Queen of the Five

Fortune Teller

2011-11-22T16:45:00.000-08:00

Recently I helped to set up my son's school for the Fall Festival (or, as my little Aspie puts it, "feshtible.") As I chatted up the volunteer coordinator, she mentioned the father of one of the students. He is a geneticist, working at the nearby biomedical research center. She described him as, "So smart, but lacking in social skills." That piqued my interest -- he sounded a lot like my family members. Apparently he was helping to prepare one of the game booths, so I set off to track him down.

Sure enough, I found him wobbling on top of a ladder with a thick swag of purple velvet slung over his shoulder. He was trying to hang the velvet from the ceiling tiles with a slim piece of twine. His wife was going to play a fortune teller. I offered to help when I saw that she was sitting wearily in a chair.

I introduced myself and tried to help him anchor the twine with bent paper clips. I could tell he felt no need for the usual social graces, so we simply worked together without conversation. His wife, however, was perfectly willing to chat. Her gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail and the strands that escaped formed a frizzled halo around her face. The halo waved gently in the breeze created by the busy passers-by.

The volunteer coordinator had mentioned this couple's son, whom the mother suspected of having Asperger's syndrome. So I turned the conversation to the topic of my child. We immediately bonded over the many challenges we had in common. As I listed behaviors and mannerisms, the geneticist's wife would nod in an exaggerated manner. She would widen her eyes and point repeatedly at her husband, who had his back turned to us. It was amusing and comforting at the same time.

The irony that a hard-core scientist was helping to set up a fortune-teller booth was not lost on me.

He came back down the ladder. As I worked with him, I noticed many tell-tale signs. Our interactions were brief. He couldn't maintain eye contact for very long. He would laugh at inopportune times. And I could tell that I was a little boring to him. With the briefest of adieus, he left to track down more paper clips.

I saw a pile of golden tassels waiting to be hung, so I offered to do so. The fortune teller thanked me and informed me that she was suffering from fibromyalgia. As I hung the tassels, this woman proceeded to tell me about her efforts to find her birth mother (apparently she died an alcoholic, and young,) her dismay at finding herself expecting at age 46 (with the son we were now discussing,) and her husband's reluctance to have their son evaluated for an autism spectrum disorder. We bonded. She and I were very different, yet had so much in common.

After the booth was set up, I left to help others, promising to bring my son to her booth later. My husband brought our children to meet me at the fair and we proceeded to enjoy the games and activities.

Later, I took my son by the hand and led him to the fortune-teller's booth. The golden tassels were falling off and the poor geneticist's wife looked nearly as droopy as the purple velvet swag. But she brightened as we approached. I introduced my son and he sat in the chair next to her.

She took his little pink hand in her wrinkled one and opened his palm. Then she traced one of the lines on his palm and declared, "This is called your lifeline. It is very long, which means you will live a long time!" Then she traced another, and winked at me. "This means you are very... energetic." She traced a third line and said, "This is your love line. See how deep it is?"

She paused, and locked eyes with me for a moment. The she looked back at him. "This line means that you have a lot of people who love and care for you. You are a lucky boy!" My eyes misted over for a moment and then she was done. She handed him one of those heat-sensitive red translucent fishes as a parting gift. As we walked away, I smiled back at her in gratitude. I didn't need to say anything, for that was enough.

Heart

2011-09-13T19:34:00.000-07:00

Each morning, I wake my special-needs son a little earlier than the others. Each morning, we trek to the bus stop and he boards the bus that takes him to a separate school from that of his neighborhood peers. It's been a long journey, but we've made so much progress.
________________

A couple of years ago, as I loaded my son onto his special-needs bus, I noticed a new face peering at me. The bus driver told me that this was Connor, an itty bitty three year old. I leaned onto the head rest in front of him and smiled.

"Hello, Connor." I said.

He wriggled and thrust his backpack at me, but all he could verbalize was a mumble that approximated, "Bah-pah." He seemed thrilled to be riding on the bus.

I hopped down the bus stairs and turned to peer through the windows, hoping to see my son's waving hand. Instead I saw a wriggly Connor. As I shifted my gaze in order to spot my son, I noticed a film of dust that coated the windows. And on Connor's window, drawn in the dust, I saw a heart.

My breath caught in my throat. Likely just minutes before, his mother stood right where I was standing. She probably was a wreck with all those warring emotions -- guilt, fear, sadness, worry, exhaustion, love, and hope. All those washed over me as the wind from the departing bus whipped up my hair and I waved goodbye.

I should have left her a note in the dust, myself. Wisdom that I could impart from my experience as a special-needs mom. Something that would make her feel better, and let her know that things would be all right: That Connor will get off the bus again and be back in her arms. And each day will be a little brighter and a little better. But the window was small and surely would not hold everything I'd like to say about the long road ahead. Maybe, for now, I would simply write,

"Hold on tight."

Glad to be wrong

2011-04-15T19:05:00.000-07:00

Part II of this story is here.

The first game of Spencer's season was a scrimmage-- a practice to help acclimate the kids to basketball. Before each quarter, the coaches lined up the players and paired them with a member of the opposite team for defensive purposes.

At this scrimmage, I knelt next to Spencer and whispered a few reminders about staying with his man. Then I turned to look at who he was paired with-- and saw the embodiment of fear.

The poor child was distraught. His eyes were red and swollen. His lips trembled, and he clasped and unclasped his hands repeatedly. His breathing was irregular, and his legs shook. My first instinct was to reach out and hug him. Instead, I asked,

"Hi, sweetie. What's your name?"

"M-m-m-Michael." he gasped.

"Well Michael, this is Spencer. You two will be guarding each other. Spencer, can you say hi?"

