Greener Grass And Fences And Shit: Why We Are No Worse Off Than Anybody Else

I sometimes speak in a proverbial shorthand I learned from my father.  It started years ago, when my mother, a catalog-shopping enthusiast, told me I needed to be more careful with my money.  My father, blown away by the irony of my mother offering financial advice, attempted to tell her that this was like the pot calling the kettle black.  Only it didn't come out that way.

"Pots and kettles and shit!" he shouted, waving his arms in some kind of gesture meant to indicate a connection between us.  "I mean, are you kidding?!"

A new way of talking was born.

I've taught proverbial shorthand to my colleagues, and it's served us well as educators.  Like when we call a meeting to discuss the attitude problem of a student, and meet the surly parents.  "Wow! Apples and trees and shit, huh?"  Or when we give up our lunch periods to tutor kids who don't show up.  "Oh, well, you know.  Horses to water and shit."  Or even the notion that we have to jettison the entire existing curriculum to accommodate the Common Core.  "Really?  Don't you think that's just baby and the bathwater and shit?" 

Note:  It's imperative to add "and shit" to the abbreviated phrase.

Anyway, this all leads me to my point, which is, "Greener grass and fences and shit."  I mean that we sometimes get it into our heads that our NT friends have happier lives than we do.  But I don't think they do.  Their lives are different, for sure.  Easier?  Most likely.  But happier?

There are times when it's almost impossible not to compare.  After spending an afternoon at a friend's house, Big Bro was uncharacteristically quiet.  I asked him what was up.  Didn't he have a good time?

It turns out he had a really good time. He and his friend played soccer and basketball and manhunt with her younger brother.  Then they went swimming and ate pizza and played video games--all three of them, all day long.

"It's just...she gets to play with her brother.  It must be nice.  My brother doesn't play like that."  And there it was.

I tried to explain how different the circumstances were.  Laura and her brother were a year apart in age.  There's a five year age gap between our boys.  Apples to oranges and shit.  But he wasn't having it. 

"Look," I said.  "Our family is different.  But there is no less love in our house.  Yes, Laura and her brother play together, but they also fight like cats and dogs.  Your brother doesn't play ball with you, but he does idolize you.  To him, you are better than Elvis and the Beatles and Derek Jeter all in one.  We do things differently here.  But we still love each other just as much."

That doesn't mean it's easy. 

One night, when things were getting particularly "interesting" in our house, my husband got frustrated.  "Other families get to watch movies together.  Other parents get to relax a bit.  Why is nothing easy?  Why is everything such an effin' tractor pull?"

And I responded, "I don't know.  But nobody is any happier than we are."  And I meant it.  I mean it.

We were once an NT family--just the three of us.  Were we happier then?  Of course not.  We had our worries and stresses and arguments.  We didn't know at the time that our lives were relatively simple.  We didn't know that a few years down the road, we would be installing locks on every appliance and door.  We didn't know that we'd be in this club we'd never asked to join, but has the most amazing members.  All we knew is that our family didn't feel quite complete. 

Well, it's complete now.  He's our miracle.  And yes, it's hard.  We're on our toes 24/7 and we don't get enough sleep.  But we get to celebrate every little milestone.  We get as excited about the boy playing Candy Land appropriately as we do Big Bro making the honor role.  They both bring us such joy.  We're going to worry about some things that other families don't worry about and they're going to worry about some things that don't cross our minds.  And that's cool.  Everybody has their shit.

And shit does get weird around here.  Sleep is interrupted all the effin' time.  Our conversations revolve around meds, therapies and meltdowns, as well as report cards, scout meetings, and baseball practice.  Every outing requires Navy Seal-level planning.  There is often some kind of food substance stuck to our walls.  And we watch an awful lot of Raffi.  But we laugh an awful lot, too.  My kids are funny.  I mean, the boy was naked and trying to hang rosary beads off his junk!  That's good comedy!  We have dance parties in the kitchen to Harry Belafonte and the Beastie Boys.  And I can hardly wait for the weather to get warm so I have an excuse to blast the kids with the garden hose.  Oh, how we all laugh!

Other families likely have cleaner houses.  Other families definitely have quieter houses.  But I don't believe that other families have happier houses.

