And that's when I knew it was time to go home.

Met some friends of mine at Burger King so we could let the kiddos run wild in the play area while we studied (who were we kidding?). After playing for about an hour Monkey had a run in with a little boy, and I mean little, he was maybe 3 years old. Monkey comes down and is crying and really upset, and had some red scratch marks on his arm from where this kid had grabbed him. It seems from what I could piece together from Motormouth that Monkey wanted this kid to play with him and was grabbing him and trying to drag him off so they could play, and this kid didn't really want to go, so it's not like Monkey was attacked or anything, just the usual lack of social skills at work. Anyway, Monkey was worked up and crying and wouldn't go back into the play zone. The other little boy had gone to the bathroom and when he came back out Monkey points at him and announces-loudly- that it was "HIM, He grabbed my arm!! He did!! (starts to crawl off my lap) YOU WANNA PIECE OF ME???" (oh. dear. lord.)

OoooKaaaay. Time to go. I work at calming Monkey down and convince him that his arm isn't 'broken', just scratched. Meanwhile, Motormouth decides that he needs to go over to the table where this kid is sitting with his parents and explain what is going on. I call him back over and we get our shoes on. Monkey is still worked up and Motormouth then decides that the situation requires him to go back over, lean between these two parents, and tell the little kid that he 'can't hurt other kids at the playground, okay?'

It's time to take my socially inept circus and hit the road.

On the way out to the car, Monkey still can let it go. It's been 10 minutes. He announces to no one in particular "You scratched my arm. You are not my friend. I don't want to play with you."

Really?? Really???? It's good that it was in there, but it would have been nice if you had just led with that.

Can't take him anywhere

SSG G and I went out shopping and errand running today while the kids were in school. Moments where we find ourselves alone are few and far between these days (*snort* yeah, right. Make that years) and I was trying to to get some alone, grown up time while the getting was good. We went to Target, which as some of you know, is where I work (for the next week that is). We split up, we wandered around together, we found too much stuff to buy, and headed to the check out. Which, is where it all sort of came unraveled. G was chatting up the cashier and they had a pretty good back and forth going on. I realized that we had too much stuff and went to get another cart to put the bagged items in. As I am walking away I hear the cashier comment on the tank top I was getting. Something along the line of how nice G will look in it. I turn back around with the new cart just in time to see G pulling up his sleeve to show her his tattoos. Apparently he also thought he could rock my new tank top and that it would highlight his tats nicely.

She showed him hers...he showed her his....

G then spent a few seconds harassing me, to which the cashier commented that I should beat him up. G responds loudly that I cheat (as in I don't fight fair, but his exact words were "she's a cheater")......

She then rings up my soda, and G tells her not to bag it because I drink....

To sum up, in the two minutes we are in the checkout line, my husband can't keep his clothes completely on, and he announces to at least 2 employees that I cheat and drink.

Sooooo glad that I had already given my notice.

Random things that happened on our trip to Chicago

1. We pack enough electronics to entertain 10 people. We also pack enough food to survive in our car for a week.

2. My husband bought cubed ham for the kids to eat in case we couldn't find food for them. The brand? Olde Kentucky Ham. Why? because he doesn't read my blog...or maybe he does and he is trying to torture me.

3. Our Tom Tom hates us. Why else would it takes us on a scenic tour of downtown Gary, Indiana and straight into downtown Chicago just to make us go back out to our destination in a NW suburb?

4. There is a McDonalds in the middle of the highway, the drivethru lane is right next to the lane for the turnpike. We almost got in the wrong lane.

5. We got to about the Loop in Chi-town when Monkey decided he wanted to go home. NOW.

6. The mall across the street where I had to go to buy the "discounted" tickets for the Lego Discovery Zone has 3 levels.

7. No one asked to see our tickets upon entering the Discovery Zone. I could have saved over $40 bucks and a trip into the 3 story mall on the first nice Saturday afternoon of the year.

8. Monkey threw a fit for no less than 1/2 hour before he would enter the Zone. Why does no one call the police when they see a woman pinning a child into a corner in a parking garage while he begs her to let him go?

9. We missed one of the toll booths on the turnpike. I wonder if they just mail us a ticket and how much it costs to skip paying the $.80 toll.

10. G informed me that he "didn't want to hear it anymore" when I complained that he was going to fast.

11. 20 minutes later he informed me that "I was right" just before the state trooper flipped on his lights and pulled us over.

12. Cops must be able to smell each other, G never gets a ticket.

Oh yeah, NOW I feel the spirit of the season.

I am standing outside of Macy's the Sunday before Christmas with Monkey, shivering. He's crying, I'm ignoring him, and G is nowhere in sight. How did I get here? I'm glad you asked. Frankly, I am getting tired of blaming Autism for these predicaments, so I am torn between blaming Motormouth and his ill-timed Christmas spirit, for Macy's and their charitable donation campaign, mail slots too small to stick your arm in, and Santa Claus.

