The Dark Side

I made the mistake of nodding off at my inlaws. I was brought back to reality by hearing Monkey shrieking hysterically in the next room, then G walking through the room with a crying, flailing Monkey in full attack mode. G was tagging out. Which means that I am up. Sort of, because I'm still not quite awake enough to really understand what is going on. Not that it matters. As always, it doesn't matter how we got here, at this point it only matters how we get back. I get Monkey into the spare room and manage to get all of his limbs under control. Sort of. For a second. Wait. A leg got free. How can he bend it like that to kick me? argh. Got it. Whoa there, almost took a head-butt to the chin. That was a rookie mistake. Can't hold his arm like that. Reposition, reposition, reposition. He's screaming that I am hurting him. Am I? Nope...not hanging on too tight anywhere, he can breathe, move a little-Whoops, gave him a little too much room to move and he got away. Start over. Stay calm. stay calm stay calm. Got him. Why are his elbows so pointy???? I can't let you go, even if it breaks my heart to hear you beg me to do just that. I can't. I love you too much. That doesn't even make sense. How can pinning you down as you scream be any kind of love? Even if I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt. Even if I'm doing it as gently as I can. Even if I know deep down that 20 minutes of this is better than 4 hours in the emergency room. This can't be right. I need to get out of here. I can't do this anymore. Mommy needs a time out. Wait Mommy don't go, don't leave me. Don't leave me alone. Clinging to my leg. Let's lay down and take a break. Take a breath. Let's just breathe. Okay. Here we are. Turning it around. Arms and legs a tangled mess. Head on my chest. Shaky, gasping breaths. Calm down, calm down calm down. You can do it. Just breathe, breathe breathe. His heartbeat on my stomach, mine in his ear, they become one and slow down. breathe, breathe breathe. The monster leaves, Monkey returns. He cries. Hopeless tears for things he can't change. Connection so intense, painfully sharp. He rests. He breathes. He calms. He slows. He is still. Then he laughs. Crazy, exhausted giggle. He sits up, looks at me with clear, glassy eyes. "Let's go Mommy, Let's get out of here"

A lock isn't enough, I need soundproofing.

Motormouth knocking on the bathroom door, because, of course, I've been in there 30 seconds in the past 4 hours, so, you know, I was asking to be interrupted.

Me: I'm in here.

Motormouth: I haveta go to the bathroom.

Me: I'm in here.

Motormouth: (with his face against the door) but....I have to go.

Me: take a number

Motormouth: uh.......70?

SSG G: between 1-10. when you pick a number it's usually between 1-10.

Me: (yelling through the door) I said TAKE a number!!

Motormouth: okay.....7.

SSG G: (coming over to the door too) oh, take one, not pick one. You want to go low.

Motormouth: I still want seven.

SSG G: well, then you are 7th in line. I'll go, then Monkey can go, then I'll go get the neighbors and we'll all go before you.

yes, go get the neighbors too so you can all stand outside the door and have a chat while I'm trying to maintain the slightest shred of privacy in this house full of boys. I don't want to live here anymore.

Me: Just give me a minute!!

SSG G: (sounding like his face is also pressed against the door) Babe, he's starting to do the pee-pee dance out here.

Me: Oh for crying out loud. I'm done. I'm done. It's your turn.

I think I need a nap.

The phone is ringing, and I don't get to it in time and whoever it is hangs up on the machine. I assume that it is G calling and I go find my cell phone because he'll probably call that next. (his m.o. is to call the cell, immediately call home, then the cell, until a frazzled me finally chases down one of the phones and then he only wanted to say hi. Tell me that is not frustrating. I'm not just sitting around doing nothing when I am at home. I'm working here. But I digress.) I check the cell phone and sure enough I missed a call from him on it too. I hit the call back button and wait for it to connect. Then the home phone starts ringing. "Sure enough" I think, "doesn't matter how many times I ask him to give me time to call back, he's just going to keep dialing like there is some massive emergency and make me frantic." The home phone is still ringing and I am getting more ticked off. "Now I never think it is an emergency when he calls both lines like this and someday it's going to be and by that time I'm not going to be answering the phone OR trying to call him back......" Now I've gotten myself good and worked up about this, until some little kid answers the phone. "um....Hello?" The little kid says hi again, followed by "Why are you calling here??" (okay, 1. Why is some kid answering my husband's phone at Ft. Jackson? and 2. How rude is this kid?) "MOM!! Why are you calling the basement?" The kid says, laughing. Then it hits me. I've called the house phone, and Motormouth answered it downstairs because I clearly wasn't answering it upstairs. The rude kid is mine. Except under the circumstances it wasn't actually rudeness, just curiosity. So, I was mad at poor G for calling when he wasn't. (maybe he was, just both lines were busy because I was calling myself, I don't know. But I guess NOW I have to give him the benefit of the doubt, don't I?) How my phone called the house instead of calling his cell, I also don't know. Incompetent, short-tempered and crazy are a bad combination.