"Hi."

"Hi." he sniffled.

It became obvious rather quickly that little Michael was way out of his comfort zone. He flinched away from the ball and avoided the crowd of players. He was mostly a non-participant, much like... much like Spencer! In fact, they were a perfect match.

Each time the ball changed possession, Michael and Spencer would run to the opposite end of the court, face each other, and fold their hands neatly in front of them. The rest of the game would swirl on around them.

Over the course of the regular season, we played Michael's team two more times. Every time they were on the court, Spencer and Michael were paired up by what was an unspoken agreement between the coaches.

When Spencer's defense would lapse (which was-- ahem-- quite frequently,) Michael was able to catch passes from his teammates and try to score. The spectators would go wild. I had a sense that he didn't get this chance very often.

Sometimes I wondered what Michael's parents thought about the situation. Did they find it insulting that their "normal" child was always paired with a child who had a disability? I knew it wasn't my problem, but I did think about it from time to time.

We ended up playing Michael's team for the fourth time, in the second round of the playoffs. I saw a different child then. Michael was confident and tried hard. He and Spencer were, yet again, a perfect match on the court.

We lost that game, and were out of the tournament. But as we lined up to give the other team high-fives, I saw a man standing at the side of the court. He was waiting for me.

It was Michael's dad.

He wanted to let me know that Michael used to hate basketball. But when he played our team, Spencer changed his mind. In fact, before every game, Michael would ask if he would be playing Spencer's team that day. That fact was the only thing that mattered to him. Then Michael's dad said,

"Spencer is the reason why Michael now enjoys basketball. Thank you so much."

I was speechless. Here, I had thought that Spencer's performance in the game was the highlight of the season. But I was, happily, so very wrong.

Winners

2011-04-07T20:07:00.000-07:00

Part I of this story is here.

A few games into the basketball season, I realized just how confusing the sport must be to my special-needs child. His teachers and therapists (and parents!) had spent years teaching him proper social behaviors. Don't hit. Don't steal. Don't bump into people on purpose. Don't knock them down.

And here we were, nullifying all that.

You should have seen his face when I told him that all those "improper" behaviors were generally okay on the court. And when I emphasized that he was allowed to steal the ball,

"I can?" his voice went from incredulous to elated at light speed.

However, that still didn't translate to much when he was in the game. One time, his teammate was dribbling the ball down the court as Spencer stood next to the basket, wide open for a perfect pass. The moment that Spencer realized this opportunity, he whirled and fled off the court. There didn't seem to be much motivation for him to participate.

So I tried a different tactic. I bribed him.

"Stay next to your man during the game, and we'll go get a milkshake afterward." He seemed mildly interested in this idea, and he tried harder to guard his man. But it wasn't quite as motivating as I thought it would be. So at the next game, I tried something different. Our team was in the second round of the playoffs, and I hoped to at least keep him from being a liability on the court.

"What reward would you like to get if you play hard?" I asked him. He mulled it over.

"Umm... I want to eat some of my Valentine candy." I accepted his request and reviewed our goals: Stay with your man. Put your hands up if he tries to shoot. It's okay to steal the ball.

The game started, and nothing really happened with Spencer. But I began to realize just how far he had come this season: he no longer ditched his teammates and hid in my lap. He only rarely twirled pirouettes in the corner. And he was always in the midst of the action, even if it was just as an observer.

I marveled at the change. And during a time out, I reminded him of his Valentine candy waiting for him at home. He gave a little giggle and ran back out on the court. And then, something amazing happened. Maybe it was his choice of motivation, maybe it was something else. But something clicked.

Suddenly, he was on his man like glue. He sprinted up and down the court. He put his long arms up on defense and intimidated everyone around him. He jumped for rebounds and even stole the ball-- twice. I was floored. And so was everyone else in that gym.

Spencer's change was so astounding that I couldn't help but laugh hysterically. Where did this kid come from? It seemed that the hours of practice and nudging him back on the court again and again were finally paying off. And he knew he was doing well! He even pointed out his great moves to the referees. They were kind enough to congratulate him.

Granted, he was no Michael Jordan. He still couldn't dribble. But the referees let that go. And in one grand play, Spencer surprised us all. He grabbed the ball at the far end of the court and sprinted with it to mid-court (the ball didn't touch the ground once.) Then he heaved the ball over his head and chucked it at the basket from the half court line. Everyone cheered-- and laughed.

We lost that game, and we were out of the tournament. But did it really matter? I think everyone in that gym would have given the same answer.

Part III of this story is here.

Where everybody knows your name

2011-04-02T18:33:00.000-07:00

Last year, I signed up our Spencer for a special-needs baseball team. He was thrilled to participate in an organized sport and had a wonderful experience.

This year, I took a chance and signed him up for a "typical" (a.k.a. regular kid) basketball team. I knew it was a risk, but I was willing to take it. I volunteered to be the assistant coach, since I know some stuff about basketball.

Before each game, I would pull the referees aside and explain that my son has Asperger's Syndrome and ADHD. Though the rules of the league dictated that he always play man defense, I wanted the refs to know that he might struggle with the concept. Thankfully, the refs were very accepting and would even instruct my son during the game with what he should be doing.

"Should be" doing was tough. The gap between a child knowing what they should do and what they can actually do is wide for a child on the spectrum. Each time I sent Spencer in to play the game, I wondered what would come of it. I could never tell.

Sometimes he would just stand in the middle of the fray, no facial expression, no movement.

Sometimes Spencer would leave his team and come plop down in my lap as I sat on the bench. He would curl up in the fetal position and start humming. I had to peel him off my lap and nudge him back out onto the court.