Home and heart and shit.

Autism Sensory Cookbook: Mushy Edition

To call our kids "picky eaters" is to make a laughable understatement.  So many of us have tried to break our kids out of the fries-pizza-ketchup diet (or fill in what your kid eats here_____________) and we just end up feeling frustrated and eating the food ourselves.  Then we feel frustrated and really, really full.

Our family had a major breakthrough when we discovered that the boy would eat chili.  Miracle of miracles!  Here was a food that we liked, and he liked, and we could all enjoy together.  So I made pots and pots of chili.  Every week, the crockpot was bubbling with chili.

We got really sick of chili.

What I learned, though, that it was the consistency of the chili that was important.  He liked mushy food he could eat with a spoon.  He only ate ground meat.  (And chicken nuggets, but let's not kid ourselves.  They are ground.)  If we told him it was chili, then he ate it.  Soon, we were moving onto meatloaf and eggs and other mush.  Then I got clever and started sneaking veggies into the food.  Now I'm the Mushy Veggie Iron Chef Ninja!  (I need a better name.)

I love this effin' thing.

How do you do it, Mushy Veggie Iron Chef Ninja? you may ask.  Well, let me tell you.

First, get yourself one of those Pampered Chef chopper thingies.  (This is not a paid endorsement.) 
They chop stuff up into teeny pieces and are satisfyingly loud and thumpy to use.  Great for getting out aggression.

Then, start by introducing veggies your kid already likes, or will never notice.  I put zucchini in everything because it has no detectable taste.  Peel it first if you think they'll get suspicious about anything green.  Chop it up really small, sauté to soften, and hide it in whatever you're cooking.  If your food is brown, mushrooms are good.  I've even fooled Big Bro by telling him the mushrooms were sausage pieces.  Now I chop-n-hide zucchini, mushrooms, onions, and peppers. 

Now, I start with some veggies that look like this:

Onions and peppers and zucchini!  Oh, my!

And then I add it to whatever I'm cooking to make...

Meatloaf Cupcakes!

Hose 'em with ketchup and they'll never see the veggies.

I use gluten-free breadcrumbs for these.  I bake the meatloaf in these disposable tins and freeze them.  Then I just pop out single servings and nuke 'em up.  (I cannot take credit for this idea.  I have a good friend who's on Pinterest a lot.  A lot.)

When we realized he likes eggs, I started scrambling up this mess:

He inhaled this.  I swear.  It's all about mush with him.

I call these "Hamburger Eggs," though there's no meat in them.  I find if I add the name of a food he already likes to whatever I'm cooking, he's more likely to try it.

With the boy, it's about texture.  Maybe that's the key with most kids.  We just have to figure out how to make their favorite textures somewhat healthy.  So I'll leave you with two vaguely written recipes--"Hot Dish" and "Egg Mess."

Note:  I don't know from measurements or time.  Put in enough and cook it 'til it's done.

HOT DISH*  (My husband named this for the unidentifiable slop you'd get in the cafeteria at school--except it's good.)

*AKA "Chili Pasta"--see?  Tricked him!

1 lb ground turkey or beef
2 cups cooked elbow macaroni  (We use gluten-free)
Whatever veggies you can take
Tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, or pasta sauce.

Chop and sauté onions, peppers, or whatever veg you want.  In a separate pan, break up the ground meat into tiny bits and cook.  Drain the fat.  (Or keep it--I won't judge you.)  Add the veg, pasta sauce, and any spices.  We like red pepper flakes.  Throw in the macaroni.  Allow to simmer for a bit and serve.  (Sometimes we sprinkle a little cheese on it if we're feeling crazy.)

I don't have a picture of this, but it looks like hamburger helper--without all the sodium and guilt.

EGG MESS  (This is my version of a frittata, but if I said the word "frittata" to my kids, they'd run.  Call it "Egg Mess" and they ask for seconds.)

1 dozen eggs
1/2 c. milk (I'm totally winging it on this measurement.  I don't really know how much.  Just add milk.  Or don't.  I doubt it matters.)
Tater tots
Bacon, if you want.
1-2 cups of shredded cheese
Whatever veggies you want.