We're not white trash- we're worldly.

I look up as Motormouth is coming back inside the house from playing in the backyard, and realize that he is wearing a tee-shirt and boxer briefs. When questioned, Motormouth explains his choice to strip down was heat induced. I don't care how hot it is, you don't take your pants off and go out in public. You are a boy, take off your shirt for crying out loud.
So now I'm ticked because I didn't notice that he went outside looking like that. I started to panic a little that this isn't some little boy reasoning, and that there is some deep-seeded, genetic trait that caused this white trash behavior. I would like to pretend that it couldn't possibly be from my genes...I'm mean, doesn't everyone try to pin the blame on their spouse when they see undesirable traits in their kids? Or is it just me? It's probably just me. I'm petty and small. Unfortunately for me, my theory of being haplessly married into a clan of barbarians that would enthusiastically embrace underwear as outerwear was quickly and thoroughly shot down when SSG G came home and was absolutely appalled at the idea of his son outside in his skivvies. His lecture included not only the fact that the practice was not tolerated in THIS house, but not tolerated by law either. Ouch. So the blame comes back around to me.
If the cops are called, I'm blaming his exposure to European culture early in life.

You can't make this stuff up...I guess you could, but really, why on earth would you?

It's dinnertime, and the boys have sat down to eat. Motormouth starts yelling at Monkey to stop doing something and Monkey starts tattling in that universal, sing-song tattle voice that every parent loves.

Me, talking over the yelling: Both of you stop it and eat!!

Motormouth: But Monkey was going to put up the middle finger! He can't do that!!

Me: He was not. Monkey doesn't even know what the middle finger is.

Motormouth: You could show him.

Me: NOBODY'S showing him.

Motormouth: I can't show him, I don't know what the middle finger MEANS!!

He ran into the bathroom to fart. I guess that's progress.

Two months ago I had the following conversation with my 10 year old son:
Me: Wash your hands.
Motormouth: okay...(out in 5 seconds)
Me: That was not long enough, did you use soap?
Motormouth: um, no. you didn't say soap.
Me: Go back and do it again. And dude, every time I say "wash your hands" it means "wash your hands with soap" Every time. The use of soap is implied. Every time.
Motormouth: (eyes wide with shock) OOOOH. okay.

Last month I had the following conversation with my 10 year old son:
Me: Wash your hands.
Motormouth: okay...(out in 5 seconds)
Me: That was not long enough, did you use soap?
Motormouth: um, no. you didn't say soap.
Me: Go back and do it again. And dude, every time I say "wash your hands" it means "wash your hands with soap" Every time. The use of soap is implied. Every time.
Motormouth: (eyes wide with shock) OOOOH. okay.

Yesterday I had the following conversation with my 10 year old son:
Me: Wash your hands.
Motormouth: okay...(out in 5 seconds)
Me: That was not long enough, did you use soap?
Motormouth: um, no. you didn't say soap.
Me: Go back and do it again. And dude, every time I say "wash your hands" it means "wash your hands with soap" Every time. The use of soap is implied. Every time.
Motormouth: (eyes wide with shock) OOOOH. okay.

Yesterday I also had to make this boy rebrush his teeth and his father made him rewash his hair in the shower. Motormouth is upset because he can't convince us that 10 seconds of half hearted brushing gets your teeth clean, or that your hair can be dry in spots and still have been cleaned. Go figure. I can't figure out how these germy, dirty, happy-to-wallow-in-their-own-filth creatures ever end up getting a woman to agree to spend the rest of their lives under the same roof. At some point they must learn to cut their own toenails and bathe themselves and have fresh breath and keep their dirty socks off the kitchen table, right? Because dear God, if they can't manage to do those things, I hope they don't think that they can live with me forever.