Sometimes Spencer would run in enormous circles that would encompass the entire court. The poor child who was assigned to guard him would get so confused. I could see it on the child's face, "Am I really supposed to follow him all the way over there?"

Other times Spencer would simply watch the person he was supposed to be guarding as they dribbled past him or made a basket.

I spent most of my energy calling his name. "Spencer, go find your man! Spencer, get the ball! Spencer, come back in the gym and play with your team!" It was exhausting.

Maybe I'll enroll him in track and field next year, I thought. We'll just finish out this season. No one will miss him next year.

But I yelled his name often and loud enough that everyone in the gym learned who he was. Some parents would even try to help me by calling out to him, too. It was both exasperating and entertaining.

Not everyone was positive. One game, I had to chase my son back onto the court multiple times. I saw the opposing coach roll his eyes, turn to his assistant, and wonder out loud why a kid like that was playing in this league. I had to bite my tongue. Hard.

However, most of our experience was great. As the season progressed, we played every team. Everyone heard me calling my son's name at one point or another.

During one game, my son had a chance to dribble down the court, all alone. As he struggled with the mechanics of it, every muscle in my body was tensed. I couldn't call out to him because I was so nervous for his sake. Then I heard a voice yell,

"You can do it, Spencer! Keep going!"

It was the opposing coach, who was clapping as Spencer struggled past his bench. That tiny act of kindness meant so much to me.

Go to Part II

Grab on

2011-03-10T18:42:00.000-08:00

Dear "L",

Inexplicably, you turn four today. You are, and always will be, the baby of the family. I still remember the moment when I figured that out. I had been on the phone with my nurse-midwife, discussing a pregnancy-related problem. When I hung up, I knew that you would be my final child. It was bittersweet.

Three weeks before your due date, during a major snowstorm, I slipped and fell hard in the snow. Contractions started that evening, and we had to dodge black ice on the way to the hospital. The car clung to the pavement as my husband veered between the desire to move faster and the desire to be safe.

You were born a few hours later, and I wrapped my arms around your tiny body. I held on to every small experience, knowing that each would be the last of its kind for me. I tried so hard not to be sad, but to celebrate. Sometimes I was successful, others I was not.

For the first week of your life I slept with your little hospital cap under my pillow. I gripped it tightly in my hand and wept as I fell asleep (if only for a couple of hours!) No one knew of my sadness or the nature of it, for I was also joyful that my pregnancy was over.

You grew and I learned to accept the fact that the infant stages were falling behind me permanently. I found peace when I reminded myself that the pregnancy, labor, sleepless nights, billions of diapers, incredible loads of laundry, and all else would be over too. I was learning to let go.

Then you grew a lovely head of bright blond hair. It was a treasure to me; a signal that you were different from your brothers. I chose to trim your hair in a bowl-cut style; whimsical, like the overalls that I loved to dress you in.

That hair was a constant reminder that you were growing, because it started to darken. I was in denial that the color would ever change (though I knew you were, indeed, the son of dark-haired parents.) I would trim the tiniest bit possible from the front, just enough so you could see again. The day that I took you in for a real haircut and I allowed the barber to chop off the last bit of blond was so very hard.

You are wonderful at affection. You give the best hugs, holding on far past your peers. You kiss me all over my face and declare, "I wuff you so much, mommy!" You are such a part of my life.

And here you are, four years old. You started preschool last week. And although you were so ready to be a big boy and go to school, you had to double-check with me, one last time. As I prepared to leave you in your classroom, you turned and asked,

"And you'll be right back, mommy?"

Always.

Slinging slang

2010-11-09T18:40:00.000-08:00

Vocabulary is boring.

At least, that's what many of my college test-prep students tell me. Those words make me sad, but I understand what they are saying. Difficult vocabulary, on the page, can be tricky. Students must ascertain the meaning of a word without the benefit of facial expression, tone of voice, or body language. For that reason, I enjoy expanding their vocabulary as much as possible.

On the flip side, they have a few things to teach me; namely, slang. There are times when I feel like Doc Brown in "Back to the Future":

_______

Marty McFly (upon finding out that his mom from the past has a crush on him:) "Whoa, this is heavy."

Doc: "There's that word again, heavy. Why are things so heavy in the future? Is there a problem with the earth's gravitational pull?"

_______

I have to ask my students point-blank what a slang word means, which makes me, by definition, very un-cool. I see a lot of eye-rolling and hear giggles. But they are kind enough to humor me.

During a certain lesson of mine, the verbal section becomes quite dense with vocabulary. I can pinpoint it to the exact same question every time. I see their legs start to twitch, their eyes drift to the window, or their fingers itch to dig out their cell phones. That's when I pull out all the stops. I arrive at the word incendiary.

"Hey guys, has anyone heard of a Molotov cocktail?" I chirp.

They perk up. Maybe they think they'll get a funny drunken anecdote. If they only knew.

That's when I launch into a detailed description of how to make the world's first IED. My sign language interpreter alter-ego appears as I mime shoving a rag into the mouth of a glass bottle. By the time I throw my arms into the air to mimic the gas-fueled explosion, they are on the edge of their seats. Then, silence. And wicked smiles.

Once, a petite blond student declared in satisfied response,

"That's tight."

Ah, my Doc Brown moment! I knew that the usual meaning of the word didn't apply here. But unlike my students who have to grapple with just words on a page, I had the benefit of her tone of voice and her approving smile. She liked it.

Vocabulary can be exciting.

Up the down

2010-10-06T18:28:00.000-07:00

Recently I needed to run to the sporting-goods store in our local mall. I had my 4- year-old son and my neighbor's 2- year-old twins with me, and I planned our trip so we would arrive right when the store opened. That way, the store would be empty except for us.

