Review: Sensacalm Weighted Blanket

“This blanket wants me to nap.”—Big Bro

We recently received a gift I need to tell you about.  A wonderful company called Sensacalm offered to give us a weighted blanket for the Boy in exchange for an honest review.  Donna and Sarah, who run the company, are the grandmother and mom of children with specials needs.  So, yes, they are on our team.

Donna walked me through the whole process of designing a blanket that my son would like and would fit his sensory needs.  Their website has a number of great designs and patterns to choose from.  Now, if you follow my page you might know that my boy is obsessed with Phineas and Ferb.  Stores don’t carry Phineas and Ferb anything anymore, but Donna managed to find Phineas and Ferb fabric!  (As someone who has to shop for her kid on eBay, I was impressed.)

When the blanket arrived, Big Bro and I oohed and aahed over it for a while.  So sturdy!  So soft!  Oh, it’s hugging me!  Meanwhile, the Boy was standing there like, Um, that’s mine?  So we reluctantly handed it over…

(Let me pause in the narrative to explain what Boy on the Couch is usually like.  He is a blanket kid for real.  When he comes home from school, he drags the comforter off his bed, drapes it on the couch, and then climbs underneath like it’s a tent.  It’s how he decompresses.  He stims and bounces and yells…all from under the comforter.  Eventually, when he’s jumped around enough to dislodge the couch cushions, he throws the blanket off, stomps into the kitchen, and demands a snack.  That’s how it generally goes.)

So…first trial with the weighted blanket.  He stretched out on the couch, I draped the blanket on him, and…he sighed.  It was so cute.  He sighed this, “Ah, yes” kind of sigh, and ran his fingers over the Phineas and Ferb pattern.  He sat quietly for a few minutes, pointed to and named the characters, and rubbed his hands on the soft, minky fabric on the other side.  After a few minutes, he set the blanket aside, walked into the kitchen, and asked for a snack.  It was nice.

The blankets are available in different sizes and are weighted according to the weight of your child.  As you can see from the picture, the blanket doesn’t cover the whole bed.  This is because it’s meant to fit the body; otherwise, it would slip off the bed.  We are very happy with how it looks, and even happier with how it feels.

So yes, the blanket is a hit.  He’s almost 10 and we still struggle to get him to go to sleep in his own bed.  We find that when we manage to get him in his own bed, he’s more likely to stay there when he has the weighted blanket.  As the weather gets cooler, I think we’ll be using this more and more.  (We don’t have AC.  I know, right?)

I like it, too.  Something about the deep pressure is really comforting.  I occasionally deal with restless legs, and the weight of the blanket helps.  And when Big Bro was overtired and stressed about schoolwork, he borrowed the blanket, and loved the pressure, too.  “This blanket wants me to nap,” he said. 

I know as autism parents, we have a lot of products pushed on us.  As a blogger, I get messages asking me to push all sorts of vitamins and oils and crap on you, and I ignore them.  This is different.  These blankets are not cheap, but they are well-made and sturdy and comfy.  I’d say the Sensacalm blanket is definitely something to keep in mind, especially as the holiday season is approaching.  Maybe instead of buying toys they won’t play with, you can get the aunts and uncles to go in on a weighted blanket.  (And if it helps your kid sleep, it’s a gift for the whole family!)

If you're interested, you can click on this link to learn more!

Can we change the subject?

This weekend kicks off barbecue season.  It's another summer of hot dogs, potato salad, and chasing my kid around someone else's yard.  It's another summer of being the Autism Ambassador.

I'm going to sound like a jerk when I say this, but I don't always feel like talking about autism.  When I meet people that are friends of friends, they want to tell me all about their sister's niece or their neighbor's grandson on the spectrum. I know they are trying to make a connection and I think it's really nice of them to show an interest. I do.  I did it, too, before I became a parent. But it's so exhausting sometimes!  

Have you seen that video of the autistic boy playing basketball?  Did you see the girl who wore orange to her prom because her date is autistic and that's his favorite color?  How about the autistic boy who loves to watch the garbage truck?
Or
Have you tried giving him weed?

I know they mean well, but I want to talk about something else.  Changing the subject can be tricky.  Any reference to current events could turn the conversation to politics, which, in my neck of the woods, will invariably lead to me hating people.  So I've decided to have some new topics at the ready.  Feel free to use them when a friend of a friend asks you awkward questions.

Friend of friend:  Did you see the report linking maternal obesity to autism?
Me:  No, I didn't.  But isn't it nice that they finally gave King Richard III a proper burial?  It's so strange how they keep finding dead kings under parking lots in England. 
(Note:  This is true.)

Friend of friend:  Does your child have any special talents?  Like Rainman?
Me:  No, but speaking of Rainman, did you know Dustin Hoffman accidentally cut off the tip of his finger during Finding Neverland and had to film while hopped up on morphine?
(Note:  Maybe true.)

Friend of friend:  My sister's neighbor is on the spectrum.
Me:  Really?  My sister's neighbor fell out of an airplane and LIVED!
(Note:  OK, so this did happen, but not to my sister's neighbor.  I don't have a sister.)

If all else fails, we can talk about the food.  And Julia.  I will always make an exception for Julia!

 

Be Effin' Fearless!

I need an outlet.  I need a fun activity, and it’s all right if I’m no good at it.

It’s important for me to be a good mom, wife, teacher, and friend.  I’m prepared to suck at everything else.  And I do.

Here’s my thesis:  Don’t be afraid to try something new and suck at it.  In fact, seek out opportunities to suck.  It’s fun!

The other day, I suggested to a friend that we go do one of those paint and sip art classes.  You know the ones?  You drink a bottle of wine and two hours later, you’ve got a painting in your hands?  My friend said, “But I have no artistic ability.”  To which I said, “Who the hell cares?”

Yeah, I framed it. 

