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.

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!!

Can't argue with his logic.

The Friday before Mother's day both boys came home with their handmade Mother's Day treasures. I love this day, it's even better than the handmade Christmas gifts they make because these ones I don't even have to consider sharing with G. I get downright Scrooge-ish about these trinkets, to me they are amazing. I treasure all my little woven coasters, weird lumps of painted clay, plaster hand prints, and laminated poems. G thinks I'm a little weird, and I don't care. Other moms know exactly how priceless these things are. Anyway, Motormouth came home with his and wanted to wait until the official day for unveiling. I was a little miffed, but I sucked it up. Monkey was a different story. He came home all excited, pulled out his little pink gift bag and announced that he had a present!!! Look!! Look!! A present!!!.....for him. The next minute or two involved three grownups trying to convince Monkey that maybe the present was supposed to be for Mommy. Monkey was unconvinced, but let me help him open "his" present. It was a clay pinch pot that he hand painted. Monkey announces how beautiful his present is. The grown ups try again to remind him that maybe he had made this for Mommy. Monkey flips the clay pot over and shows me the bottom. "Look (you clueless Mommy trying to steal my present) My name!" sure enough, Monkey's name was scratched into the bottom of the clay. Can't argue with that.

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.