While we were there, my son begged for a ride on the escalator to the second floor. I figured it was fine; after all, the twins were small for their size and lightweights to boot. We approached the "up" escalator and my son hopped onto the step in front of me. Then I simply lifted the twins by their hands as we stepped onto the escalator. We had a thrilling ride up through the kayaks and golf clubs.

Apparently the ride was exciting enough for my son to warrant a trip to the restroom. After taking care of business, we returned to the down escalator. The twins were ready for another thrill ride, but my son showed apprehension for going down first. Where did my little daredevil go? I instructed him to follow directly behind. Then I turned and executed the "lift and step" with the twins again. I didn't see my son hesitate behind me.

"Mom!" he cried out.

I looked up to see him rooted at the top of the escalator. His face was a mask of desperation. I glanced down at the twins and then up again, startled at how fast I was descending. And I couldn't do anything about it. I called out something reassuring to him. Then,

"MOM! Come back!" he screamed. A teenage boy got onto the escalator and watched the drama unfold. I could tell that he was torn between amusement and the desire to help.

"MOM! DON'T LEAVE ME!" his poor little voice cracked and, despite the silly nature of the situation, I felt the fight-or-flight instinct stirring.

I had about five seconds before I hit the bottom of the escalator. I had to decide. Do I circle back around to the up escalator? I would risk leaving his line of sight and frightening him more. Plus, that screaming would probably escalate (ha, ha!)

I scanned the base of the escalator and saw a brightly colored display of sports equipment nearby. That might keep the twins occupied long enough. When we arrived on solid ground I led them to the display.

"MOM! I DON'T WANT TO LOSE YOU!" He was downright pitiful by now and his voice was echoing through both levels of the store.

I whirled and faced the down escalator. For the love of all that's mine, I thought. Here I go. When I jumped the first step my toe caught the lip of the stair and I stumbled. But I steadied myself on the railing and got into a proper rhythm.

I figured my progress would be slow, but the screaming made it agonizing. I fixated on the stairs in front of me and ran as fast as I could. One, two, one, two... as I approached the top, I looked up to see that I had an audience. Of course! People must have heard the drama and come running. So much for an empty store! I was mortified. Most of their faces registered amusement or concern; a few, disbelief.

My son jumped into my arms when I was close enough. And I couldn't bring myself to look at the spectators. I simply turned around and ran down the stairs to the twins. I'm sure the incident took less than thirty seconds, but to me, it was interminable.

I took them all by the hand and rushed out of the store. I couldn't bear to make eye contact with any of the store clerks as I bolted through the doors. After all, those employees would likely be watching the security camera footage later. For a laugh. During lunch break.

Belief

2010-04-14T19:55:00.000-07:00

Many individuals with autism do not demonstrate autistic tendencies until after their second birthday. This is called "regressive autism." From a parent's point of view, it is heartbreaking. You feel that you have lost the child that you once knew, and you don't know if you'll ever get them back. Life normalizes after a while-- a different kind of normal. But you always wonder what "could have been."

____________________

We have a storm drain near our townhome. It makes the parents of the neighborhood nervous because it's wide enough for children to fit through. Many a neighborhood ball has been lost down this drain.

Thankfully, the storm drain empties out about 25 yards south, into a pseudo-creek. The water then travels to an actual creek. I haven't seen the path that the drain takes as it goes underground. But I do know that sometimes, months later, a missing ball will re-appear on the other side, a bit worse for the wear.

A while ago, our four-year-old was outside, playing with a snazzy little airplane toy. This plane makes a roaring noise that mimics the Doppler effect. It also has a light on top. He ran to and fro on the sidewalk with the plane until.... silence. He appeared at my elbow with a tragic look.

"Mommy, duh plane is gone. It falled." He pointed to the drain.

Our six-year-old Aspie was crushed. He loved that plane. His tears were especially devastating to me because he has difficulty forming attachments. I held him close and let him cry it out. Then I explained how the drain worked, and how the plane might not be gone forever.

"It will come out?" he sniffled.

"Maybe, if there's a big storm that comes all of a sudden. The rain might wash it out in a big burst," I speculated.

But I was uncertain. The dark route of the underground drain combined with the irregular shape of the plane gave me doubts. And the batteries? Corrosion was a certainty.

He recovered from his loss and, in perfect childlike fashion, went back to what he was doing. And I, in perfect mommy-brained fashion, promptly forgot the episode.

Fast-forward to months later. It was a cloudy fall day and the kids were out, ekeing the last bits of outside play from Mother Nature. It began to rain. We took shelter as it grew more intense and watched the pelting rain through the glass storm door for a while. Then I turned to load the dishwasher.

The storm subsided just as quickly as it began. And I hardly registered the click of the door closing behind our 6-year-old.

I was bent over, loading the dishwasher, when I heard the storm door click again. I turned to see our little guy: hair plastered to his face, droplets of rain on his eyelashes. He was standing in a rapidly-spreading puddle of rainwater. And in his hands was the toy airplane.

He had remembered what I had told him, and believed.

He offered the plane to me, and I took it. The plastic was discolored and there were deep gouges that marked its journey through the dark tunnel. I ran my fingers over it.

"And look, mommy!" he exclaimed. He pushed the button on top and the little light turned on. The roaring sound still worked, too. I cried. Over a toy, and so much more.

Because when he gets older, I can't wait to recount this story. I can't wait to tell him how he believed me. Then I'll tell him how I believe that we're going to make it through the sometimes dark tunnel of the autism spectrum. And how there will be storms that could leave scars. And that we'll never be the same.