Let me back up. Yesterday Motormouth decides that he should probably get around to mailing that letter to Santa before it's too late. G and I were a little relieved to find that we had managed to buy about half of his wish list all on our own, so he won't be too disappointed come the big day. Unfortunately, I forgot to have G take it with him when he mailed out the Christmas cards and Motormouth noticed. In what I thought was a flash of genius, I announced that we can take it to the 'Special Santa Mailbox' at the store, so it will be sure to arrive on time. I convince Monkey that he might like to write a letter too and help him write it (for those who care, rest assured that Monkey still wants a blue jingle bell for Christmas). We seal it and take the letters to the store.

Motormouth marches right up to the shiny red mailbox and drops his in. Monkey is unsure. Well, not really. He is sure he doesn't want to be in the store. He is sure he wants to be at home right now. He is sure he wants to keep his letter. "Don't you want Santa to bring you presents?" Motormouth asks. Monkey does. So he wavers. Not quietly. He doesn't want any part of the mailbox but he doesn't want to mess this up. We are starting to draw attention. At this point, I don't care. Leave it, don't leave it, it will be fine either way. Monkey makes his choice. He takes his letter and drops it in the slot. And immediately changes his mind. Things escalate quickly. Within seconds G and I are trying to scoop a thrashing, yelling Monkey up off the shiny tile floor. Note to self: Winter coats slide remarkably well across the entry way of Macy's. After several false starts G manages to get Monkey up and hangs on to him until we get out the door. The parking lot poses a whole other issue. Monkey has no intention of getting in the truck. It's like trying to stuff a cat into a coffee can. I am uncomfortable with the amount of attention we are still getting so G and I agree that G will leave with Motormouth while I stay behind and let Monkey work stuff out.

So here we are. Monkey is settling down and realizing the consequences of his actions. We both know it's going to be a long afternoon with no computer or video games. I'm not really sure who is dreading that more. G eventually returns and we all head home. Monkey apologizes and if the amount of giggling is any indication, finds something hilarious to think about all the way home. I only wish I could do the same.

That's right, I am not above using my kids as a shield.

Backing the truck up in the driveway so I can unload the back. Just as I am braking and thinking "Whoa, it looks like I might be getting too close on that side...." I hear this sickening crunch. Monkey says from the back "Uh, oh. Thats not good. You banged." Um. Yep. I did. I pull forward a little and get out to check the damage, unload the groceries and get back in. "You break it?" Monkey asks. Yes. Yes I did. Now what? I ponder my best course of action as I make my way to where Sgt. G and Motormouth are waiting for us for lunch. Sgt. G loves his truck. Not as much as he loves me, but the truck doesn't ask him for anything, and it never is moody or cranky or sarcastic. It doesn't nag him, it doesn't make him fold laundry, it just waits for him and helps aid in his escape, so some days his love for it comes a close second I am sure. I know that if I was in a real accident he would only be concerned for my safety, but I hit our garage, it isn't like there is much chance for injury, so there is no sympathy card to be played. I know I have to tell him, but how and when? Then I look in the rearview mirror and formulate the perfect plan. There sits Monkey, looking all sweet and cute, with his little mohawk and big eyes. I'll just have him tell for me. The kid finally talks, I should get something good out of that! "Monkey, Mommy broke the truck. Can you go up to Daddy and tell him that Mommy broke the truck?" Monkey looks up from his DS game. "Tell Daddy?" A look of horror slowly washes over his face "NO!! NO tell Daddy!!!" "Please? just tell Daddy that Mommy broke the truck, it's okay, he won't be mad (at you)"

Monkey glares at me "NO. YOU do it."

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.

'Tis the season to be selling fa la la la la, la la llllaaa LLLAAAA

School started for the boys a week ago, which means we have now officially entered "fundraising season". I dread this season. Not only does it give me flashbacks of the endless fundraising I had to do as a child for school/band/girl scouts/church but it comes with so many more rules now. Every fundraiser form we get states that you can't let your kids sell door to door, that they should only sell to family and close friends. That's great, but family means cousins, and cousins are also selling the same exact junk to the same exact family members, and how many gift cards/cheese logs/ceramic mugs/cookie dough/cook books/rolls of wrapping paper does Grandma really need? Round one started today when Motormouth brought home his little magazine 'o treats and order form. Attached to the front was a perky little letter detailing the deliciousness of the different cookie doughs, cakes, and subs and their prices from (I am assuming) the head of the PTC. She signs off her letter by saying that each child's goal is to sell 20 subs and 20 blocks of dough. That's roughly $270 in sales. She has got to be delusional, er, kidding.

During dinner Motormouth announces that there is a meeting at school tonight for moms and that I need to go. Yes indeedy, it is the first PTC meeting of the year. I had toyed with the idea of going, but ultimately decided that since the kids are still in separate schools, that this would NOT be the year I start attending PTC (yeah, yeah all you other moms out there, I'm making you look bad, so grab your stones, I'll meet you in the street).
Motormouth: You HAVE to go. It's important.
Me: yeah? what are they going to talk about that is so important?
Motormouth: I dunno.