Preheat the oven to 350 or 400.  Lightly spray a rectangular pyrex with Pam.  Line the bottom of the pyrex with tater tots.  Do the choppy/dicey thing with the veg.  Fry up the bacon.  Set it aside to cool and then crumble.  Drain some of the fat, but not all.  Cook the veg in the leftover bacon grease.  Sprinkle the bacon and veg over the tots.  In a big bowl, beat the eggs with some milk and salt and pepper.  Pour egg mixture over the tots/bacon/veg.  Sprinkle cheese on top and bake for an hour or so.  (Check and make sure the top doesn't get too brown.  Cover it with foil if you're nervous.)

I like it with Crystal Hot Sauce.  The boys like it with ketchup, of course.

I don't have a picture of this, either, but it looks like a big-ass frittata.  And it's really good cold the next day.


Wow, this is the most domestic I've ever sounded like!  I don't cook every day.  I like to cook once or twice a week and then live off it.  In fact, I didn't cook a damn thing today because I was too busy writing, but nobody noticed or cared.  It was a Chef Boy-ardee and Glutino pizza night!

Bon appetit, yo!

Dys-funk-tional Play

I'm in a funk.  I'm trying not to wallow, but I just might have to marinate here for a bit.

It's the weekend.  It's time to do stuff with our kids.  All the good moms on Facebook are posting pictures of the cookies they're baking, projects they're crafting, or at the very least, the messes their kids are making as they play.  And hence, my funk.

My kid doesn't play.

Our house looks like a kindergarten.  Or an OT room.  We have colorful bins of differently themed toys.  We have blocks and books and flash cards and Handy Manny tools.  We have dolls and clothes and bottles and diapers.  We have doctor's kits and games and every damn developmental piece of wood that Melissa and Doug ever created.  We even have a bin devoted to different types of plastic airplanes.

The boy wants none of it.

All he wants to do is carry his Phineas and Ferb figures around the house and script about not breaking toys--right before he pulls them apart.  Then he brings me the pieces to pop into place.  Sometimes they won't pop into place and I have to hide them in a coffee cup until I can glue them back together.  And sometimes having to wait for the glue to dry is more than he can bear and he has a meltdown.  I've learned to keep back-ups.

I'm about to glue my fingers together.

This isn't playing.

His therapist is working on functional play.  We have a wooden train set, and it's like a chore for him to set that up.  He'll paint for about two minutes.  Play-doh goes almost directly in his mouth and gets put away.  Last year, he showed a fleeting interest in the dollhouse at school, so I got him one from eBay.  He doesn't touch it.

This morning I tried to incorporate his obsession into real play.  I took out the Legos and suggested we build a house for Perry.  He said yes, but as soon as we started, he yelled, "No more!" and started throwing the bricks back in the bin.  Then he asked for a movie.

I can't let eating, breaking toys, and watching videos be the only thing he does at home.  But I also don't want to fight with him all the time.  It's Saturday.  I spend all week teaching other people's kids and now I want to play with my own.

(Sigh.)  Maybe Big Bro will let me shoot zombies with him on his Playstation.

How to Stay Married on Two Hours of Sleep

Note:  I am a caring nurturer, a member of an online support group, but not a licensed therapist.

Friends sometimes ask how we do it.  With all the stress and pressure and lack of sleep, how do we make our marriage work?  When asked this question, I smile and take another sip of coffee and say, "Sorry, I spaced out for a bit there.  What was the question?"

The truth is we fuck up all the time.  Hopefully, we learn from it, and find new and inventive ways of fucking up.

The sleep issue goes way back.  One of the first major meltdowns we had over sleep was when our older son was a newborn.  My husband is a very heavy sleeper--nothing bothers him.  I, on the other hand, wake up when a moth farts on a tree outside.

One particularly awful winter night, the baby was crying and crying and I tried everything to calm him down.  Diaper.  Bottle.  Swaddle.  Unswaddle.  Rocking, singing, and pacing the floor.  Nothing worked.  I was reaching the end of my patience when I remembered the words of the nurse: "No baby ever died from crying."  I needed a break.  I put him down in his crib and went to my husband for back-up.

"I need your help.  He won't stop crying," I said.  My husband continued snoring.
"Please, wake up!" I begged.  I shook him.  "I need help!  He won't stop crying!"
"All right!  All right!" he yelled, and rolled over and put the pillow over his head.  Meanwhile, the baby continued wailing from the other room.

