That? It's just the sound of me banging my head against the wall

It's 3 o'clock and G is just realizing that he didn't eat lunch. He finds some lunchmeat and starts making himself a couple of sandwiches. Monkey wanders in and announces excitedly that G is making him sandwiches. G corrects him. I ask Monkey if he would like a sandwich too. This is what I get for trying to be nice and make my kid a second lunch:
Me: Would you like a sandwich?
Monkey: Yes.
Me: We don't have any lunchmeat you can have so it will have to be peanut butter and jelly.
Monkey: No.
Me: No sandwich? okay.
Monkey: Sandwich.
Me: I can only make you peanut butter and jelly. Daddy's sandwich will make you sick. Do you want peanut butter and jelly, or nothing?
Monkey: No. Just peanut butter
Me: Just peanut butter? No jelly?
Monkey: No jelly. Just peanut butter........with jelly.

Boys only. Unless there is laundry involved.

Monkey runs into the bathroom while I am trying to clean it up and announces I need to leave. I do. When he is done using the bathroom he opens the door and tries to shoo me away from the door. "This is the boy's bathroom mom."  "Okay" I say, pointing to the dirty clothes on the floor. "You pick those up." Monkey looks at the clothes and back at me "Oh. You help me mom?"

I think that was the nicest thing anyone said to me all day.

After an especially trying trip to the grocery store as a family on a Sunday afternoon I was at my wit's end. With all of 'em. Which I get is totally unfair towards G, since he really did nothing wrong, annoying, or embarrassing in any way. He pushed the cart, put all the groceries through the check out, loaded them all in the truck, unloaded them when we got home (....now I am realizing how G should be the one who was all fed up, since he had to deal with our children's crazy I've-never-been-out-in-public-before-therefore-I-can't-possibly-know-how-to-act circus AND a wife that apparently checked out before we actually checked out, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I'm arguing with Monkey for the 15th time that since he couldn't act nicely or say anything nice he wasn't going to go play a video game until he could act better. This is after the 7 times in the store I told him if he wasn't being nice or talking nice then wouldn't get to play when he got home. I had finally convinced Monkey that what would redeem him would be 10 minutes of just not being mean. You don't have to be nice, just stop being mean. Just don't talk. I'll consider that the same as being nice. Just stop talking. Stop talking. Stop. Talking. Monkey was trying, and I mean really struggling with this concept. You can just tell that he is actively trying to keep himself from ranting at me. It's so hard, I know. Trust me. I get it. So when he opens his mouth to complain I interrupt and say "If it's not nice, don't say it. Just don't....no....it better be nice or nothing at all!" He stops short of whatever retort he had about to say. I can see the wheels turning "Just say something nice, Monkey" I say. "Mom" he says slowly, pondering his next words carefully "you are....not....a...boy. You are....a girl.."

Close enough.

Let's just file that away with all the other questions we don't ask in public, okay?

I'm sitting on the couch watching a cartoon with Motormouth. Out of the blue he chuckles and asks "Do you have Autism or something?" Startled, I look at him and say "are you talking to me?" Equally startled, he looks at me and says "no, I was talking to Popeye." "Why would you ask that?" I ask. "Because Popeye talks to himself" he replies.

Huh.

I think the fact that the two of us were startled by the idea that the person sitting next to us would actually talk to us is more of a indication of Autism than talking to yourself, but what do I know?

Can you hear me now?

SSG G: I'm going to head to bed, I have to be up early tomorrow.

Me: Okay, but the sheets are in the dryer.

*20 minutes later*

SSG G: (calling from the bedroom) Hey! The bed's not made!

The Extortionist

I'll admit it. I borrow money from my oldest kid. I can at least say that I always ask first and eventually remember to pay him back. I don't sneak the cash out of his wallet and then pretend I don't know what happened. This is because I am an honest person and am trying to set a good example by presenting myself as a great role model of good values and morals, and nothing to do with the fact that the kid counts his money more than once a day and could tell you what his nickel to quarter ratio is at any given time. I ask to borrow a couple bucks to take his little brother to the video store and his response is this, "sure Mom, you can have five dollars, but when you pay me back you'll need to give me twenty dollars." I stare him down. "okay, you can pay me $10". My eyes get bigger. "how about $11?...I'm running out of numbers here, Mom."