I go to these classes and paint with the joy of a four year-old.  At one class, I sat next to my lovely sister-in-law, who is studying to be an art teacher.  She has…what are the words?  Skill and talent.  Yes, she’s actually really good.  So while she was stepping back and looking at the composition of her piece and carefully blending colors, I was merrily slapping the canvas with a brush and saying things like, “I like your painting!  Do you like my painting?  I like my painting.”  Exactly like a four year-old.

Life is so much more fun if you give yourself permission to do something and NOT be good at it.  So I’m not a good painter.  That’s cool.

I’m not a very good triathlete, either.  This will be my ninth summer of racing, and I always placed in the bottom third of my age group.  I’ve never cracked middle-of-the-pack, and it’s fine.  I do it, anyway.  It’s not even that I like running!  I’m slow and my right knee knows when it’s going to rain, but even as I’m running, I think, “This is the easiest part of my day.”  It is so empowering to do something that many people think is really hard, and know that everything else you do in real life is actually harder.  Think about it.  What’s harder than being a special-needs parent?  Nothing!  Racing gives me a sense of accomplishment. Finish lines are nice.  Finish lines next to beer tents are even nicer.

So if you’re thinking about trying a race, but you’re afraid of coming in last, don’t worry!  It doesn’t matter.  If I happen to cross the finish line before you, I will save you a beer!

And then there’s acting.  I do plays once in a while, and it’s great fun.  My acting chops are at an acceptable level for community theater.  (I’ll let you draw your own conclusions here.)  But even at this level, friends will ask me the questions.  How do you learn all those lines?  Weren’t you nervous?  What if the scene gets messed up or you forget a line?  Isn’t that embarrassing?

Embarrassing?  Maybe, a little.  More embarrassing than dealing with a DEFCON 1 meltdown in Target?*  No.  More embarrassing than having to climb into the plastic tubing at the McDonald’s Playplace to retrieve a defiant child?  Never.  Community theater is easier than parenting.

Everything is easier than parenting.  Parenting is the most important thing we do, so we need to reserve all our strength to do it well.  Let’s cut ourselves some slack on the rest.  We need fun.  So think about something you’ve always wanted to try…and try it!  Get on out there and don’t be afraid to SUCK!

*Contrary to popular belief, DEFCON 5 is the best state of affairs.  DEFCON 5 means peace.  DEFCON 1 is World War III.  Go back and watch War Games.  I’ll wait here.

"I'm like...angry at numbers."

These words, spoken by Butt-Head, the bard of my generation, used to make me laugh.  They conjured my struggles with long division, algebra, and my difficulty having any concept of time.  Numbers were never my friend and I could never make them go away.  They used to annoy me, but now they truly anger me.   

Numbers effin' haunt me.  I did my first triathlon at the age of 34, after having spent my youth being decidedly unathletic.  Before I started training, I had never run more than one mile, and that was ONE time in 10th grade gym class.  So when I crossed the finish line, I felt amazing!  I did it!  I could do anything!  And then I made the mistake of looking at the race results.  I had finished dead last in my age group.  Effin' numbers.  I then tried to comfort myself with another number:  I had actually come in ahead of another woman who was 10 years my junior, but decided she must have run the entire race while carrying a full bag of groceries.

I used to joke that I became an English teacher in order to avoid numbers, but there's no avoiding numbers.  I love my job, but I HATE grading essays.  I hate putting a number value on their work.  I would much rather write comments all over it and hand it back.  "Here you go!  This is what you did well, and this is where you need to improve."  No numbers, just feedback, because numbers are heartbreaking.  I remember sitting with a weepy girl who was so frustrated that she wasn't getting A's.  (Gone are the days of rewarding effort; we're required to grade off a standards-based rubric.  Thanks, Common Core!)  She was working so hard, but she wasn't meeting the benchmarks for an A.  I remember taking out her portfolio and spreading her papers all over the table.  Her early writing was really weak and unfocused and now she was doing solid B work.  I tried to get her to see past the grade and look at the big picture. 
    
"Look," I said to her.  "Look how far you've come.  You've gotten so much better at this!  Can you see that?  Can you see how hard you've worked and how much you've improved?  You should be so proud!"  I was rewarded with a sniffling, teary attempt at a smile, but I don't know if I really got through.

Which brings me to my current anger at numbers.  In advance of my son's re-eval meeting, I was sent his test scores.  They wanted benchmarks, and I understand that.  Still, it's hard.  See, I try really hard to focus on the big picture.  I remind myself how happy I was when, at two, my son learned to sign "more" and "more milk," because he was effectively communicating his needs in a way that was much nicer than screaming and throwing his dinner against the wall.  Now he can make such requests as, "Go to the restaurant for pizza and pasta and cheeseburgers and french fries and chocolate milk and ice cream, PLEEEEEEEZE!"  Now that's progress!

So to see, in black-and-white, that my son scored below the first percentile in linguistic concepts and sentence comprehension was a gut punch.  To see, in black-and-white, that he still exhibits "severe receptive, expressive, and pragmatic language deficits"--even after all the hard work from everyone involved--is very, very hard.  And I'll admit it.  I cried.

Black-and-white sucks.  Numbers suck.  I have to talk myself down.  I have to focus on the big picture.  I have to remind myself of my own words:  "Look how far he's come!  He's worked so hard!  You should be proud!"

And I am proud, because we're all working hard, and he is getting better.

Also because he can say, "Fuck it!" like a champ.

Scripting: The Good, the Bad, and the Smelly

     "I mean it!  Bath time is over!  It's time to get out of the tub!"  I was getting annoyed.  He could tell, and he was delighted.  He wriggled his bare butt on the bottom of the now-empty tub, and shouted, his voice echoing against the tiles.
     "If you make one more move, Mister!  If you put one fin on that boat...Nemo!"

