just not anyone I know.  I liked the idea of venting to the universe, bitching about my problems in a way that might be seen by many or none.  I figured if I didn't tell anyone about the blog, the only people who would see if would be people who found it by accident.  They'd either read it or pass it by, and it wouldn't matter.  Maybe a stranger would read it and it would strike a chord and that would be really, really great.

Because the thing is, I don't want my friends to know how much I resent them sometimes.

My friends, who send us lovely Christmas cards, with all of their children looking into the camera.

My friends, who complain when their child has an ear infection.  Yes, ear infections hurt and they suck.  I get it.  But you know what cures an ear infection?  Penicillin.  You know what cures autism?  Fuck all.


My friends, who watch TV at night, or read, or exercise, or, I dunno, sleep.

My friends, who don't have to lock their fridges and pantries and doors, because their children don't get up at night and butter the couch.  (Yes.  As God is my witness, the boy has buttered the couch on more than one occasion.)

There's so much that parents of typical kids take for granted, and on bad days, I can hate them for it.  I hate when they complain and I hate when they sympathize.  They'll say, "I know I shouldn't even say anything, because you have it way worse, but..."

And I hate them for that, too.

It's not fair or rational, I know.  But it's how I feel sometimes.  I resent people I really like, and I don't want them to know about it.  So my husband removed the link months ago, and I'm just getting around to posting this.  Hopefully, the people we know have forgotten that my effin' autism blog even exists.