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.

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.
 

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.

Fakebooking and Lies by Omission

This is my Facebook status:  My son got the game ball!  I'm such a proud mom!  :)

And it's true.  Today was opening day for Little League and my older son's first time in the "Majors."  He pitched--one inning was a 1,2,3--and had a great offensive game as well.  He crushed a line-drive double off a smack-talking pitcher, but rather than talk smack back, he just nodded and smiled.  He stole three bases.  They won.

And I missed all but the last half inning.

My ASD kid, The Boy, had an epic meltdown before the game even started.  Correction:  It wasn't a meltdown.  It was a rage.  He raged like I have never seen him rage.  And he hurt me and almost caused a car accident.

Before the game, the boy asked for ice cream and to go home.  I thought, OK, I'll take him for some ice cream and we'll be back in time for the game.  I got him into the car and drove in the direction of the ice cream shop.  And for some reason unbeknownst to me, the boy utterly lost his shit.

I don't know what triggered it, but he started screaming.  He took off his glasses--new ones we had just picked up this morning to replace the ones he broke last week--and broke them in half and threw them at me.  I pulled over to see what was the matter, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and hit me.

No ice cream, then.  I re-buckled his seatbelt and drove home.

I don't know if I can adequately describe the trip home.  "Nightmarish," "terrifying," "horrific," and any other drama queen words would be an understatement.  He scratched at my face.  He pulled out chunks of my hair.  He kicked me in the head.  He screamed and raged and punched and bit and completely lost control of himself.  I kept having to pull over so I could wrench his fingers from my hair or his teeth from my arm.  Both of us were sobbing.  Who was this child?

We finally made it home and I ran him a bath to calm him down.  I sat on the bathroom counter and emailed his doctor from my phone.  I'm not sure what I wrote, but I'm sure it was an incoherent, blubbering mess.  I sent my husband a text basically telling him that I hated his guts because he got to coach Little League and do typical parent things and I got to get the shit kicked out of me.  (This was totally unfair of me.  My husband is super-involved with both of our boys.  I was feeling sorry for myself.)  I cried a little bit.

Something you should know about me.  We're four years into this "journey" (and you know what?  Fuck that term, "journey."  I hate it.) and I've hardly ever let myself cry.  We got the diagnosis and I cried for about 30 seconds and got to work.  I cried the first time he hit someone.  Oh, and I cry for happy things and every damn commercial featuring a dog.  But for myself?  Not so much.

So I texted my husband and asked how Big Bro was doing.  Turns out, he was doing great.  He was pitching great, and I was missing it.  And that's when I really broke down into big ugly tears with loud, heaving, grieving-whale sobs.  My kid pitched a 1-2-3 inning and I didn't get to see it.

Then I got a second text that he got hit by a pitch. 

"Get out of the tub," I said to the boy.  "We're going back to the field."

We got back in time to see the last three outs, which my son pitched really well.  The smack-talker, hoping to unnerve him,  yelled "FAIL!" just as he released the last pitch.  It did the little shit no good.  The throw was a strike and the game was over.  The final score was 16-4 and the head coach gave Big Bro the game ball.

So you see, my son did get the game ball and I am a proud mom.

I just didn't tell them the rest of it.

Now if I post the proud mommy moments, but don't share the nasty stuff, doesn't it stand to reason that other people do the same?  Fakebooking is like farting or picking a wedgie--everyone thinks they're the only ones who do it.

And by the way--next year, I'm attending coaching clinics.  I will assistant coach and my husband will wrangle.  'Cause eff it.

Can't Even Make An Effin' Phone Call...

We're off on an adventure tomorrow.  We want a beach weekend, but hotels are expensive, so we've found ourselves a nifty little $20 hotel room.  It's called a tent. 