And then it was my turn to be delighted.  Yes, he was scripting, but it was quasi-appropriate.  He was telling me that I was being a nag, that I sounded like Nemo's scolding dad, Marlin.  He was communicating and joking with me.  Teasing me, if you will.  I loved it.

Yesterday was a different story.  When I picked him up from aftercare, the director pulled me aside.

     "There was an issue on the bus," she whispered.  "He was being fresh."
     "Oh, no.  What did he do?"
     She lowered her voice even more.  "He said shut up.  It's not a phrase we use here."
     "Nor do we," I assured her, stifling a laugh.  We say just about everything else, but we don't say "shut up."  He was probably scripting off a YouTube video, but it could have been so much worse.
     "I had him apologize to the bus driver," she told me.
     "OK," I said.  "But that will probably just make him do it more.  It's best to just ignore the unwanted behavior."
     "I understand.  It's just that the bus driver was upset."

If the bus driver was upset by "shut up", it's a good thing she wasn't in my car that time the Boy finished his ice cream and asked for more.

    "No more ice cream," I told him.  "You've had enough."
     "Fuuuckin' SHIT!" he shouted in a pitch-perfect imitation of my husband, and spiked his empty ice cream cup on the floor of the car.
     "Don't react.  Don't laugh.  Don't say a word," I muttered through clenched jaw as Big Bro quivered with silent laughter and real tears ran down his face.  I don't know what was funnier--hearing my autistic son curse like a pro or watching my 13 year-old struggle not to laugh.  I'll admit, it was entertaining as hell, but you know what?  We didn't react, and that particular expletive wasn't repeated.

The bus driver probably wouldn't like to hear my son script entire conversations in all of our voices, especially those of a personal nature:

     "Oh my gawd!  What is that smell?"
      "I'm sorry!  I couldn't help it!"
     "What did you eat?"
     "Dad, you FARTED!"

Yep, she probably wouldn't approve.  That script keeps happening because we're awful people and we laugh at it.  Can't help it.  The kid does great impersonations!

But the key is to ignore the unwanted behavior.  If you tell my kid not to do something, he will do it just to mess with you.  It's just his way.

So I wasn't at all surprised to hear that he was yelling "shut up" on the bus again today.  Duh.  Since I don't see the driver, I contacted his case worker and asked her to give the driver some strategies for dealing with this.  I'm glad I've got a go-between to deal with these complaints, because if this keeps on, I may have to give her a number of informative pamphlets on autism.

Or maybe I'll just tell her to shut up.  ;)

(I won't do that, of course.  She's lovely and I'm too polite.)

The Trip That Didn't Suck

We went to Hershey Park on Sunday.  The kids went on some rides and ate some junk food.  We went back to the hotel and went swimming.  Then it was dinner at a brewery, the "tour" ride in Chocolate World, and back to the hotel for swimming and bed.

No meltdowns.  From anyone.  A Christmas Miracle.

Now to a "typical" family, our outing may have seemed a little dull.  To us, it was glorious.

We're learning.  I'm learning.

Here's the thing:  there are few things I love more than planning fun vacations for our family.  Our getaways tend to be long weekends, and I do my best to plan them carefully to get the most out of our time away.  My mantra is Maximum Fun. 

I used to take pride in my careful preparations.  (Hell, I still do.)  When Big Bro was three, I timed our Breakfast with Pooh so we'd be out in time to be at the velvet rope when the Magic Kingdom opened.  It was our last day and we had a 2 pm flight.  So when they dropped the rope, I took off!  I sprinted down Main Street, USA, with my son in the stroller, whooping and clapping.  My husband, who didn't understand the deal, jogged behind me and whined.

     "Mel!  What are you doing?  Why are you running?"
     "My baby is getting on the Peter Pan ride ONE MORE TIME!"

I'm MaxiMom, the female version of Clark Griswold.  (And if you know anything about Clark Griswold, you know it all goes wrong.)

I was forgiven for my mad dash down Main Street, USA, but that was before The Boy was born.  The Boy doesn't hold with such planning.

The best laid plans of MaxiMom oft go astray--like the time I spent a fortune on zoo tickets, and he only wanted to look at the pigeons. 
Or the time we went camping at the beach, and the boy and I fell into a cactus. 
Or the time he yanked out his tooth and flashed his junk to the people in the hotel. 
Or the time he had a meltdown in Chocolate World and threw my purse into the ride. 
Or the time he did a Code Brown in the hotel pool and then cried because they had to close the pool because of said Code Brown. 
Or the time he had such an awful meltdown in the car that my friend passed me a flask of bourbon and I actually drank some. 
Or the time at Eastern State Penitentiary when EVERYONE was bitching about everyone else, and I wanted to lock them all up in Al Capone's cell and go get a beer.

Another miracle!

That's usually how our trips go.  But not this time.  This time I didn't worry about whether my kids had gone on enough rides for me to feel like we got our money's worth.  We didn't push.  We kept him regulated.  For example, after two back-to-back roller coaster rides, we chilled out on the monorail.  He got a little upset when his favorite ride was closed, but we substituted another, and everyone was happy.


We plied them with ice cream.

Our treat.

And then there was beer.  Did I mention the beer?


P.S. Hershey Park is wonderfully accommodating with special needs, so if you're thinking about going, I'd highly recommend it.  Any bad experiences we had in the past were our own damn fault.

Oh, and neither Hershey nor Troeg's is paying me for this review.  But I wouldn't say no to free tickets and beer!  (Ahem!)

Airing Our Dirty Laundry

I've really struggled over whether I should write about this.  This isn't going to be a funny one, folks.

When I started this blog, it was a totally anonymous place to vent because nobody knew about it.  Now that people read it, I feel so much love and support.  Hey, it's not just me!  I love the feeling of making others feel less alone.  This has led to a paradox...now that people I know read this, should I edit myself?

I try to laugh and keep things light around here, but we're dealing with some dark, effed up stuff I have yet to mention.