Just in case I needed more reassurance

This week of being home with not much to do has at least done one thing for me, it has made me realize that this is a good time for me to be going back to school. Between deployments, field exercises, moving, multiple diagnoses, PTSD, the loss of a baby, school IEP's, doctor's appointments and you know, all the "normal" stuff- I have been at a physical and emotional dead run for the past 8 years. I don't really know how to do "down-time". I feel at odds with myself and start to get a little depressed if I don't have something pressing to do...right now!! This frantic pace is the pace of my life and I don't know how to do it any other way.

Frankly, taking the time to slow down and just breathe seems to make me hyperventilate.

Which is just fine for now, I have a lot I want to get done in the next decade, so I'll use this drive to my advantage. With the kids in school a full day and both of them being successful and more independent and G being home more without looming deployments, I'm not stretched as thin on the home front as I was in the past and need something to consume my time and energy. Tonight I was reassured once again that it is good for me to be in school. Motormouth needs to study for a science quiz and asks if I can help him. I look over his study guide and burst out laughing. Sure kid, I can help you. Your entire study guide was on my Chemistry mid-term last week. And when you get to synthetic division, I can help you with that too. That's probably not until 5th grade though, right?

It's a new day in Monkeyland.

Living in a house with a child with Autism is like living with a terrorist. You try your hardest not to let this little non-verbal dictator run your entire life, but it comes down to endurance. How many battles can you navigate before you eventually just fall over? You have to pick and choose your battles so you can make it through the entire day. You let some things go. You may let him walk to the car in bare feet because he refused to put on his shoes in the middle of winter. You may sit down and watch the same movie or cartoon at least once a day for months. You might let him turn the light on and off for an hour. It's all a balance of what you are willing to live with and what you have to stand your ground on. It's like parenting a toddler on steroids every day for years. Am I making the right choices? I have no idea. Will he grow up and become a person that HE can be proud of? I hope so. This morning was a huge turning point for us. Monkey didn't go to bed well last night, he gave me a hard time and ended up getting a consequence for his actions. The consequence was not getting to play computer this morning before school. As expected he didn't wake up well and was determined to let me know how angry he was. But I have to say he managed to pull it together after a very tense 20 minutes. He willingly got dressed and ate and even rushed to put his boots on when the bus came 7 minutes early. I still pray for the day that he can talk my ear off and tell me what is going on instead of these days of tantrums and tears. But I am cherishing mornings like this where he was able to pull himself out of that void and choose to play by his mother's rules.

That's what I thought.

Motormouth comes home from school and is retelling his day to me, in order of importance to him, which means I hear a lot about the 6th grade girls that sell crafts at lunch time and the snow fort he built and who farted during snack and not a lot about what he actually learned or if he teacher has a message for me. When pressed for more information I got a minute by minute breakdown of his daily schedule complete with a little song about how he does the same thing every day and it is boring. Booooorrrrrring!!!!! I know I shouldn't stifle his creativity and that I should have more patience but I listened to his monologue for five minutes and then the highly repetitive song for another 2 minutes before I interrupted. Which is monumental for me since the word boring or bored is a hot button for me. You cannot possibly be bored if you have an active imagination, which this kid clearly does. Find something to do or I will find something for you to do. So I interrupt with the following suggestion. If you are bored with your never changing routine that consists of school, playing, eating, home, playing, eating and more playing how about you change it up a little by scrubbing the kitchen floor? Motormouth doesn't miss a beat (literally) No mom, I love my boring routine.

"yeah, well. You're a poo poo head"

I am trying to help Motormouth with his spelling sentences.

Me: Motormouth, I don't think this sentence is right: "My mom is the large in the family" It's missing some words or something.

Motormouth: no that's right, you are the large.

Me: The large what?

Motormouth: the largest.

Me: okay, well first of all, your spelling word is large, not largest. Second of all, you don't ever call a girl a large anything, it makes them feel bad.

Motormouth: But you ARE large!!

It's amazing how quickly you get replaced.

Motormouth: Is Daddy home yet?