I was furious.  I decided I was going to dump a bucket of ice water on the bastard if he didn't get up.

"WAKE UP!" I yelled.  He kept sleeping.  Fine, then.  Ice water it is.  I grabbed hold of the doorknob and yanked the door of our bedroom open, only to discover that the hinges were loose.  The door came out of the frame and landed on the top of my bare foot.

"OWWWW!" I shrieked, and let go of the door.  There was this huge BAM! as the door went crashing to the ground, the baby cried louder, and I hopped up and down on one foot, cursing and crying.  My husband didn't stir.

"WAKE. THE FUCK. UP!"  I grabbed the first thing I could find--a water bottle--and hurled it, not at him, but at the window next to him.  The glass, which was not double-paned, shattered.  January wind and snow gusted into the room.

My husband stirred a bit and opened one eye.  "Did you open a window?"  he asked.

"No, I broke the window, and the door, and if you don't get up, you're next!"

     *     *     *

We've gotten better since then.

Still, it's hard.  We both work outside the home, so there's no opportunity to nap during the day.  And as hard as it is to care for a sleepless newborn, at least they're not mobile.  They don't wake up and jump on the dog.  They don't butter the couch and cover themselves with every bandaid in the house.  They don't climb the furniture, break lamps, or go outside to fetch handfuls of snow to put in our bed.  Sleepless ASD kids are just harder, and it's too easy to get exhausted and angry, but we do our best.  My husband and I have guidelines that we try to follow, and we're both guilty of violating them.  I'm here to share our "wisdom" (whaa-whaa-whaa) with you.

1.  Take turns. Duh, but a lot of people don't.  The key here is to have shifts.  It makes no sense for you both to be popping out of bed every 15 minutes.  Try to have shifts so that each person isn't on duty all night, and you both can have some sleep.  We generally do two-hour blocks.  Any more than that can be scary.

2.  Work out the schedule ahead of time.  We hardly ever do this, but it works when we do.  For example, last night I knew it was all on me.  My husband had to get up early this morning, and we have no school, so it was my job.  (Last night was so effin' miserable that I've already told my husband that tonight I'm taking two Tylenol PMs and going on soma holiday.)

3.  When you're on duty, protect the sleep of your partner.  Besides keeping your kid safe, that's the most important thing you can do.  Who's going to relieve you when you're burnt out?  Close the bedroom door and take the noisy kid somewhere else.

4.  Don't be a fucking martyr.  When it's your turn, and you hear a noise, get up and take care of it.  Don't throw the covers back in a melodramatic fashion and go stomping out of the bedroom.  (See Rule #3)  Don't come back in the bedroom and rant about whatever the kid is doing wrong.  It's your turn.  Don't grumble about how hard your life is.  You both live in the same house.

5.  Ask for help when you need it.  Sometimes patience runs out before your shift does, and you need help.  Sometimes you walk into a perfect storm of smeared poop, maple syrup, and dog vomit.  When these things happen, and you're going to lose it, ask for help.  And Sleeper?  Get up.  This is an emergency.  (See Rule #4) 

6.  Say "Thank You."  It's really important.  I cannot overstate this.

When things go well, we can laugh about his exploits the next day.  When they don't, we know we're in this together.  We pour the coffee and hug it out and hope for a better night soon.

Autism Travel Log: Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Shove--Part 2

This is the continuing story of a somewhat hellacious weekend trip with the family that I began here.

Yes!  We arrived at the hotel and found my husband, looking clean-shaven and dapper, waiting for us.  The boys ran up to him as if he were the hero they were waiting for.  Daddy, Daddy!  It's Daddy!  Hey, Dad!  Dad's here!  Mommy, who had driven them, put up with them, and bought them food, was forgotten.  I didn't care, because I was thinking, He's here!  He's here!  Thank God!  Maybe he has a glass of wine for me!

Peep Show!

We brought our stuff up to the room, and I immediately noticed a problem.  The window in our room
faced into the atrium of the hotel.  For some people, such an arrangement would be weird or a little cool, but for the mother of a perpetually naked child, it was going to be a challenge.  I mean, he might as well hang a picture frame from his waist and announce, "Conventioneers and members of the wedding!  Behold my junk!"