To put it simply, my son's godparents refuse to have a relationship with him.

Two and a half years ago, my son pushed their son, and that was that.  No more holidays together.  Sunday dinners ended.  They will no longer allow their son to be in the same room as my kid.  My son is autistic and therefore a danger to their child.

At first, I couldn't believe it.  I thought I was reading too much into the sudden illnesses and cancellations that prevented them from joining us.  But I wasn't imagining things. My sister-in-law won't have her son at a family event where my son is present, and my brother-in-law goes along to keep the peace.

And listen, I understand their concerns.  My nephew is a little guy and my boy is big.  Their boy wasn't hurt, but we didn't take this lightly.  I've been the mother of the pusher and the mother of the pushee, and believe me, it's much easier to be the mother of the pushee.

I understand the need to be cautious, but how can people cut a child out of their lives?  I've been so full of anger and hurt and how-could-yous, but I've kept it all inside for a long, long time.  As upset as I felt, I kept quiet because my kids didn't know.

They know now.  The other day my husband was supposed to stop by my in-laws' house with the kids, but his brother called and told him not to come over since they were already there with our nephew.  My older son has suspected for a while that his aunt is not exactly accepting of his brother, but now he knows for sure.  He seems hurt and angry and I don't blame him.   

We had to remove their pictures from our home because our little boy would just carry them around and ask to see his cousin.  How do you tell a seven year-old autistic boy that he's not allowed to see his cousin because of something he did when he was four?

I've heard of people who've ended friendships when their friends were not accepting of autism.  What do you do when it's family?  I think my older son put it best when he asked, "How can we expect strangers to be understanding if his own aunt and uncle won't see him?"

How can I possibly shield my children from this? 

I'm beyond caring who's to blame.  It may have been my sister-in-law that put up this wall, but my brother-in-law was handing her the bricks.  By taking the path of least resistance, he allowed this to put a strain on the whole family.  My in-laws are heartsick, hurt, and frustrated.  My husband feels betrayed, and my boys' hearts are broken.

That is one thing I will not abide.  Nobody fucks with my kids.

My husband will do what he thinks is right and I will honor his decisions because it's his brother we're talking about.  But me?  I won't be speaking to them until she grows a heart and he grows some balls.

So, like, never.

And why write this now?  Because words are all I have.  My words won't do anything to change their behavior.  My words won't take away my little boy's confusion or my big boy's bitter disappointment.  My words will likely piss off a lot of people.  I'm doing it because this happened to us and I know we're not the only ones.  I'm writing this for the same reason I've always written--to know that I'm not alone in this.  You're not alone in this.  If you've been rejected by family or friends, I'm standing with you.  And if anyone dares to tell you that your kid isn't good enough, I've got two words for you:

Fuck 'em.

The Effin' Uncertainty

When I was the mother of one neurotypical child, I bore witness to what I thought was much needless parental hand-wringing.  I would hear mothers lament, "Parenting is so hard!  Children don't come with instructions!  It's so difficult to know if you're making the right decisions!"

And I would wonder what the big deal was.  Yes, parenting was difficult, but what were the tough choices?  I knew what the "right thing" was.  Teach him "please" and "thank you".  Have a consistent bedtime.  Sweets in moderation.  If he doesn't want to play sports, don't make him play sports.  If he wants to play sports, let him play sports.

And no, you don't have to hire a freakin' batting coach.  This is tee-ball, people.

I may have been a tad smug, come to think of it.

Well, if neurotypical children don't come with instructions, imagine the plight of the autism parent.  No instructions!  Conflicting instructions!  Instructions that suggest if you eff this up, your child will lose any chance of becoming a contributing member of society.  Instructions that suggest that if you use the wrong instructions, you're violating your child's individuality and person-hood, and scarring them for life.  You're compromising their immune systems.  You're poisoning them.  You're not advocating enough.  You're enabling them.

In short, you suck.

For the most part, I've managed to avoid these conundrums by going with my gut.  But it is hard to know if you're making the right decision.  Here's a sample autism parent test question:

Your child is displaying aggressive behavior at school.  Do you:
a)  Call the school and ask for a meeting.
b)  Call your doctor and discuss a medication change.
c)  Work with the therapist on new trials to address this behavior.
d)  Make changes to his diet.

The answer is:  YES.  (At least that's how we roll.)  Because you are in crisis mode, you want the problem fixed immediately, so you try everything.  And maybe something will work, but you won't really know which something worked because you tried everything at once. 

Autism doesn't lend itself to scientific method.  There's no time to hem and haw.  Decisions must be made.

I must always have glue.

We had a hand-wringing crisis recently regarding home ABA.  We initially started home ABA to address some behavior concerns and teach him more "productive play," since his main form of entertainment was snapping the heads off of his Disney figures.  After two years of fairly good sessions with the glorious Miss T, his therapy hours were increased.  Another therapist was added and the new guy couldn't get anything out of him.  The boy resisted, and even laughed at the new guy.  Then even the glorious Miss T couldn't get him to cooperate.  It was a tractor pull, and miserable for all of us.

I really struggled to figure out the right way forward.  I wasn't going to torture my child, but I also felt it was our job to help him as much as we could.  Why battle over getting him to play Connect Four if he didn't want to play Connect Four?  A negative experience wasn't going to encourage interactive play.  So I laid it all out for the team.  We need new goals.  The therapy has to change or we're out.  So it changed.  Apparently, the new therapist wasn't following the program.  He was replaced and the new new guy works well with the glorious Miss T, and things are calming down around here.

Everybody's happy for now...until the glorious Miss T goes on maternity leave!  And then there will be more uncertainty and angst.  Perhaps if I offer to watch her baby, she'll come back early! 

Ha.  I am certain that that is not going to happen.