Me: Not yet, he might not be home before you go to bed.

Motormouth: That's just great! I really need him!

Me: Anything I can help you with?

Motormouth: no. I think I am getting sick. and I think only Daddy can help me.

Me: Besides the medicine, cough drops, juice, water and encouragement to rest I am giving you?

Motormouth: I think Daddy will know how to make me better. I want him.

I get it kid. I am clearly not balancing work, school, and all things that pertain to you as well as you would like. That being said, I am pretty sure I am still considered your primary caregiver. It would serve you well not to upset me.

THIS is why I get so excited over trivial things Monkey does now.

When Monkey was 3 we were in the process of getting him diagnosed. We had already been through the process with Motormouth, so we knew we were looking at Autism. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of this experience, it goes a little something like this: Endless paperwork and questionnaires, asking you everything from your child's developmental milestones to their eating habits to your childhood to your husband's family's medical history (because you know all these things off the top of your head, and can fill them out in office waiting room with your child screaming on the floor at your feet or in your face because you have disrupted his routine) that you will fill out no less than 3 times for at least 3 different specialists. If you are lucky (like we were), you can take your child to a 'multi-disciplinary clinic' where all the specialists come to you, instead of you getting bounced from the Developmental Pediatrician, Neuro, Psych, etc. There are several phases of this office visit; the paperwork, the interview with the social worker, you and your child together being observed in a room with various specialists with one of those lovely mirrors on the wall, and possibly your child alone being observed in the 'fish bowl room' while some administrator attempts to do I.Q. and other testing (does it count if when your child is asked to identify a certain color block that he grabs it and throws it at the testers face? At least we know his gross motor is fine, he can hit her in the nose every time). We had a general rule with Monkey; as long as you didn't talk to him, look at him, or touch him...he MIGHT be okay. So you can imagine the thrill of several hours trapped in an office while your child is subjected to several people breaking that rule. We thought we were prepared for this experience with Monkey, after all, we had just been through it with Motormouth. We are over the humiliation and terror of being examined as parents (we know we are failures, we don't need a specialist to tell us that), and we just want someone to tell us what is wrong and how to fix it. The kicker on this is that, well, with Autism, they can tell you what is wrong, but they have no way to fix it. There is no medication, no therapy suggested (because your insurance won't pay for it anyway) no cure. You get a label, a name to call this 'thing' that has swallowed your child and won't give him back.
G and I are armed for battle. We head off to our meeting with the social worker. We are prepared. We both have our copies of our 17 questionnaires and a mental list of things we want to mention. (I wont even get into how clear it is by the differences in you and your spouses questionnaires that he really does have NO clue what happens in his house all day while he is at work) We are past the idea of wanting to present ourselves in the best possible light, we want ALL the dirty laundry aired and in her official report. If 'they' don't know who this child really is, how are 'they' going to fix him, right? So, in we go, ready to mention this, and this, and most certainly THIS....we are prepared. Until the perky little girl asks the first question. Turns out, all parents find this meeting to be an emotionally draining experience. Going through every negative aspect of your child, your home life and your (in)ability to handle it is indeed hell and she thinks she has found a way to make it a little easier for all involved. She wants to start out on a positive note. "What do you LIKE about Monkey?" she asks, pen poised. We are totally at a loss. While we were preparing to bring up all the bad things, we hadn't exactly been singing Monkey's praises. Our sleep deprived, war torn, emotionally exhausted brains struggled to change tracks. Let's see: He doesn't smile, or laugh. The only emotions he can express are anger and frustration, which are expressed constantly throughout the day and night. There is no empathy. I once fell down the stairs in front of him and realized that the only reason that he stood there watching me cry in a heap on the floor was because his sippy cup was empty and I was the only one big enough to pour him some more milk. Holidays and family get togethers were a nightmare. Monkey didn't 'do' presents. Wrapped or completely unwrapped and out of the package, it was still new and foreign and would make him scream and hit and make Grandma feel bad. I can't count how many times we all sat uncomfortably in the living room attempting to make conversation while Monkey laid under the kitchen table or in the garage screaming for 30 minutes or more until he could calm down enough that you could distract him with a snack or a movie. How closely we had to keep track of where he was at all times in fear that he would get too close to his baby cousin and push her down the stairs or hit someone with a toy. Trips to the playground usually ended with another child crying and his mother glaring at me and my evil/ill-mannered child. Any trip into public usually ended with me wondering why I couldn't control this small creature long enough to buy bread. Public trips always included me pretending to ignore the judgemental stares of other people, either because of his behavior or because of how he was dressed. Seasonal changes are just another routine change that I have no control over. The first two weeks after the weather changes meant I would have to literally sit on or lay on him and wrestle the new/offending clothes onto him every morning and every night. It was mentally and physically exhausting and some days I would just give up. He would win and wear his sandals and no coat in 45 degree weather and I would find myself not caring if he got sick. At least when he was sick he didn't tantrum as much, and he might even let me hold him and snuggle him a little. Bath time was a nightmare because he hated the sensation of water running down his body or head. There was absolutely no part of the day that didn't involve a fit of some kind. It was always a challenge to figure out what would calm him down when he got worked up, since nothing worked twice in a row. Will it be a snack, a movie, a toy, singing, a car ride with daddy, grandma reading a book, me totally losing it and spanking him so hard it left a mark? Add to all of this the stress of KNOWING that you aren't even close to providing him everything a 'good' parent would. I couldn't play with him because he didn't play. He watched movies. Over and over and over again. If he did 'play', it was alone, and he made it clear that you were not invited to join in. I didn't want to broaden his diet because something new on his plate would make him hysterical (a pea!!! Dear God no, not a pea!!!!!), I didn't want to try to read to him because by the end of the day the last thing in the world I wanted was to be near him, playgroups for social interaction were beyond us. I couldn't even get a real break from him because, unfortunately, I was the only one who had a chance at calming him down. This child was a black hole. I could throw everything I had at him, my love, my time, my patience, and he just sucked it in, never to be seen again. No smile, no kisses, no 'I love you, mama', some days no reaction at all. This child made me see all my flaws, my failures, every time I looked at myself or at him.
What did I like about him? I can't think of a thing. "Of course you love him, he's your son" my mother says when I called her in tears. Do I? I wonder in the darkest corner of my mind. "That's not what she asked" I replied. "We sat in there for an hour and I couldn't come up with a thing. The closest I came was that he was a good looking kid, you know, when he wasn't in the middle of a tantrum, and that doesn't really make me feel real great."
At the end of this ordeal, we got our diagnosis of Autism. As we are leaving the office, the Doctor smiles at me through my tears "Don't worry Mama, what you need to remember is that he is the same child he was 15 minutes ago. This diagnosis doesn't change that. You are taking home the same child you came in here with."