Apparently my credit score at the Motormouth Bank and Trust is really, really, REALLY low.

It's the little things.

Me: Hey G, today is military spouse day.

G: mmm'kay. I made you pancakes this morning.

Me: I get a sneaking suspicion that you didn't know that at the time.

G: (giving 'jazz hands') Happpy Military Spouses Day!!!

Me: That's better.

My Morning

Conversations with Motormouth

Motormouth: Mom, I'm tired of this old PSP. I need a new one!
Me: (taking a deep breath) That is an incredibly spoiled, selfish sounding thing to say. Your's works fine, but if you have $130 feel free to buy another one. In the mean time, if it would help, I can take your's so you don't have to suffer playing an "old" one.

......

Motormouth: I have questions. What was that guy's name again? Where was he shot? Why?
Me: (another deep breath) Osama Bin Laden.
Motormouth: He was eeeeevil. In your face Bin Laden.
Me: NO! Don't be like that. Yes. He was very evil, but we should never be happy that someone is dead. You don't have to be sad, but don't be happy either.
Motormouth: So, where was he shot and why?
Me: Pakistan. In the Middle East. He was killed because he planned an organized the death of thousands on 9/11. And you just can't do that. America protects it's people whenever possible.
Motormouth: No, I meant WHERE was he shot?
Me: yeah, I know. I'm not getting into that with you because it doesn't matter. Dead is dead. You can't take it back.
...............
Motormouth: Oh, I forgot to tell you. The carpet in the basement is all wet. I noticed a couple of days ago but didn't tell you because I needed to play with my Legos.
Me: (taking a deep breath and praying I can hold it until I pass out) THAT'S NOT SOMETHING YOU DON'T TELL SOMEONE.
..........................................
Me: Where is your jacket, the bus will be here.
Motormouth: I dunno.
Me: it's not on the coat hook. Yesterday you came home and left your shoes and jacket on the floor in the middle of the kitchen. I told you to come pick them up and put them where they belong. Where do you think that is?
Motormouth: I really don't know!!
Me (still holding my breath, because it's working so well for me right now) Go. Check. Your. Room.
Motormouth: It's not in here.
Me: your bus is here.....Wait! Don't go out yet! (turning to grab a long sleeve sports jersey off the clean laundry stack. *BANG* front door slams shut and he runs outside and jumps on the bus. It's 43 degrees.)


I would just like to say that his jacket was spread out right in front of his door in his room. He must have been standing on it when he went in to look. The basement carpet is indeed wet and I don't know where it's coming from. Oh, and G just left for a couple days.

This tooth fairy doesn't work for it....or accessorize.

G's away for a couple days and I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I'm not used to that anymore. I laid in bed trying to fall asleep and just drifted off when I woke up remembering that Motormouth had lost a tooth and I needed to do the tooth fairy thing. Since he and I had just discussed who the tooth fairy actually was, I toyed with the idea of just staying in bed and making the exchange in the morning. My Bad Mommy Guilt finally drove me out of bed. I get in his room and successfully navigate the obstacle course of dirty clothes, Legos and various other sharp objects just waiting to be stepped on. I make it to his desk (the previously agreed upon exchange spot) and: Nothing. I check his end table: Nothing. I search around quietly for a few minutes and give up. This morning he comes out and demands to know why I didn't make the trade. I respond by telling him that what I said last night was true; that if I couldn't find it, I wasn't paying for it, and that the tooth wasn't where it was supposed to be and I wasn't going to spend all night searching for it. He wonders if he can trade his tooth for cash this morning. Sure. He then asks what I do with the tooth. When I tell him that I throw them away he says "oh, I thought the tooth fairy made a necklace out of them."

Not this tooth fairy.

Don't make me feed him goldfish crackers and unleash him on you.