This Ain't Nothin'

A few weeks ago, I was in a community theater show called Moon Over Buffalo.  It's a comedy about a pair of aging stars, a scandal, and backstage hijinks.  Everyone associated with the production--actors, director, costumers, crew--was lovely and supportive and fun.  The audience laughed.  A good time was had by all.

I'm so glam.

This was huge for me because I was doing something for myself that I loved and hadn't done in so so long.  Theater used to be a huge part of who I was, and it had all but disappeared from my life.  I hadn't set foot on stage in 12 years.  Friends congratulated me and then asked the inevitable question:

"Weren't you nervous?"

And here's the surprising answer:  Not at all. 


I couldn't have been more surprised by my total lack of nerves.  Back in the day, I would pace frantically before the show, fighting off the urge to puke.  Once I got on stage, I'd settle down, and eventually have fun.  But beforehand?  I would be a wreck.  Not this time.  I still paced, but just to get my energy level up, not out on anxiety.  Before my first entrance, I took a breath, turned the doorknob, and walked onstage as if I belonged there.

Like it was no big deal.

Because you know what?  In the grand scheme of things, it was no big deal.  With all the crazy autism stuff I deal with, not to mention teaching snarky adolescents while being a mother to another snarky adolescent, it seemed like putting on a costume and pretending to be someone else was the easiest part of my day.  It was even a relief.

The advantage to being an autism mom is that situations that scare other people are nothing to us.  Our everyday life is so effin' hard that perceived challenges can seem easy.  Face it:  What's easier than being a special needs parent?  Um, pretty much everything.

Whenever I face something difficult, it helps to remind myself that I've already dealt with worse.  So when the Boy had a meltdown in the car the other day because he wanted ice cream and french fries and doughnuts and snow and Santa and Baby Jesus (I kid you not), I knew nothing would placate him.  But I'd seen worse--much worse--so I decided to focus on my breathing.  Breathe in for four....breathe out for four.  Breathe in for four...breathe out for four.  Resist the urge to scream.  Be all zen and crystals and patchouli.  Think about breathing and yoga and Rodney Yee in his tiny hot pants--God bless him--and resist the urge to yell.  And it worked!  I stayed calm.  Eventually, he burned himself out and we went to the park and played on the swings and all was well.

I just have to remember that I've seen worse.

Or, to quote the hobo in Slaughterhouse Five, "You think this is bad?  This ain't bad."*




*All right, if you've read the book, you know those are the hobo's last words, so I may also be making a secret ironic point here.  So it goes.

Mother's Little Helper

What a draaaaag it is getting o-old!

This song pops into my head every time I wash the makeup off my face.  I'm currently battling zits and wrinkles--how unfair is that?

And then I think, "Fuck you, Mick, you smug little shit.  If you were my kid, I'd pill up, too."

The song resonates with me and pisses me off at the same time.  So much of motherhood--and NOBODY wants to talk about this--is a drag.  It's boring.  All the stuff we have to do--cooking and cleaning and signing forms and checking homework--it's important.  I know it's important.  But it's not intellectually stimulating.  It's a drag.

And though she's not really ill, there's a little yellow pill
She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper
And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day

Despite the condescending tone, I get why the mom in the song wants her little yellow pill.  You do all this boring shit for the people you love, and they don't appreciate it.  How do you deal?  I'll admit that once or twice I've been guilty of HUI--housework under the influence.  With a nice little buzz on, the work I was doing seemed relevant.  It was an act of love rather than thankless drudgery.  I'm washing their socks because I love them and I want their feet to be warm.  How nice for them to have clean socks that actually match.  Underwear, too!  I'm such a good mom--hic!

But sometimes the problems go beyond laundry being a drag.  Sometimes things get darker and more panicky.  Sometimes a glass of wine or laughing at my problems doesn't do it anymore.  Sometimes anxiety and depression are here, in my house, and getting in my way.

Things have gotten worse than having to resort to instant cake and frozen steak.

A while back, my friend Mama Fry wrote about the time she admitted to herself that she was experiencing burnout and needed antidepressants.  The piece, called Paper Gowns and Prozac, is brave as hell and got me really thinking about it.  And thinking about it.  And telling myself that I didn't have time.  And telling myself that things would get better if only...

If you haven't read it, please do.  The first time I read it, I nodded my head.  I reread it today and cried.

That piece was published in October.  I finally made the call today.

Kids Make Us Say the Darndest Effin' Things

When Big Bro was little, I used to tell my friends all the adorable, funny things he said.  They'd crack up and urge me to write them down.  "These are priceless," they'd say.  "You don't want to forget them."  He's so precious--how could I forget? I wondered.  Well, I forgot.  I know, I suck.

What has stuck with me through the years is all the crazy stuff I've said.  I don't know where it comes from, but somewhere along the line, I lost the plot.  I groan like Marge Simpson.  Often.  When Big Bro told me I'm like a cartoon mom, I yelled, "Marge Simpson is real!  And she is me!  Or she is I.  I is her.  Oh, fuck it."

My children led me to this.  And I know, as an autism mom blogger, I tend the emphasize the impact of autism on our family and on my brain.  But guess what?  Both boys have turned me into a ranting lunatic.  My NT child is just as guilty as my ASD child.

So let's play a game.  I will list some crazy-ass things I've said, and you guess who made me do it!  What it the ASD Boy, or NT Big Bro?

1. Get the whipped cream out of your pants.
2.  Minnie Mouse doesn't want to see your penis.
3.  What's the rule about light sabers in the car?
4.  PEE IN THE POTTY, NOT THE FRIDGE!
5.  Don't rub your butt on the store window.
6.  Don't rub your butt on Harry Styles.
7.  No pants, no ice cream.  These are the rules.
8.  Get your foot out of your brother's potty!
9.  Do not wipe your nose on my butt!
10.  Just because you rub something on your penis, it doesn't make it yours!
11.  Did you really just poop in your hamper?
12.  Play the piano with your fingers, not your butt.
13.  If you pee on the potty, I'll give you candy.