But we'll make it.

Joke

2010-03-28T16:20:00.000-07:00

There are numerous conditions related to autism-- this is why it's called the "autism spectrum." Some disorders are severe and others are mild. Very rarely does someone simply have autism. There is usually a crossover with autism and other condition(s). This is called "co-morbidity."

Our sweet little Aspie also struggles with ADHD. And mild sensory integration dysfunction. And other things, too. One of these is auditory processing. This means that it takes longer for spoken language to go from his ears to his brain. We have to repeat what we say to him. A lot. And sometimes the language gets scrambled in the process.

He has come up with his own coping mechanism for this. And we, his parents, think it's cute. No, not just cute. Absolutely adorable. His teachers find it endearing as well. As he processes the statement or request he's just heard, he'll whisper it back to himself. For example:

"Mom, where's daddy?" he'll ask.

"Daddy's at work. He'll be home soon." I'll say.

A pause. Then comes the whisper: "Daddy's at work." He'll hold still for a moment longer (quite a feat!) And then he'll proceed with what he was doing (usually, jumping off the furniture,) satisfied that he understands what I just said. This type of exchange always makes me giggle.

Spring has come, somewhat grudgingly, to our area. Our little guy was outside with daddy, working in the garden. He noticed a multitude of ants crawling across the hose reel and pointed them out to his father, who asked:

"Do you see ants? Do we have ANTS in our PANTS that make us DANCE?" joked daddy.

Our little guy froze. The wheels turned in his head. Then came his whisper:

"Ants... pants... dance................ JOKE." He processed it quite well.

And with the tiniest of giggles, he dug into the garden again.

Leprechauns and lectures

2010-03-15T18:11:00.000-07:00

We have a "tot lot" at the head of our street. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it's a mini-playground, usually with just one structure and meant for small kids. The ground is covered with wood chips to cushion the inevitable fall. It's a great place for our kids to let off steam, except... not just the little kids use it. The big kids do, too, namely teenagers. Except they use it as an ashtray.

You can imagine how delightful that is: teaching your child to be careful as they climb, slide, and dodge cigarette butts. I overheard one of my neighbors say, "It would be nice if we could actually talk to the people who leave the cigarettes here. They're probably teenagers. You think it would make a difference?" We all laughed at the absurdity.

Today I was parked near the tot lot as I waited for my little guy with Asperger's syndrome to arrive on the school bus. A car pulled up next to me and three large teenage boys got out. They sauntered over to the lot. In my rearview mirror, I watched them light up. I sighed. Wouldn't it be funny if I confronted them, I thought. What would they do? Laugh at me and mock me? Roll their eyes? What exactly would I say, and how would I say it? I pondered. Then the bus arrived.

As my son ran down the bus stairs, I decided. I grabbed his hand and marched over to the tot lot. As we approached, I watched the teens' body language. They stiffened as we drew closer. Finally, realizing that we were there to talk to them, they turned to face me. I thought I might appeal to their adult side. I hoped.

"Hey guys, the parents who bring their small children here think it's pretty gross that you leave your butts on the ground."

They were startled. I suppose they expected a harangue about their health. I continued.

"When you're done here, could you please throw your cigarettes in the trash?" Of course, I didn't think about the fire hazard, but it's been raining for days here.

They were speechless for a moment. They looked at each other and, likely realizing that my request was entirely reasonable, they nodded. "Yeah, okay."

No derision. In fact, they seemed to hang their heads. That threw me, and I could do nothing but stand there, lost for what to do next.

Thank goodness for my little Aspie, who can't read facial expressions or voice intonation, or in this case, be aware of an awkward situation. He yelped,

"Hey guys! Wanna know how to catch a leprechaun? You get a box with a trap door..."

He then proceeded to lecture them about trapping those elusive little green men. He was quite entertaining. We all laughed as we walked away.

I'm pretty sure that's not the lecture they were expecting.

Count on it

2010-02-17T13:47:00.000-08:00

My older two sons are a tough bunch with their special needs. So, having a third son whose challenges are mild has been a nice break. We were at his four year checkup while the pediatrician quizzed me on his milestones.

"Stands on one foot? Jumps up and down? Climbs stairs without using the banister?"

Check, check, check. He was on target and I was relieved. We went through a long list of questions. Then,

"Knows what it means to count, beyond rote recitation?"

The fact is, he's pretty good at counting. And he knows his alphabet, and can read some short words. Problem is, I am not used to "typical," so I don't know if he's ahead of the game. In our family, he is. I'm just.. you guessed it... relieved.

We got to the end of the checkup and she announced that he would need five shots. I cringed. I am not in the "no immunizations" camp, for that is too extreme for me. But my mothering instinct tells me that there is some weight to a few of the claims that the extremists have made. I am near the middle, in the "space them out over time" camp. The doctor was very irritated at me for holding my ground, but I held her to just two shots at this visit. She warned,

"You'll have to pay another co-pay at the nurse visit for his next shots."

"I know." I can count. Bring it on, lady! Like additional co-pays would dissuade me when we have autism in our family history. She stopped short of rolling her eyes but respected my position as the mother.

The nurse came in with the syringes and I performed the oh-so-horrible job of pinning my son's arms to his sides as I allowed her to stick him twice. Nine years of this and it still pains me. He cried more than usual so I held and rocked him for a while.

Usually I reward my kids with candy from the grocery check-out line. Having an immunization is the only time that they get such a treat. Today, though, I was hungry, too, so I whispered,

"Would you like to go get a doughnut?"

His crying subsided, though the sniffles remained. His head was buried in my chest and he nodded. Sniffle, snort. Whimper. He paused, then asked meekly,

"Can I have two doughnuts?"