This is going to take some doing, so in order to bring all the necessities, we have to borrow my in-laws' truck.  My mother-in-law called to work out the details.  This is what she got:

"Hello?  Oh, hi, Ma.  GET DOWN FROM THERE!  YOU'RE GOING TO GET HURT!  Yeah, so we're trying to get all the stuff together.  Not sure what we'll need for just one night, but WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?  YOU NEED PANTS!  I mean, we were thinking about cooking, but it might just be easier to go to a restaurant and then do s'mores for the kids later....Yeah, I'm hoping for good weather.  It was supposed to rain yesterday, but it never did.  DUDE!  IF YOU WANT CHOCOLATE MILK, YOU WILL PUT YOUR PANTS ON!  How is everything with you?...There was something I was going to ask you, but I can't think of what it--GOOD JOB!  YOU PUT YOUR PANTS ON BY YOURSELF!  HERE'S YOUR CHOCOLATE MILK!  What was I talking about?  I keep losing my train of thought....The truck?  Right!  The truck.  Yeah, so if we could trade cars later this afternoon, that would be good so we can start getting packed--WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  DON'T DUMP YOUR CHOCOLATE MILK!  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  What time would be good for you?..Uh, huh.  There was something else.  Something really important I was supposed to ask you about--WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?  GET DOWN OFF THE COUNTER!  YOU'RE STUCK?  OF COURSE YOU ARE.  BARE BUTT CHEEKS DON'T JUST SLIDE OFF THE COUNTER.  It was really important, whatever it was.  I should write stuff down, so I don't forget to GET OFF THE DOG!  Yeah, sorry.  I'll call you back when I remember.  Thank, Ma.  Talk to you late--DID YOU POOP?"  <click>

And then I remembered what I was going to ask.

Whatever Keeps You Off the Front Page: "Coping" with Autism

Last summer, after a particularly rough evening involving screaming and kicking and a soupçon of fecal smearing for good measure, I grabbed a bottle of rum and went out to my kids' swingset.  I pulled out my phone and texted my best buddy, Deb.

Me:  "Dude.  I'm getting drunk on the boys' swingset."
Deb:  "Whatever keeps you off the front page."

Debbie's wise like that.

It's good advice.  I've recently become friendly with a mom whose son was just diagnosed.  She's in the "Holy Shit" phase of all of this.  She's reeling from the news and dealing with family members who are in denial.  She asked me to meet her for a drink because she mistakenly believes that I've got my shit together.  I do not have my shit together.  (The shit is smeared everywhere.  N'yuck, n'yuck.)  But talking to her got me thinking about what's keeping me from losing my ever-loving mind, at least temporarily.

So, in no particular order:

1.  Exercise.  (Don't get excited.  I'm not going to preach.)  I'm not remotely athletic, but about a year before the diagnosis, I did my first triathlon.  That gave me such a boost of confidence, that I figured I was up to any challenge--even autism.  (Granted, I had no effin' idea how hard it was going to be.)  I still race in the summer, though I don't have time to train like I used to.  But I do meet my friend Dana at kickboxing once a week.  It's very satisfying to beat the crap out of a bag for an hour, and it makes me feel badass--probably because there's nothing punching back.

Exercise is great and gets your endorphins going, but before you start thinking I'm well-adjusted, let me tell you about something I like even more:

2.  Alcohol.  I'm not being remotely ironic here.  I medicate with chardonnay.  Cheap chardonnay.

3.  Friends.  My oldest girlfriends are probably the only non-ASD parents that I can be totally open with.  They are awesome at not pitying me--probably because they know what a jerk I am.  I am awesome at not envying them--probably because I know how fucked up they really are.  (I say this will all the affection in the world.)  We don't get together nearly often enough, but even the occasional weekend at the shore is an effin' tonic for my nerves.

4.  My husband.  I know.  I'm lucky.  Though I have to say, sometimes we can't vent to each other.  There have been times that he's wanted to talk about his feelings and frustrations, and I've cut him off because I can't take in any more.  I've reached critical mass.  I'm soaking in it.   But I have a partner in this madness.  And he can cook.

5.  Downton Abbey.  At least I don't have to worry about the pressures of maintaining a castle that's been in the family for generations.  We live in a three bedroom ranch that was built in 1981.  However, it does need new windows, so in that way I can relate to Lord Grantham.

Holy crap.  What was that?  Did I mention the alcohol?  Do you see I wasn't joking?

5.  This blog.  You.  All of this wonderful networking and communication has made me feel like I'm not the only one.  Sometimes I'll read a blog or one of your comments and be amazed because someone has read my mind.  It's the best thing I've done for myself in a long time.

I think that's the key.  We have to have something for ourselves.  We can't just be ASD parents all the time.  We can be writers or artists or mediocre athletes...whatever it takes to keep us off the front page.