Are you sensing a theme?  Yes, boys are gross.  That's my theme.

Answer key:  1) Big Bro 2) The Boy 3) Big Bro 4) The Boy 5) Big Bro 6) The Boy 7) The Boy 8) Big Bro 9) The Boy 10) Big Bro--he was trying to lay claim to a chocolate bar 11) Big Bro--he just wanted to see if he could 12) The Boy 13) Both of them.

As I'm finishing this, the Boy enters the room, butt-naked except for a large blanket arranged around his shoulders in a regal fashion.  He is pushing a stroller with Mickey and Minnie in it.  

"Mommy, sit on the couch please."
"But you're not wearing pants.  I couldn't possibly sit on the couch unless you put on pants."

Add it to the list.
 

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.

The Cupcake Crisis and Other Non-Problems

It's October.  Time to go apple-picking!  (Nope.)  Put up the scarecrow!  (Can't find it.)  Carve a pumpkin!  (Probably not.)

I let a lot slide this month because I'm gearing myself for the one-two punch of Halloween and the boy's birthday.  I make a big deal.  I have to.  There are only five kids in his class, and if we don't host a party, he might not get to go to one all year.  It's a moral imperative.

I'm usually all jazzed about this, but this year, I'm a little worried.  We're in a theme rut, folks.  For the past two years, the boy has worn a homemade Perry costume for Halloween and has had Phineas and Ferb birthday parties.  It's the only thing he likes.


I made the Perry costume out of a t-shirt, hat, and long underwear.  For the second Halloween, I just bought bigger long underwear.

The first Phineas and Ferb birthday party featured cupcakes decorated with little plastic character rings.  For the second party, I made these Perry cupcakes.  I think I knocked it out of the park, if I do say so myself.  And now I don't know what else to do.  I'm not a Pinterest person.  I had an account but I think it got hacked because there are a million pins about how to firm up your booty.  I don't care about my booty; it's behind me and I can't see it.  I don't even have one.  I'm serious.  If you look at me sideways, I go straight down.  I have legs and a back.

But I digress.

Do I just make the same cupcakes again?  It's not like I'm trying to impress anyone but my kid.  The other autism moms are fantastic and they understand better than anyone that a kid can get stuck on a theme.  Dare I attempt a different character?  He likes Nemo, but only wants to watch the scene with the seagulls.  He likes Woody and Jessie, but has never even seen Toy Story, nor does he care to.  He just wants to pop the heads off the figures.

What's a mom to do?

I know these are not real problems.  I know this.  Believe me.  We have enough real problems that I know the difference.

But the real problems are so much harder, if not impossible.  They are too real.  We have doctor's appointments and MRIs and medication and behavior plans that rarely work.  We have family members who refuse to have a relationship with our boy and therefore no longer have a relationship with us.  We have financial worries--both short-term and long-term.  What's going to happen to him when we die?  Why isn't there any music therapy within an hour of our house? And why the eff can't I find a gluten-free bakery that does children's cakes?

There is so much I can't control, but I refuse to sit on my nonexistent ass and do nothing.  So I will obsess on the cupcakes and throw my boy a great birthday party.

And yeah, probably buy even bigger long underwear for the Perry costume.

Five Reasons Why I Still Tri

When I decided to do my first triathlon, the Boy was only about five months old.  I announced my intentions to my family.  My mom, attempting to stifle a laugh, took a gulp of wine and then said, "Um...ok?"  She had reason to be skeptical.  I didn't own a bike, the most I had ever run in my life was one mile in gym class once, and swimming was something I thought you did if you fell out of a boat.  When my friend convinced me to take a spin class with her, I complained for two days that my cooch was sore.

I wasn't what you'd call athletic.

I just wanted a challenge--something to do that I'd never done before.  I had been a dancer, but I found the adult dance classes depressing.  As a teenager, I could sink into splits, but now I could barely get my foot up on the barre.  So I bought a book called Slow, Fat Triathlete by Jayne Williams and got to work.  And four months later, on August 8, 2008, I crossed the finish line for the first time in my life.  My husband was there waiting for me.

"You are amazing!" he yelled. 

Celebrating our awesomeness.

"I KNOW!" I shrieked.

It was the most wonderful feeling to know that I had done something I never thought I was capable of doing.  I proved to myself that I am a badass when I need to be.  That feeling would become very important to me before too long, because almost exactly one year later, we got my son's autism diagnosis.  And I thought, OK, you can do this.  You're tougher than you thought.  Triathlons gave me the confidence to face the never-ending challenges of parenting a child on the spectrum.

 I still race.  I'm not much faster than I was when I started and I don't train as much as I'd like.  (That whole autism-parenting thing takes up a lot of time.)   I'm not competitive.  I run my own race--which is usually far behind a lot of other people, but that's o.k., because I'm still in it. I have nothing to prove to myself now.  So why do it?  What started out as a challenge has become a lifeline.  Racing is my therapy.

Because everyone loves lists, here are my top five reasons for racing:

1)  Training.  Without the goal, I would not train, and training is important and sometimes fun. I love the feeling of being in the water--my earplugs and goggles help me block out the rest of the world.  I just count my strokes and listen to the sound of my own breathing and follow that blue line at the bottom of the pool.  Sometimes training brings unexpected fun, like the time my husband and I went out for an exhausting, hilly ride and ended up at a bar with a sign that said "Bikers Welcome."  We were not the kind of bikers they meant.  They wore leather.  We wore spandex.

2)  Health.  This isn't about weight loss.  (I don't consider myself "spandex-ready," and I don't care.)  It's about time to focus on myself, and do something just for me.  But it's also about my family--about being there for my family.  I have to live a long, long time.  My kids are going to need me and I want to get as far as I can before I have to pass the baton.  Besides, our lives are stressful; this is a positive way to deal with stress, and allows for some trade-offs.  Like my buddy Joe said to me in the faculty cafeteria, "As long as I'm teaching special ed, I can't quit drinking.  So I'm gonna eat this salad."  I'm not quitting wine or M&Ms anytime soon.