Yes, doctor, he can count.

Watch your language

2010-02-04T19:20:00.000-08:00

Freshman year in high school was as painful for me as it is for most people on earth. Add a big growth spurt on top of everything else, and, wow. Just wow. I wonder how so many billions of people make it through pubescence alive.

One bright spot was starting Spanish class. I discovered that I really liked learning another language. Seeing a person's face light up when I attempted their native tongue thrilled me. I even learned more about my own language (gerunds and dipthongs anyone?)

Other languages followed. I taught myself several hundred ASL signs. When I went on to college, I continued studying Spanish and began formal ASL classes. I bought myself a learn-to-speak French software program (but discovered I'd had enough of Romance languages.) While overseas, I studied a bit of modern Hebrew. Upon arrival back in the States, I took three semesters of Arabic. Hindsight is 20/20, of course, but why didn't I major in linguistics???

I married a man who is a born linguist. He speaks Portuguese and Arabic (but would claim that he is rusty at both.) What would naturally follow, but children who are linguistically gifted?

Our firstborn was diagnosed with a speech delay. Then our second-born was diagnosed with many things, the least of which was a speech delay. I've kept an eagle eye (ear?) on our third. It can't be called paranoia when there's a rock-solid reason to worry, right?

But, hey, who better to raise children with language problems than parents who have a knack for language, right? Turns out, the sign language I studied came in pretty handy with those kiddos. With hearing children, the use of sign flows pretty smoothly into spoken language.

Now I play language games with my third son. He gets me all to himself during the day. We were in the car and I was working on beginning consonant sounds. I asked,

"What letter makes the 's' sound? Like 's', 's', 'snow'?"

Silence.

"That's 'esssss.'" I prompted.

We worked on other words we saw along the road, then I tried to mix it up.

"What letter makes the 'm', 'm', 'muh' sound, like 'milk'?"

He was quiet for a moment, then he called out,

"That starts with the letter 'cow'!"

He was so proud of himself.

Scarry question

2010-01-16T15:45:00.000-08:00

One of our kids' favorite books to flip through and spend time with is Richard Scarry's What Do People Do All Day? The first time I saw the title it really tickled me. After all, a child's world can be pretty small. Who knows what they're thinking in those little heads? When adults disappear for the day, what do these kids think they're doing?

The book is chock-full of people (or rather, furry animals) involved in every type of occupation. Most of the jobs can be identified by the clothing worn by the workers. And in fine Scarry form, these creatures are often caught up in some type of mishap as well.

I am a jeans-and-t-shirt kind of gal, mostly due to the messy hazards that come with raising boys. In fact, I classify my clothing by whether I will be in contact with my kids or not. So there's the "will survive tackling, ink stains, and repeated washings" and there's the "stay far away so that I can look presentable in front of professional people" clothes.

This second group consists of what I would wear teaching and tutoring. And lately it has also consisted of what I would wear while giving speeches in front of our county's School Board. I've stood in front of them numerous times now, trying to influence the Board to make correct decisions concerning local education.

Now, I've tried to explain to my kids what I do as an SAT/ACT teacher and tutor. But the whole concept of college test prep is outside of their world. At least they know what a teacher is. However, when it came to explaining why I was giving speeches in front of the School Board (not to mention what exactly is a School Board,) it was tough. Conveniently, the local cable channel would broadcast the meeting, so my husband would record the portion with my speech.

Our kids were thrilled and a little confused about seeing mom on t.v. Our oldest understood but I wondered what our middle child with Asperger's thought about the whole thing. Did he think I went far away? Did he think I was teaching? Who did he think I was talking to?

A few nights ago, I was getting into the car in order to drive to a tutoring student's house. My little Aspie flew across the front yard and planted himself inside my open car door, preventing me from closing it.

"Mom! Mom, Mom. Where are you going?"

"I'm off to tutor a student at his house."

He gave me a brief hug and then pulled back, carefully evaluating my outfit. Then, with a very serious face, he asked,

"Will we see you on t.v.?"

I guess I still have some explaining to do.

Life coach

2009-12-04T18:12:00.000-08:00

As the mother of all boys, I cherish the moments I get to spend with girls. Mind you, I am also bugged by little girls. They tend to drive me crazy. I do not have any sisters, so the whole female dynamic is rather mysterious to me. When I step outside and watch the neighborhood girls, I am completely flabbergasted by how catty and downright cruel they can be. So I'll keep my boys.

I'm sure those girls' moms feel the same way about my living, breathing, destructive ping-pong balls I have for children. To each his (and her!) own.

So being a basketball coach means that I get the best of both worlds. My first year, I had one girl on my team who didn't make it through the season. The second year, I had two, and feisty ones at that. It was great.

This year, I have three. Bonus!

I tend to spend a little more energy coaching and refereeing girls. I adhere to the theory that in order to improve the world, we need to improve the lives of women. And what better time to start than when they are little women! That one high five, that one word of encouragement, could start them on the path of self-worth, belief in self, and leadership.

Of course, that doesn't mean I don't coach the boys, and just as hard. But having a woman bust their butt down the court is good for the world, too.

So before our first game of this season I was jazzing my players up. I was pumped and ready to yell for the next hour. I turned to one of the girls and asked, "Are you ready?" It was going to be her first basketball game, ever. And her face was green. Literally. She looked as though she would vomit at any moment. She shook her head.

"I'm so nervous!"

I smiled and assured her, "You're going to be great! I know you can do it."

She did not look assured as she turned to watch the game. I patted her shoulder and hopped down off the bleachers.