Yes ma'am. That is exactly what I am afraid of.

In other words- you worry too much.

We are all sitting around in the living room when Monkey comes in and climbs inbetween Sgt. G and I. He opens his mouth and points to his top front tooth which is clearly about to fall out. After reassuring Monkey that this is okay and that it will be okay when it falls out he wanders off. I turn to Sgt. G, "Didn't he already lose that tooth?"

The next morning Monkey comes to the table for breakfast and shows G the hole where his tooth had been. It's gone. G manages to find the missing tooth on Monkey's tooth colored carpet and sets it aside for the tooth fairy.

When Monkey gets home from school he shows me his missing tooth and starts counting "one two THREE!!" pointing to the gaping hole in his smile. I do some thinking back and realize that Monkey is correct, this is the third tooth he has lost.

Later on the phone with my mother, I am recounting my shortcomings. I don't know which teeth the kid has lost, I can't tell the baby ones from the permanent ones, or even how many he has lost, and you better believe it isn't in a baby book somewhere. This kid is going to grow up thinking we don't care. My mom interrupts me "Babe, in the grand scheme of things.....igh."

Keep digging, you're going to need a ladder and a flashlight.

Sgt. G: Oh, guess who's wife at work is having a baby?

Me: Just tell me....your kidding! First Chris and Sarah (our pseudo-siblings) and now them. *sigh* Everyone is having a baby but me.

Sgt. G: Which is as it should be.

Me: (herding naked Monkey into the bathtub where he belongs) I want a baby.

Sgt. G: What?

Me: (poking my head around the corner) I said I want a baby.

Sgt. G: Do you have any idea how much that would hurt ME?