We were going to have to keep clothes on him.

But first, the pool!  Yes, let's chill these whiners out with a dip in the indoor pool.  Oh, what an idea!  They were happy for the first time all day.  Please don't splash Mommy.  I just had my roots done.  Do you think brown hair just grows out of your head?

My husband's ONE JOB in planning this whole trip was to find a restaurant for dinner.  He's a chef, a foodie, and is great at finding just the right place.  He knows our requirements.  Any restaurant we go to must serve french fries, ice cream, and chocolate milk.  The restaurant is preferably a little noisy, so we don't disturb other diners, and has booth seating, so we can keep the boy in a seat.  Unbeknownst to me, my husband must have taken up crack-smoking, because he made a reservation at a charming and quiet English pub, with no children's menu, no milk or apple juice, and no ice cream.  The seats were short stools.  It was a disaster.

"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!" the boy cried.  Me, too, buddy.  Me, too.

We went down the street to the Franklin Fountain, a really cool old-fashioned ice cream shop.  They housed their giant sundaes.  They were happy for the second time all day.

We returned to "Pennsylvania", which is the boy's word for the hotel, with the hope that he was worn out enough to sleep.  No such luck, alas.  He refused to settle down.  First, he wanted to sleep with his brother.  Then he decided it would be more fun to shove him off the bed.  So I made him lie down with me.  I scratched his back, and just as I thought he was drifting off, he stood up and took a flying leap onto the other bed where my husband and Big Bro were sleeping, and kneed my husband in the pills with all his weight.

I settled him down again, and must have fallen asleep for a bit, because I woke up to him shaking me and saying, "Take it out, Mommy.  Take it out, please."

"Take what out?" I asked.  He responded by shoving my fingers in his mouth.  He wanted me to pull out his tooth.

"I'm not doing it, dude." I murmured, and fell asleep for real.  I awoke in predawn hours to the sound of the boy singing.

"Peanut butter...we love peanut butter!"  I opened one eye, and felt around on the bed for him.  I found a bloody tooth, but no boy.

"Peanut butter!  That's what we like best!"   Where was he?  Not in the other bed.  Not in the bathroom.  But then where...?

"Do you like it on your head?  Yes, we like it on our head!"  I followed the sound of his voice to the curtains, and saw two bare feet between the curtain and the window.

Oh, God.  No...

Oh, yes.  There he was, butt-naked and singing, pressing his genitals against the window in full view of a very resigned-looking janitor who was vacuuming below.  The boy turned to me and grinned, his glasses and missing tooth making him look like a deranged jack-o-lantern, and continued his song.

"On your head?  On our head!  OHHHH!"

And that was just the first night.

My Kid Sucks At Puzzles...and other spectrumy things he doesn't like.

We've all heard the saying, "If you've met one child with autism...you've met one child with autism."  Still, it seems there are some common threads that bind our kids together, and it's so great to find another parent to whom you can say, "Your kid, too?!"  But there are some pieces that don't fit for us.

Puzzles.  My boy shows no interest.  He was all right with the wooden puzzles with individual pieces, but once those pieces had to fit with one another, he gave up.  Big Bro was a fan of those floor puzzles, so we have a lot.  I've tried to engage him--especially with the alphabet puzzle--because I want to provide some kind of structured activity at home, but he balks.  He barely looks at them, and then tries to mash the pieces to make them fit.

At one point, I actually said, "Dude!  Aren't you supposed to be good at this?"  Then I laughed and scolded myself, and poured a glass of wine.
 
I find it amusing that the puzzle piece is supposed to be the symbol of autism, and my kid hates them.  If I had to develop our own personalized symbol of autism awareness, it would be a decapitated Disney figure, but perhaps that's too macabre for the general public.  I doubt people would buy car magnets or get tattoos of something that looks like the work of Sid from Toy Story.

He's not that into trains.  He shows a mild interest.  He likes to watch the Thomas the Tank Engine video while jumping on a trampoline and shouting the names of all the trains, but that's about it.  He has a little wooden train set his therapist tries to get him to build for some functional play, but it's not a passion.