We've lived here for three years now. That means a lot of things, mostly that G and I are dying to move, but also that the kids are due for eligibility reevaluations at their schools. I wasn't on the ball with Motormouth's school, and let them do the re-eval, and they are wanting to change his eligibility from ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorders) to some stupid 'dual' eligibility (because they don't argue that he has Autism, just not enough). That's another story, though, and I won't bore you with it. I called Monkey's school and told his teacher that I wanted to decline the eligibility re-evaluation (they have to be done every three years to determine placement in Special Education, UNLESS the school and the parents agree that there is no need. I can't imagine them deciding that Monkey doesn't have Autism, so I don't want to give them the chance). She called me back after a week and said that it was okay, so I'm assuming that means the school doesn't question his eligibility either, thank God. She then proceeded to tell me that they would still have to do 'some' testing and observations with him to satisfy the MET requirements, yada yada yada. At this point I'm a little suspicious of everything the district is saying, so interrupt her with the following:

Me: I guess I'm okay with you doing what you need to in order to 'check the box' on the paperwork, but I will need you to inform me in advance what days the testing and observations will be done.

Teacher: oh...sure...I guess we can do that, how much notice are you needing?

Me: at least the day before. I feel that if you are going to be observing and testing him, then you should be getting a true look at Monkey without the supports he has in place for his Autism. The main support piece that we provide at home for him is keeping him on his strict GF/CF diet, which as you know, helps him control his behavior, sit still and focus, among other things- and I feel that we would need to take him off his diet for you to really get a feel for what Monkey's special needs REALLY are....you are probably going to want to get everything done in one day. He's going to be a complete mess (shrieking, flailing, hysterical mess) and so I really don't want to subject him to feeling so out of control longer than absolutely necessary. Okay?

Teacher: um...you know....let me talk to the Social Worker. She knows Monkey pretty well, maybe we don't have to do all that....let me find out what we REALLY need to have for this before we jump into testing...*nervous laugh*.

Me: why don't you do that and get back to me.

Holly Robinson Peete, you should know better

I'm home watching daytime television, which is something I don't normally get to do. I'm watching this new talk show called "The Talk" which from what I can tell is a knock off of the View. I'm interested because it has Holly Robinson Peete on it, who is the mom of a son with Autism, and she is doing this segment about a mom with three boys with Autism. It shows her three sons and they talk about her day to day life and how difficult it is for her sons. Then they show that she is there in the studio, with one of the boys on the spectrum, and this other teenage boy. Turns out this is the older brother, whom was not mentioned at all during the segment. That's not all, but they go on to say that there is another older brother who is also not on the spectrum. Instead of being a mom of three boys with Autism, she is actually a single mom of 5 boys. Okay, I'm with you Holly. Holly then asks the typical teenager how life is for him in this environment, which I thought was nice because the typical kids are generally invisible in a household with special needs siblings. That's when the whole thing comes off the rails. It starts out with the show giving this mom some stuff to help her out, which is what you are expecting to happen. It was all harmless enough, a hospital was going to pay for her kids to get reevaluated, which is an expensive undertaking, so that was cool. A company was going to help her with some financial planning and help her set up a special needs trust...that was cool too. Then Holly starts passing out the iPads. Yes, the iPads are proving to be great for non-verbal kids, and they have really cool specialized Apps for kids with Autism. They might actually help give her non-verbal kids a voice, which is priceless. My problem is that you are throwing those around and everyone is cheering and that poor typical brother gets squat. Then they threw in a shopping spree from Toys R Us differently-abled toy catalog so she can buy whatever she wants for her sons with Autism. Fantastic, I'm sure the other two don't mind getting passed over, AGAIN. Then to top it all off, she then hands the youngest son with Autism a gift basket of toys because 'he likes Nascar'. I just thought it was really thoughtless to shower that mom with gifts for only a few of her children. I'm done complaining now.

The story of why SSG Grumpypants ran to the store himself.

SSG G: Can you run to the store and buy some pancake mix?

Me: I'll just make some.

SSG G: I don't like them from scratch, I like the mix.

Me: you have got to be kidding me. Besides the insult to my cooking, what happened to 'the car repairs were more than we thought, no unnecessary purchases'?

SSG G: Okay, what I really want is a soda, but I didn't think you would go for 'hey I worked all day, could you go get me a pop'?

Me: over not wanting to eat my cooking? yeah, good choice.

SSG G: (turning to our kid's ABA therapist that just entered the room) Hey Kristen, would you go get me a pop?

Kristen: No. (have I mentioned that I love this girl?)

Me: I would have gone and gotten you a pop. Twerp.

Mini-Me

Motormouth: look mom, those people are on TV and famous. I wish we were famous.

Me: I don't.

Motormouth: Really??? Why not?

Me: I wouldn't want everyone to know me and where I live, I guess.