3)  Triathlon people.  Love them!  Tri people are the most encouraging and open people in the world.  Shivering at the water's edge before a start immediately bonds people.   Athletes emerge from porta-johns with their arms raised in triumph.  "Yes!  I POOPED!"  And we cheer.  (Note:  It's very important to poop before a race.  Triathletes discuss poop as often as autism parents do.  They are my people.). 

4)  Triathlon spectators.  They cheer for everyone--not just their friends!  They bang on cowbells and hold up signs. I love these people.  How great would life be if we had these spectators cheering us on as we faced other challenging moments in life?  Imagine trying to drag a mid-meltdown child out of Target, and you've got a crowd of supporters encouraging you.  "You've got this, Mom!  You are awesome!  Only two more aisles and you're out of the store!  YOU CAN DO IT!"

5)  The Finish Line.  I need a finish line.  I need to look back and say, Yeah, I did that.  I need to feel like I've accomplished something.  Parenting is great, but it's never done, it's never over.  But when I cross the finish line, that can't be undone.  I've done this great thing and I've done it for myself and there's nothing that can take that away. 

Plus, many of the better races have a beer garden at the finish, and that's good, too.

Stimmy Science: Our Trip to the Liberty Science Center!

Last week, I took advantage of my first-ever blogging perk, and took the boy to the Liberty Science Center in Jersey City, New Jersey.  I hadn't been there in years, and it's an impressive place.  Big thanks to Jersey Moms Blog for setting this up!

Effin' Daddy couldn't make it, so my brother and sister-in-law met me with my niece, the Divine Miss M.  The Divine Miss M had been here before and assured me that it was "really fun especially the blocks because you can use your imagination and I like to use my imagination and build stuff and when are we going to play with the blocks?"

First of all, this place is big.  Crazy big.  Get a good night's sleep and wear sneakers, because there's a lot to see.  When we walked in, the boy was immediately taken with the funky lights on the ceiling.  Everywhere we looked, there was something stimmy to check out.  My niece loved the Hoberman Sphere, which expands and contracts over everyone's heads.  It's very cool.

This is a very family-friendly place, complete with family bathrooms and wide staircases.  The café sells ice cream, which is an absolute necessity with our family.  It's very colorful and the staff is knowledgeable and helpful.  If you've got a sensory-seeking kid who likes to touch all of the things, this is your place.  There's even a special section for kids age five and under where they can play and explore without fear of being trampled.

The boy liked the Adventures with Clifford exhibit.  It's very cute--it's like the kids have been dropped into one of the books.  My niece LOVED the Block Party, where she could build with big interconnecting foam blocks.  They both loved the Wildlife Challenge, which is a really cool outdoor obstacle course with a dinosaur.

I'm going to be honest.  The way the boy has been lately, this place was too much for him.  He's generally been a sensory-seeking kid, but with the summer schedule thrown off, he's been a bit fragile.  The high ceilings and the other kids shrieking for Clifford the Big Red Dog put him over the
edge, and we didn't see as much as we'd have liked.  The boy was in sensory overload.  He kept crying for his daddy, so maybe we'll come back with my husband, maybe on one of their special-needs days. 

I want to go back to the animal exhibits.  They have something called "Eat or Be Eaten," which just sounds like my cup of tea.  I want to go back and see an IMAX movie.  And you know what's cool?  They have a theater there with 3D films that are shorter than the IMAX movies, so the kids might stay put.  Warning:  My brother took the Divine Miss M to the thunder and lightning show, which he thought was cool, but made her cry.  She's six.

My brother wants to go back without any kids, but maybe that's just him. 

How amazing is this view?

 

Disclaimer:  As a Liberty Science Center Blog Ambassador for the day, I have been provided with vouchers for my visit.  All opinions are my own.

My Boy is Caesar, Sun Tzu, and Genghis Effin' Khan

We've been dealing with some "behaviors" of late.  (That's polite autism-speak for "my kid has been an uncooperative asshole.")  I told the school that I wanted a behavior plan.  I was told that he didn't need one, presumably because he hadn't started any fires.  The behaviorist was happy with the compliance trials.  The behaviorist didn't have to live or work with my son on a daily basis.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, a compliance trial rewards tokens to kids for doing what they're told.  When they get enough tokens, they get a special reward.  The idea is to get them back on track, but my boy works around it.  It goes like this:

Boy:  I want a cookie!
Aide:  You need to finish writing your letters first.
(Boy throws himself on floor in boneless, jellyfish fashion and refuses to do anything.)
Aide:  Touch your nose!  (Boy touches his nose.) Good touching your nose!  (Puts token on board.)  Touch your mouth!  (Boy touches his mouth.)  Good touching your mouth!  (Puts another token on board.)  Okay, sit up and you can have your cookie.
Boy:  Thank you.  (Eats cookie, then throws himself on floor in boneless, jellyfish fashion all over again.)

When I brought this up at the IEP meeting, that he's figured out how to manipulate the trials, the behaviorist said, "Well, I don't know if intellectually he understands what he is doing."

If I had been drinking my water, I would've done a spit-take right across the table.

My boy knows exactly what he's doing.  He is a military genius.  He is a criminal mastermind.  He is an effin' Sith Lord.

When there is something he wants that is closely guarded--cookies, for instance--he creates a diversion.  I'll be in the kitchen working on dinner, and he'll ask for a snack.  I'll say, "No, it's almost dinner time."  Then he will rage.  Or he won't.  It's when he doesn't rage that I should get my guard up, because he's about to eff with me big time.  He quietly backs out of the kitchen, and I, relieved that there was no hysterical scene, foolishly go back to food preparation.

