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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

And then I told him the truth about the tooth fairy.

We have never told Motormouth that Monkey has Autism. We've never told him that he falls on the high end of the spectrum either, for that matter. We choose not to tell Motormouth about Monkey's diagnosis for several reasons, but mostly because we didn't want to label him and because it didn't make one bit of difference. It wasn't like you couldn't tell that Monkey was different, but we didn't want Motormouth to treat him like he was. In most situations, we didn't try to respond to Monkey as if he has Autism (Oh, let the poor little handicapped boy get away with that, after all, he is a poor little handicapped boy) and try really hard to hold both our kids to what we think is a 'typical kid' standard. I don't want you to think my kids behave well for kids with Autism, I want you to think my kids are well behaved, period. It never seemed to bother Motormouth before, but lately, there have been moments, and comments. The 'why does he have to act like that' and 'why can't he be like everyone else' kind. So, it was time to sit down and discuss the A word. It went a little something like this:

Monkey has Autism. That just means that his brain works a little differently than most people's brains. He thinks differently. It is why he has a hard time talking or making eye contact. It is why he walks around and talks to himself and doesn't play with his toys. It does not mean that he is sick, or that you need to be scared. It doesn't change anything you know about Monkey, he is still the same brother you had yesterday. The one that is really good at video games, and memorizes every movie he watches, and is always the first one to come running when you call for help. The one that will defend you if there is bully on the playground, or when you and daddy are wrestling. It does mean that things might be hard for you sometimes in the years to come. Monkey might embarrass you in front of your friends, people will stare if he throws a fit in public. We know that this will be hard on you, but you need to know that Monkey isn't trying to make you embarrassed, or that he likes people to stare.

When I was finished, Motormouth had two questions. The first one was 'will Monkey ever get better, or will he always have Autism?' unfortunately, my answer was I don't know. We talked about how far Monkey has come in the past few years, and that if he continues to talk to people more, then it will be really hard for anyone to tell that he has Autism. The next question: Can we go sword fight on the trampoline? You bet dude, good talk.

Crap. Is he right?

Me: Motormouth, eat your cucumbers.

Motormouth: I don't want to.

Me: Well, you need to, that's the only vegetable we are having tonight.

Motormouth: Cucumbers aren't vegetables!

Me: Of course they are.

Motormouth: They are not! They have seeds. Look, right there!

Me:......just eat them. They're green.

Did it make me cry? You bet.

Motormouth's Mother's Day Poem

I Love You Mom

You are as sweet as Starburst candy.

You are as pretty as a rose flower.

You are as gentle as a feather.

You are as nice as new Legos.

You are as funny as a fuzzy bunny.

You are as cute as a cute puppy.

You are like a beautiful rainbow.

He had me at nice as new Legos. Those are pretty awesome.

Feeling thankful and especially blessed

I'm sitting here in the hospital waiting for Motormouth to get discharged. I'm bored, I'm tired, I'm stressed, and I am indeed grateful for a great many things.



I'm grateful for successful surgeries with no complications.



I'm grateful for the Sunday afternoon nap (pre ER visit) I got to have thanks to a husband who knows I need more sleep to function than him and that is willing to hold down the fort while I rest up from the sleepless night before.



I'm grateful for parental intuition that tells you that even though there is no logical reason to take your kid to the ER, and that the hospital staff will more likely than not roll their eyes and send you home, that you just KNOW that you need to go anyway.



I'm grateful for not ever needing to worry about how we will pay for medical expenses.



I'm grateful for a husband who knows that I will be a stressed out mess if I am not the one dealing with the medical decisions.



I'm grateful for the same husband who will then come to the hospital because his son wants him to hold his hand, even though it means he has to ask the neighbor to come over and stay because the other child is sleeping AND that he would call and ask his dad to drive out so the neighbor can get back home to her own kids.



I'm grateful for good neighbors who will come over late at night and not judge the messy state of my house.



I'm grateful for the same neighbor who will lend her vehicle so the husband/Dad can drive to the hospital because the wife/Mom took his truck AND her van keys to the ER.



I'm grateful for a husband who chooses not to get ticked off about a wife that goes to the ER in his truck and leaves him no keys.



I'm grateful for inlaws who will drive out late at night to sleep on my couch and deal with annoying dogs just because their kids ask them to.



I'm grateful for the husband who will then drive back home because I am worried that the sleeping son will wake up and not be able to verbalize that he is scared about the change in routine and that grandpa, while great to have around and can totally handle any situation that might arise, is not usually there at 0300.