$6 ticket. He lasted 10 minutes. That's 60 cents/minute of fun!

There's a model train museum about 30 minutes from our house, and I'll take him from time to time.  Sometimes we'll stay for 10 minutes, sometimes longer.  The "museum" is in a little strip mall, and the owner has set up a really lovely display.  He also has religious showcases and anything else that strikes his fancy.  What I find hilarious about the whole situation is that this man, who is very nice, has absolutely no idea that he has built Autism Graceland.  When I take the boy in there, the only other people I see are other moms and other flapping boys.  And the owner tries very hard to encourage the kids to look at his display of bicentennial memorabilia, and seems a little confused by the jumping and humming and flapping.  He never says a word about it, though.  He's good people.

The boy doesn't like Legos, either.  I wish he did.  I wish he showed an interest in something other than breaking my house.

You know, I used to hear these stories of kids on the spectrum who obsessed over a certain toy or puzzle or collection or, I dunno, a pair of socks, and were absorbed for hours.  Understandably, their parents were concerned.  But I can't help feeling a teensy bit jealous.  My son has nothing that keeps him occupied for five minutes, let alone an hour or so.  I can barely imagine what it would be like to have time to pee by myself.

 


He doesn't line up his toys.  Like ever.

Autism Travel Log: Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Shove--Part 1

I've been a mom for eleven years, so I should know by now to keep my expectations low.  When Big Bro was born, I planned to breast feed.  I had images of serene bonding time with my angelic newborn.  Dressed in a white eyelet nightgown, with my hair cascading in long, flowing locks, I would relax in a white wicker rocker with my baby suckling contentedly, as the sun crept in through the gauzy curtains.  The reality was louder and messier.  He wouldn't latch on, neither of us could stop crying, and the whole thing ended with me standing topless in the kitchen, applying cold cabbage leaves to my tits.  (It's not as sexy as it sounds.)

So I've learned a thing or two about expectations versus reality.  But I really thought I wasn't crazy to imagine a fun and educational trip with my family.  After all, we'd had a very successful trip to DC six years earlier.  The boy cooed and giggled in the baby carrier and Big Bro was charmingly interested in everything.  Let's do it again!

Only now my adorable older son is eleven and turning into a surly tween, and his brother cannot be confined to a baby carrier.  But eff it, we're going anyway.  Philadelphia, here we come!

My husband was working in Atlantic City and would join us later, so I had to drive the three and a half hours with the kids by myself.  Three and a half hours of whining, seatbelt unbuckling, and fighting over leftover Halloween candy.  Three and a half hours of cursing my husband under my breath for getting to drink and gamble, while I dealt with the bitching and eye-rolling.  Three and a half hours to wonder if this was such a good idea.

Effin' tigers are so cool and nobody cares.

But I was determined.  The Philadelphia Zoo, you guys!  Check out all these amazing animals! 
Tigers!  Look at the tiger!  I said, look at the tiger!  It's right effin' there.  Will you look at the effin' tiger for eff's sake?  I did not drive all this way for you to look at pigeons.  French fries?  Are you kidding?  You just ate.  Fine, I'll buy you $6 french fries, but then we are looking at some effin' animals.  Ice cream?  It's freezing.

"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!" the boy wailed.
"We ARE in Pennsylvania," I insisted, but he was having none of it.

How about the carousel?  Yes, the carousel was good.  How about the train?  I bought train tickets before seeing the actual train, which was a glorified golf cart with some wagons attached to it.  It just went in circles.  Big Bro and I went with him, and made snarky comments about the scenery.  The boy made choo-choo sounds, so we thought he was liking it, until we disembarked and he made his next demand.

"I wanna go to Disney World!"  Translation:  This place is not cool.
"We're not going to Disney."
"I wanna go to Pennsylvania!"
"We're IN Pennsylvania!"  Effin' hell.  Time to meet my husband at the hotel.

After much hectic driving through city traffic and begging for some cooperation and/or quiet, I pulled the car up to the hotel, at which point the boy cheered, "Hooray!  Pennsylvania!" 

That's when I realized that Pennsylvania means hotel. 

(Note:  A whole lot of other crap happened, but nobody has the attention span for long posts, so I'll write a part 2.)