Motormouth: But you could make.....One Thousand Dolllars! You don't want a thousand dollars??

Me: I'll pass, Dr. Evil.

What just happened? No really. Explain it to me.

I just watched my husband lay on the floor in the hall outside my son's bedroom door and pass his pajamas back and forth under the door while my son screamed "No pajamas!" followed by "Gimme back my jamas!!" for about 40 minutes. The fact that we really didn't care if he wore pajamas or slept in his jeans was lost on him. He continued to yell that he didn't want to wear pajamas nonstop until he abruptly announced mid-yell that he needed to go to the bathroom. I open his bedroom door to let him out and found him standing at the door, wearing the pajamas (that he is NOT wearing, Mommy!!) and holding all his dirty clothes. He marches to the bathroom, throws his clothes in the hamper, looks at me with red-rimmed puffy eyes and asks for help brushing his teeth.

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"

One of the many downsides to the Autistic mind, at least to your brother.

Motormouth and Monkey are out jumping on the trampoline.
Motormouth: You can't see me.
Monkey: Yes I can.
Motormouth: You can't see me. I'm invisible.
Monkey: You're right there.
Motormouth: No, I'm invisible, you can't see me.
Monkey: Yes I can.
Motormouth: You can't get me because you can't see me. I'm invisible.
Motormouth: OW! HEY! You can't see me!
Monkey: I got you.
Motormouth: Hey! You. Can't. See. Me!!!
Monkey: I got you.
Motormouth: Stop. Stop. Ow. Stop.
Monkey: hee hee.

Ah, pretend play. Maybe someday.

The moral of this story is that G shouldn't tell me stuff while I'm already blogging.

SSG G: (calling from the living room) Oh, hey, for that TNA wrestling event we're working I get a backstage pass.

Me: I don't think I'm happy about that.

SSG G: Why?

Me: Just stay away from those TNA girls

SSG G: What? It's not like they are trampy like in WWE

Me: (wheeling the computer chair to the edge of the kitchen and staring at him around the corner)

SSG G: (looking sheepish) heh heh heh.

Me: Seriously, I don't want to see some barely dressed woman rubbing up on you for the camera or have some little girl talking about how she (using my air quotes) "appreciates your service"

SSG G: No rubbing. No appreciation. Got it.

I guess I don't really like the idea of any of the TNA guys "appreciating" him either.

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.

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.

Or, maybe I’m just witnessing the first stages of dementia.

Grandma arrived two days ago and I have only seen her allowed out of the basement for meals. She is otherwise held hostage down there and made to sort through gigantic tubs of Legos to find the piece that Motormouth needs next. Seriously. His job is to show her a picture of the missing pieces, and assembly. All the heavy lifting, sitting on the floor and sifting through a gazillion Lego bricks belongs to Grandma. I'm pretty sure she is sorting them at night to find all the crazy tiny accessory pieces instead of sleeping, just so there are some ready to go when the Lego Nazi, er, precious angel wakes up in the morning. Meanwhile, Motormouth has attended a birthday party AND played for a few hours on the waterslide in the backyard. He even takes trampoline breaks. Where’s Grandma? Still sorting. You know what it sounds like when you rifle through a gigantic tub of molded plastic? A rock polisher. Guess who is trying to sleep through that noise? Yep. That would be Grandpa. Who apparently can sleep through the apocalypse judging by the racket emanating from the basement, which, coincidently, is where the spare room is located. Did I mention that the basement isn’t quite finished yet? Yeah. There’s no door to the guest room. Still, he manages to get some shut eye in, but only while Monkey is asleep. Since Motormouth has Grandma all locked up, Monkey seeks out his Papa, and he doesn’t let a silly thing like sleep get in his way. I’m pretty sure that if I had chose to wake my father by getting a running start and cannon-balling him that I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. Monkey gets rewarded by Papa tickling him. Papa gets rewarded with knees, elbows and feet to the head. Nice.
So, what’s the deal? Does becoming a Grandparent make this stuff seem awesome? I keep hearing that being a grandparent is your reward for being a parent, that it is some kind of prize you win if you can manage to see your kids through adulthood. Or is it just that after being a parent for a couple decades, it makes you so crazy that this stuff SEEMS great? I’m just not seeing the appeal. If this is what is going to await me after parenthood, I don’t know if I’ll survive it.