I'm grateful for a son who handled emergency surgery with a strength and courage I didn't know he was old enough to possess.



I'm grateful for a husband who also notices that the surgical resident was wearing a hoodie sweatshirt and can laugh about it.



I'm grateful for nurses who work the night shift in the pediatric wing.



I am grateful for the past experiences of having to handle these types of things without my husband or family nearby. It made this time around feel like a piece of cake.



I am grateful for friends and family who are willing to do whatever, whenever. I am especially grateful for the ones who understand that sometimes there isn't anything that needs done and don't make me have to come up with something for them to do just so that THEY feel better.

I am especially grateful for discharge paperwork...I wish I had some.

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.

The Gray Area

Today Motormouth was telling me that his new best friend is no longer his friend because the friend lied to him. As I was encouraging Motormouth to give his friend another chance, that friends forgive and it would be sad to lose such a good friend, I realized how ridiculous what I was saying was. After all, I have been teaching Motormouth that lying is a terrible, hurtful thing to do. It makes people not like you or trust you. Lying is my pet peeve and Motormouth knows that I can forgive a whole lot of things as long as he is truthful. So, why defend his friend? I have no idea. By shrugging off his friend's lie am I teaching him that lying shouldn't be considered a big deal? His friend's little lie falls into that huge gray area that is so hard to explain to young children. I have to tell you, I hate that gray area. I don't like exceptions to rules. Sure the exception is what makes the rule, and what makes life so wonderfully complex. It also makes life exhausting. Ask any parent who's child is in the "why?" phase. The gray area stinks like moldy cheese.

Rule: Never, ever talk to a stranger, or take candy from a stranger
Exception: Except at Christmas, when not only will we let you talk to a stranger, we want you to sit on his lap, ask for toys and take candy from him while we take your picture.

Rule: Your body is precious and is not any one's property. It belongs to no one but you.
Exception: Selling your teeth to someone who comes into your bedroom at night while your parents aren't looking. (I blame the tooth fairy for prostitution)

Rule: Lying is a terrible thing to do.
Exception: Unless someone is doing it to you and not the other way around.

Rule: Sharing is mandatory when playing with others
Exception: unless it is your little brother and it is just easier (and I do mean quieter) to let him have it.

Rule: We have plenty and do not beg for things.
Exception: Halloween.


Yep. I do not care for the gray area. It gives me a headache.

You should pick your study buddies wisely.

"Mom, I can help you with your math when we get home if you want" Motormouth announces from the backseat as we drive home from the video store. Maybe he sincerely wants to spend time with me, maybe he is feeling bad that the movie he just rented was $5 and he is finally starting realize how long it takes to save up $5 and he feels he owes me something in exchange for me shelling out the money for his rental. I don't have the heart to tell him that I was happy to spend the money, it is a cheap babysitter so I can have an hour and a half to myself to do my homework without "help". "That's okay bud, I can do the math part of my Chemistry homework all by myself, but maybe I'll let you help me study for my Anatomy class. I am going to have to know all the bones in the body and there are hundreds". Motormouth as been working on making a three dimensional skeleton constructed completely of white paper and tape. Why? Who knows, this is what the kid does for fun. "Hundreds of bones?" Motormouth worries, "mine doesn't have that many....and we are out of tape" Trying to avoid a trip to the store, I assure him that his skeleton looks great just as it is. "Mom, you don't need to worry about all the bones, it will be easy. Just remember: the foot bone is connected to the leg bone, the leg bone is connected to the......other leg bone, the other leg bone is connected to the body bone...."

You didn't earn THAT many bonus points.

Motormouth: Mom, the TV is on the same channel as it was this morning. Either you watched cartoons on Boomerang or you didn't watch TV at ALL today.

Me: Which do you think is more likely?

Motormouth: Awww, man. you didn't watch anything. That sucks.

(We will skip the conversation we had about how that word isn't going to fly in this house, my heart wasn't really in it, since halfway through I realized my love for the word. Motormouth showed some real restraint by not pointing out that fact, and he gets some major points for that)

Me: yeah, poor me. How did I ever survive?

Motormouth: (sincerely) I'm really sorry mom, that must have been really boring. If I have a snow day tomorrow you can watch TV in your bedroom all day.

Me: yeah, that's the way it will go.

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!!

My time is your time.

I'm in the bathroom. Using it.

Motormouth marches in, because, you know, closed doors mean nothing. "Mom, I peeled the orange but I can't open it."

Me: What exactly do you want me to do at this very second?

Motormouth: oh. I'll wait.

Me: I'd offer you a seat, but it seems there is only one in here.