Partway through the game, I turned to her and gave her an assignment. She would be point guard. (For those of you unfamiliar, this means she would be dribbling the ball down the court and initiating play with her team.) After I reviewed what her job would be, her eyes grew wide and she shook her head. Again, I reassured her. Be tough, I said.

The referee handed her the ball and she worked her way down the court. She was unsure at first but gained some confidence throughout the quarter. I hoped that I hadn't scarred her by giving her such a responsibility at her first game. The buzzer sounded, and we gathered by the bench.

I was short a couple of players so I had to choose someone to stay in the game. I scanned their faces, trying to make my decision. My gaze settled on this neophyte, her hair sweaty and matted to her bright red cheeks. Her eyes pleaded with me as she huffed,

"Please, please can I stay in? I want to dribble!"

How could I say no? It was moments like these, after all, that define the reason why I coach in the first place.

One size fits tall

2009-11-08T16:37:00.000-08:00

At the school bus stop one morning, we heard sirens roaring down a nearby cross street. I turned to the other parents and declared, "They found me!" I pretended to turn and run, then I looked down at my son. He didn't seem too amused with the idea that his mom might be on the lam. So I laughed and rubbed his shoulder, hoping he would catch the joke. His smile looked a little shaky. Just what did he think I would be on the run for, anyway?

Recently, I was informed that my one clothing store was closing down. This was the only place where I could shop for and actually try on clothes that were meant to fit me. In other stores, it's just a fluke if I find something that fits properly. A sign of the times? Apparently tall people don't need to wear clothing when the economy is cruddy.

So now it's back to strictly shopping online. Which means that instead of shopping like a regular person, I get to deal with shipping and handling, returning clothing that isn't sized correctly, waiting for the new one to come back, and finding out that even that size doesn't work. Add on top of that the finicky leanings of female style, and I am NEVER going to find new clothes again.

So when a package with two blouses arrived for me recently, I was already feeling churly. Just because the description said "tall" didn't mean it was actually going to be for a truly tall woman...

My oldest son caught sight of the package and said he hoped it was for him. I explained that it was "just clothes" and it wouldn't be very exciting. He became agitated.

"How come I never get any packages?" he whined.

"That's not true!" I said. "What about Christmas time or your birthday, when you get presents from your relatives?"

"That's not what I mean. Other times, too."

In hindsight, I'm sure my frustration with the closing of Tall Girl and the need for online shopping seeped through in my tone of voice. But as I explained,

"Mommy can't buy clothes in stores like regular people. I have to order the clothes on the computer and then have them mailed to our house," he reacted in a bizarre manner.

His bottom lip stuck out and he burst into tears. That snapped me out of my self-pitying mode right quick. He quavered,

"Is there a law?"

I froze for a moment, completely lost. Then I realized that my choice of words: mommy can't... have to order... made him think that it was illegal for me to shop in stores! I threw my arms around him and we had a good laugh. I guess we still need to work on the idea that it's okay-- and legal-- to be taller than other people.

Overcome

2009-09-18T17:25:00.000-07:00

My eight-year-old son deals with a lot of extra challenges. He was speech-delayed when he was younger. He copes with symptoms of sensory integration dysfunction, which make his world a frightening place. He has a tough time with impulse control and emotional regulation. And I'm pretty certain a psychologist will be calling me soon to say that he has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Top that off with having a younger brother who has autism, and that's a full plate.

At times I worry that his self-esteem is taking serious hits from all these challenges. So I tell him that he's great. It's a fine line to walk. You don't want to create entitlement in your child. But you also need your child to know, as deeply as humanly possible, that you think he or she is terrific.

Last year, when I met with his second grade teacher, I listened to the long list of what he struggles with. Group interaction. Friend-making. Finishing a project later when time has run out. I walk in to a parent/teacher meeting with thick skin, but it gets thinned pretty quickly. Thankfully, his teacher understood my little man well. She pulled out his most recent test scores and said,

"It's pretty evident that academics will never be a problem for him."

I hadn't realized that I was holding my breath until that moment. What a relief. And what admiration I felt! He could hold himself together, with all those challenges, and perform beautifully.

Last weekend we attended his Cub Scout pack meeting. The leaders had planned a Newlywed Game-type of activity. The parents left the room while the boys (who had never seen the show before) answered a few questions. Then the parents were brought back in.

I got the first question right, spot-on. Then I missed all the others. My poor little guy had a hard time controlling his frustration at me and at the game in general. I could just imagine what he was thinking-- doesn't mom know all about me? Then it was the scouts' turn to leave the room.

The questions were tough for me to answer. One of them was, "Who do you (the scout) think is your parent's hero?" I didn't know who to choose, so I wrote down, "Grandma Sue." Susan is the name of both of my son's grandmothers, so I increased my odds a bit.

As we played and missed question after question (okay, we got one more right) he grew more and more frustrated. I had to talk him down after each wrong answer. He was tired, it was the first week of school, and everyone was staring at him. I couldn't blame him. He was just barely hanging in there by his fingernails. Then came the parent's hero question.

He looked at me and wrinkled his brow. Bit his lip. Hemmed and hawed, then said quietly, "I'm not sure that this is right..." I encouraged him to answer anyway. Who did he think was my hero? He answered,

"Is it... me?"

All the parents in the room melted and I threw my arms around him. He was still upset that he had answered incorrectly, but in my world, he was the winner.

Rainbow

2009-09-09T13:08:00.000-07:00

When you have a special needs child, I think you worry more than typical parents about your child's future. You hope that he or she will be happy and will find a place in society. But you also hope-- really hope-- that they will end up self-sufficient. Some day. Hopefully, before you yourself end up toothless and cranky.