That's when I hear the shower.

He's turned it on full blast and aimed it out of the tub, onto the bathroom floor.  I go running in.

"What are you doing?!  STOP IT!  YOU'LL FLOOD THE HOUSE!"  And then, while I'm mopping and cursing, he slips into the kitchen and takes whatever he wants.

He's a master tactician.  Some of his plans I haven't even figured out yet.

"How did you do that?  How did you DO that?!"  Then I just step back and take a deep breath and whistle through my teeth.  You've got to admit, he's got a mind for strategy.  

In the middle of the night, he's pretended to fall back to sleep so I would get back in bed and not thwart his plans to paint the kitchen floor with dish soap.  Or he'll say, "Go to sleep, please, Mommy," and I'll know he's up to something, but I don't know what.

And now he's learned to pick locks.

I'm not even kidding.  We hid the keys to the kitchen locks, so he used my car keys to open them.  He helped himself to a huge serving of chocolate ice cream on the couch.  So my husband locked ALL the keys in the closet and then hung the closet key around his neck.

So the boy punched out the accordion sides of the air conditioner, and while we were fussing with duct tape to fix it, he picked the freezer lock with a pair of scissors and helped himself to more ice cream.

"How did you DO that?!"  Then I tried to unlock the freezer with a pair of scissors, but I couldn't figure it out.

He's doing all of this without any help.  Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and Stonewall Jackson all commanded huge armies.  They had underlings.  My kid is pulling this off all by himself.  I thank God I didn't have twins.

So, Behaviorist Lady.  Never underestimate my kid.  He's not one of Skinner's rats pushing on a lever to get a pellet.  He goes for the full-on mind-fuck, and he's going to tear your little plan apart.

If I didn't need it to work so badly, I'd almost find it entertaining.

Autism and the Art of Defenestration

Defenestrate (dēˈfenəˌstrāt/) v. To throw out a window

I love this word.  I believe I use it more often than the general population does.  I teach middle school, and in my work setting, it's a remarkably handy word.

"Put the cell phone away, or I will be forced to defenestrate it." 
"Huh?"

And then I explain.  Defenestrate provides its own teachable moment.  The word comes from fenêtre, which is the French word for window.  The Latin prefix "de" means "out of."  This beautiful little word allows me to teach vocabulary--covering affixes and the origin of the English language, beginning with the ancients and up through the Norman Invasion--all while threatening my students in a memorable way.

Can you use it in a sentence?

The boy defenestrated his shoes. 

Here's where I'm going with this:  Have you ever seen a shoe on the side of the road and wondered how it got there?  Well, wonder no more.  It was my kid.  Mystery solved.

This is a new thing.  It started a couple of weeks ago, as he rode home in Grandma's car.  He took off his shoes and socks and threw them out the window.  She didn't notice.  Fortunately, my husband was following them in his car, and pulled over to get the shoes.  We had a good laugh about it and remarked how lucky we were that my husband saw what happened and was able to rescue the shoes!

Alas, our luck changed.  The other day, we met at Dairy Queen after work.  The boy was in raptures over his little cup of ice cream.  I had more errands to run, so my husband took him home.  When I got home, I found my frantic husband tearing the car apart while the boy stood barefoot in the driveway.

Lonely shoe seeks mate.

He'd done it again. 

"Can you go look?" my husband asked.  No problem!  I didn't mind.  I had an audiobook in the car, anyway.

I started back down the road, retracing the route my husband had taken.  I drove slowly and scanned the road for the shoes.  My eyes were zipping back and forth so quickly, I felt like one of those Cylons from Battlestar Galactica.  (The old ones, not the updated ones.)

It is 6.7 miles from my house to the Dairy Queen--6.7 miles of winding mountain roads with no shoulder, let alone a sidewalk.  But I did not give up hope.  Three miles in, and I saw one sneaker in the middle of the road!  Success!  I had to drive down the road a bit to find a spot to pull over.  I ran back up the road, waited for a car to pass, and then snatched up the sneaker.  I figured the other one was probably close by, so I paced up and down the road and checked the bushes and the ditches for the shoe.  It occurred to me that I should have changed into running shoes myself, instead of hiking along in my work heels.  Several motorists stopped to see if I was all right.  See, unless you're in workout gear, you do not just walk this road.

On my way back to the car, I spotted his sock.  Yes!  How did I know it was his sock?  Mother's intuition.  Plus, it was still warm.  I swear I was like an outback animal tracker.

I continued down the road, where I saw another sock...and yes, it was his.  Excellent.  I was making progress, and I'd only been gone for an hour.  Two socks, one shoe.  Back in the car, continued down the road.  What are those lights?  Uh, oh.  Police.  Apparently, there was a fender bender at the intersection where we'd turned right after we'd left Dairy Queen.  I hoped to God it wasn't caused by a flying shoe...

I banged a U-ey (that's Jersey-speak for a slightly illegal U-turn) and headed back from whence I had come, still searching the road, when my Cylon-sensors picked up on something familiar.  I pulled over.  It wasn't black like the shoe, but yellow--my husband's golf hat.  He didn't even realize it was missing.  

Two socks, one shoe, one hat.

Text from my husband:  "Give up and come home.  He's melting down."

Sigh.

I crept home, hoping to find that other shoe, but...nothing.  I was so disappointed.  I felt defeated by this sneaker.  That was a week ago, and I'm still looking.  This shit has gotten personal.  I'm obsessed with finding this effin' shoe.  It will be my downfall.  I'm Captain Ahab and this damned sneaker is my Moby Dick.  Even my 11 year-old has tried to get me to give up.

"Mom, it's been a week.  It's rained four times and the mowers went by.  Let it go.  The shoe is gone."

I guess you've got to be pretty effed up when a sixth grader becomes your voice of reason.  Maybe one last search.

Thus, I give up my spear!