Yep. Not going. For the following 3 reasons.
1. I can't keep my thoughts to myself.
2. Not everyone finds my wit and sarcasm endearing.
3. It's better to avoid situations where 1 and 2 might happen.

It's been one of those weeks in this house.

It's been one of those weeks in this house.
It carried over from last week. My van was way overdue for an oil change and the check engine light came on; I was hoping it was because of the oil, and it would magically turn off when I got it changed. I even tried to make it up to the van by having them flush and de-gunk stuff (I know, it is stupid to try to make a peace offering to a machine). It didn't turn off, so G called around and got it in somewhere on Monday. Turns out I had a bad emmissions sensor (dammit, could have kept driving it!), a broken spring, and something is wrong with the manifold- again. The garage is saying about 1200 for everything. Can we drive it with the manifold thing leaking? The guy says yes. Great. G calls his cousin in St. Johns to see if we can have him do that part, (for half the price), his cousin can. Later in the week, some incredibley honest person with amazing driving skills hits G's truck in the parking lot not once, but twice. Guess they didn't do a good enough job the first time and tried it again. 2 dinner size plate dents, one in each door on the passenger side and some scratches. G loves that truck a little more than me most days, so he was a little ticked. Insurance says they will send us a check for the appraised amount less $500 for our deductible. Great, because the few hundred I shelled out last week on the van, plus the few hundred this week, plus the more than a few hundrend still to shell out wasn't enough car expenses this month. Friday starts out great, Monkey wakes up with a 102.2 fever for no particular reason, so everything I had put off all week will have to wait until next week. G calls from work to tell me that he didn't leave his personal cell phone at work like he was hoping, it is lost. So he buys a new phone and now has a new number that I have to memorize and call all pertinant people and update them. G comes home that night. He says he finally called the insurance company back and they said they are sending us a check for the entire amount, so we don't have to pay the deductible. He couldn't tell me why (I guess it didn't occur to him to ask?). I am trying to squeeze in a shower now that I am not the only adult in the house so I almost didn't notice him grabbing the toilet plunger and heading out of the bathroom.
Me: ummm, do I want to know what you are doing with that?
Sgt. G: no.
Me: no swordfighting with the kids (can you tell I am the mom of boys?)
Sgt. G: I'll try to control myself.
I get out of the shower and G comes back in with the plunger.
Sgt. G: (all puffed up like a peacock) Well, what do you know!!
Me: I don't know, what do I know?
Sgt. G: no more dents.
Me: You toilet plungered the truck? And it worked?
Sgt. G: yup.
Me: so we just get to keep that insurance money?
Sgt. G: Oh, I could spend it.
Me: of that I have no doubt....you are turning into a handy guy
Sgt. G: don't tell anyone.
Me: if anyone asks, I'll tell them you are handsy, not handy.

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.

Church should be like this all the time!

Yesterday I decided we had been heathens long enough. We were going to church, and lack of clean clothes, new puppies, tired kids, and grumpy husbands were not going to stop me. Sgt. G dressed himself and one child, because he has learned by now that if he wishes to live to see the next sunrise, he will not just get himself ready and stand by the door saying "we are going to be late!!" as I pack snacks, toys, check teeth and make sure everyone's underwear was changed, and then try to shower. As we are walking out the door, Monkey throws one doozie of a tantrum. First he tries to refuse putting on socks and shoes, but this is an old trick and I respond by saying fine and hauling him out into the breezeway. Standing barefoot on concrete in December makes you reevaluate your stand....next he refuses to get in the truck or getting buckled, but hey, this ain't new to Mommy either, so after a minute of Mommy sitting on him in the truck (and Daddy trying really hard not to laugh in the front seat) I end up sucessfully buckling him in and sit next to him in the back with one leg over his so he can't kick, and holding his hands, he is reduced to screaming...which he does the entire drive there. Sgt. G and I discuss that the new brand of chocolate soy milk JUST MIGHT have Gluten in it afterall! Sgt G drops Motormouth and me out at the door and settles in to wait Monkey out. Motormouth and I sneak in (because we are late of course) and sit in the back. For 5 minutes I shush him until I realize that I didn't give him his ADHD meds that morning, so he has the right to remain silent, just not the ability. After 15 minutes Sgt. G and Monkey make their entrance while the choir is singing the first of two songs. When the song ends Monkey announces "Let's go home!" and when the music starts again "*sigh* One more song!" just loud enough for half the congregation to hear. Then the children's choir gets up and sings three songs, complete with Monkey repeating his requests inbetween each one. They pass the offering plate while Sgt. G checks his watch. "Pastor Tom is sick, so there doesn't seem to be a sermon today" I whisper. "getting out early...church should be like this all the time!!" he whispers back. I resist the urge to smack him.