Me:.......you didn't just seriously say that to me.

Sgt. G: (realizing his mistake, and trying hard to backpedal) Well, it would hurt me, for about a week if they did the reversal, and then another week to have the whole thing redone. You are talking about cutting my junk here.

Me: Seriously, a whole week? and a tiny little incision? do you realize who you are talking to?

Sgt. G: (watching me try to dry off a slippery Monkey as he dances naked around the living room) Aren't you outnumbered enough?

Me: Don't change the subject. *sigh* I could just go out to Chris and Sarah's and kidnap their baby for a while.

Sgt. G: I'll buy you a plane ticket.

Apparently, my maternal instinct keeps office hours.

Sgt. G: Can you take Motormouth to the bus stop this morning? I brought a Gov home and he can't sit in it. (G is very nice and lets Motormouth sit in his warm truck every morning waiting for the bus)

Me: The bus stop? It's the end of the driveway, and it is nice out today, he can stand out there by himself.

Sgt. G: Isn't it raining?

Me: Doesn't look like it, he has a hood just in case.

Sgt. G: I thought moms were supposed to be all nurturing and overprotective.

Me: It's 7a.m.

Things I Need

I Need:

To get more than 4 hours of sleep

To have a dog that doesn't wake me up in the night for no reason

To realize that I am putting on Sgt. G's Stratton Game Calls shirt and not one of mine. (says BLOW ME on the back)

To not have Monkey's school ambush me in an IEP meeting, and railroad me into having him not only change buses, but change schools

To have Sgt. G realize that I am crying in an IEP meeting when I am sitting right next to him

To realize just how much Monkey's school is screwing him up and get him the hell out of there

To not wake up in the morning and realize that I am out of toilet paper, Mt. Dew AND deodorant

To clean her house before her mother in law comes

To remember to thank her mother in law for calling out of the blue and offering to pick up the kids and keep them overnight for Valentines Day

To remember her debit card when she meets people for lunch

To not pick up Motormouth at tutoring when he is actually at school

To quit saying I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown

To get Sgt. G to understand that we are not seeing Friday the 13th tomorrow night.

This week to be OVER!!!!

I don't live up to the Grandma Standard, and he loves another.

Driving in the car last night with the kids, Motormouth and I start discussing Valentines Day.

Motormouth: I have to make something special for all my teachers.

Me: That is.....6 people (counting student teachers, parapros, assitants). Can we just buy them something special?

Motormouth: I wanted to sew them little hearts that look like those hearts with words on them.

Me: Yeah, no. Mommy doesn't sew.

Motormouth: I can. Grandma taught me....grandma would help me sew something.

Me: Well, grandma isn't here. Sorry mommy isn't as great as grandma.

Motormouth: (sighing) that's okay. You are good at some stuff too.

Me: Gee. Thanks.

Motormouth: I have to make Anneke a special card. I love her. I have to write I love you in her card.

Me: Can't you just write that you like her a lot?

Motormouth: No. Because I love her.

Me: What happened to Malaysia?

Motormouth: Mom, she moved to Texas a long time ago....I can't wait forever.

Me: Can't you just love mommy? I'm not ready for you to love some other girl. You are nine.

Motormouth: Mom, you can't stop love.

Me: oh.

I know how to HAVE FUN.

I'm trying to get the kids out the door tonight. I am trying, but failing. On a long list of hold-ups is the issue of footwear. We are going to a school carnival and I want the kids to wear shoes because we will be indoors. Monkey wants to wear his boots. "We will just stand here until you put your shoes on," I say. "We can't go and HAVE FUN until you put your shoes on." We all stand around for about a minute (Look at me, practicing my patience!!) and Monkey finally gives in and puts on his shoes. The idea of missing out on HAVING FUN is too much for him. He points out that they have red dots on them. They look like they have been put there on purpose, but I have no idea why. Something to do with getting them on the right feet at school maybe, and Monkey needs me to be impressed with his dots. "Oooohhhh!" I exclaim. "Dots!!" (Look at me, practicing my enthusiasm). I must have convinced Monkey that I loved the dots appropriately enough, because we were finally on our way out the door.....to HAVE FUN....at the school carnival. One stop on the way, I had to hit the bank ATM. As we pull into the parking lot Monkey announces "This is NOT fun." Glad you noticed, kid. Motormouth explains "you can't have fun without money." I am slightly disturbed that my nine year old believes this to be true. "There are lots of things you can do for fun that don't cost anything." I say. "uh, yeah mom, I know, but we aren't doing one of those things tonight. I was telling Monkey that we couldn't have fun TONIGHT without money.(like, duh)" Oh. I'll save my fear of raising materialistic monsters for another day. We spent an hour at the carnival playing games and winning candy. We did manage not to win one of those poor goldfish that you have to bonk on the head with a ping pong ball, my run as Dr. Dolittle must finally be over. So, after an hour of chaos I call it a night. The kids are both well sugared and one of them is sporting blue hair, and they are both bouncing around begging for cotton candy- it is definitely time to go (without the cotton candy). I was pretty impressed, we managed to navigate a crazy, loud, overly-crowded room with adults talking to and touching Monkey for an hour with no embarrassing scenes. I sort of feel like we should celebrate somehow..... This is a small victory of sorts...... I fight the urge to go to Meijer's and buy goldfish.

Pointless recount of my day.

Okay, so yesterday I am just not having a great day. Tried to make some phone calls in the morning but ended up leaving messages...tried to take a nap in the afternoon, but ended up having people returning my phone calls from the morning. That and a very strange recorded call about not wanting to saddle my family with expensive funeral costs...(what do I care, I'm dead.) Monkey got home and it turns out he didn't have a very good day either. He only earned one star out of the four he needs to get to play the Wii, so he was upset. In addition to only earning the one, I guess he decided to crawl under a table during his Speech time. When threatened with star removal, he came out kicking. Then biting. His principal had to come down and get him for a little trip down to the office. Within 15 minutes Monkey was asleep on a beanbag chair in the office (So THAT'S where my nap went!) So Monkey wins the bad day competition, because it only got worse for him when he got home and had to deal with an upset Momma. Not only do you lose Wii privledges, but all your handheld games too. Sucks to be you, you shouldn't try to bite people. At least Motormouth had a better day...no 6th grader physically assaulting his teacher like on Tuesday, so his week is improving. Then we had to go to the store to try to find Monkey's cereal, they have been out of it for almost 2 weeks now, and guess what? They still are. But I promised we would get some popcorn and the boys could watch a movie in Motormouth's room when we got home. At the store there was fighting over who holds Mommy's hand, who stands on the end of the cart, who gets to touch the grapefruit and who gets to be the monitor of who touches the grapefruit (guess what???? Mommy handles both those jobs just fine, thanks), who gets to carry the popcorn through the store, who unloads the cart, who checks the Coinstar machine for Canadian change......aaarrrggghhhhh. If they are driving me nuts they can't be pleasant for anyone else, so I renege on our previously agreed upon trip to Blockbuster and go straight home. Poor babies, have to watch one of the 150 movies you already own. When's dinner? when's dinner? When's dinner? (better question What's dinner What's dinner?) I banish them with popcorn bowls to the other room. Why does Monkey get more popcorn than I do? (I love him more, that's why) Monkey is climbing onto my top bunk. He is turning my light on/off. Monkey doesn't have quite enough language to tattle quite as well, so he just keeps coming in and saying "Moooommmmm....HE, Motormouth!!" I finally give up and stuff my ear buds in and crank up my Zune. A little Clapton should help....except I can still hear them. "uh oh...Mommy put her earplugs in, that means she doesn't want to hear us anymore. I am in charge now Monkey" "Okay!!!" This is slightly disturbing for me, but they both seem happy with the arrangement, so I guess I don't care. They leave me alone long enough for me to scrounge up some dinner and get myself remembering why I wanted to have kids in the first place. Oh that's right! I need someone to pay for my expensive funeral arrangements.

We have done our job, now off into the world you go.

We are trying to get Motormouth out the door this morning.

Sgt. G: go give your mom a kiss so we can go.

Motormouth: okay mmmmmmuah.

Me: Have a great day, and be good.

Motormouth: Okay mommy.

Me: And if you can't be good, be good at it.

Motormouth: okay.

Sgt. G: and if you don't know where to start, go back to the beginning.

Poor kid. He doesn't know it yet, but that advice is as good as it is ever going to get.