So I try to foster the idea that some day my little guy will have a job and a family. But I want to stay realistic. I don't want to go too far and say, "You can be anything you want to be..." when, frankly, even typical kids can't expect that. But there is always hope for bigger and better things.

And like all parents, I wonder if anything gets past the ears and into the brains of my kids. I try. And today, I received a confirmation. I think.

My little guy came home from his second day of school and was seeking sensory input. Sometimes he runs into walls, sometimes he jumps off the furniture, sometimes he pummels his siblings. Today, it was,

"Can I have a folded up, soft blanket?"

A much less destructive choice!

"Which one do you want?" I asked.

"A snuggly one." Hmm. Need more detective work.

"Can you tell me what color it is?" I asked.

"Any color it wants to be."

He thrills when he sees me crack up. It didn't help me choose the right blanket, but it sure made my day.

Doppelganger

2009-08-09T17:55:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I helped out a friend's wedding. We've known each other since 1997, when we studied overseas in the Middle East. We both developed a passion for things Middle Eastern, leading us both to related studies. I settled down sooner rather than later and started my family, while she continued her studies in Africa and elsewhere.

We both ended up in the Washington, D.C. area and have been able to see each other periodically. While here, she fell in love with a Samoan gentleman. I was excited to be a part of the wedding festivities, as a gopher or simply the grease in the wheels of a big event (a role I enjoy immensely.) Friends and family spent the days leading up to the event running around in preparation. We decorated the hall of the church on Friday evening, where I got to meet many of her friends.

The bride and I have some physical characteristics in common. We are both tall, with long dark hair. I thought the similarities stopped there, but not so. According to her mother, we both walk with the same gait and mannerisms. Someone even said our voices sound similar. Our commonalities turned out to be disconcerting; not for me, but for everyone else.

I lost track of how many times I was mistaken for the bride. People would see me out of the corner of their eye, turn and ask a question, then freeze, startled. A woman came up to me from behind and patted me on the back. As she asked how I was doing, I turned and smiled, already amused. She stopped midsentence and apologized. Friends mistook me. Her brothers mistook me. Her mother did, twice.

Even the groom. Not once. FOUR times. One of those times was on the actual wedding day, when she was in her white gown and I was in bright yellow. He was so embarrassed, but I was flattered.

After all, she is a great woman. She is beautiful. She carries her height proudly. She is accomplished, optimistic, and happy. She waited patiently to marry her husband and is now a step-mom to an energetic seven year old boy with extra challenges. For the complications that dealing with an ex-spouse entail, I admire her. She is awesome.

I'll gladly be mistaken for her, any day.

Spectacle

2009-08-03T08:40:00.000-07:00

My three boys are noisy, boisterous, messy types. I love them and they love me, but man, they are a handful. They haven't seemed to notice the attention they draw when we go out in public. Granted, I try to keep our public appearances to a minimum.

But they do need to eat. I usually dread visits to the grocery store or Costco-type places. The noise seems to echo and there is always a large audience for their shenanigans. I have become very efficient at getting in and getting out. They have learned to never ask for something because I won't buy it for them. I am a woman on a mission, and that mission is to get out.

Despite my efforts, there are times when we are stationary for a moment. This gives people time to pause and make comments to me. Usually they are funny or sympathetic. Every once in a while I get a critical remark that I simply do not acknowledge. But the boys are oblivious. Or so I thought.

Recently we were in a store and I was doing my utmost to keep the gaggle in line while shopping. I had ::cringe:: paused in my deliberations as a man approached us. He smiled and said, "Boy, you've got your hands full!" I gave my usual ha-ha-aren't-you-clever laugh and turned back to my shopping. Then, my observant eight year old asked,

"Mom, why do people always say that?"

I guess they listen more than I thought they did. If only that would work for their chores...

Hogwarts or bust

2009-07-26T18:41:00.000-07:00

We moved our young family, including our two-month-old firstborn, across the country in the middle of winter. It was a dreary time for me. I had no friends nearby and the closest family member was 2,000 miles away. There were no sidewalks adjacent to our apartment complex, which didn't matter, because there was nothing within walking distance, anyway. To top it off, my husband would take our only car to work each day. I was very, very alone.

Our baby was anxious from the start. He had trouble nursing and trouble sleeping. I spent (no kidding) a good eight hours a day in the rocking chair. My friend was the television, and there were days when I didn't change out of my pajamas. When I think about my life now, how I rarely sit down during the day, I have a hard time remembering what it was like. I do remember the loneliness. But I also remember a bright spot.

I decided, a few months into my solitude, to track down just who this Harry Potter character was that I had heard about. I brought home a copy of the Sorcerer's Stone from the local library. I settled in to the routine of feeding and rocking, but this time, I had a new friend nearby.

I fell in love with the book in the first few pages (it had me at 'a completely owl-free morning') and I devoured it. I breezed through the second book as well. The third book helped me escape during a visit to the in-laws' family where my baby nephew was mortally ill. The fourth I read aloud to my husband into the wee hours of the morning.

I had found a friend. Thank you, J.K. Rowling.

I and millions of readers watched as Harry grew up and dealt with increasingly desperate circumstances. I laughed, cried, and held my breath. Each book release was fun to anticipate.

I watched our firstborn grow up as well. So it wasn't a big surprise when he approached me and asked permission to start reading the series. I was hesitant at first because I knew how the series matured and I was unsure that he would be ready for those themes. But then his teacher, on his progress report, noted that he was only interested in non-fiction books. Here was a chance to foster a love of fiction. I said yes. Thank you, J.K. Rowling.

A few months ago I noticed that our firstborn was unable to see things at a distance, so I made an appointment with the optometrist. My husband and I talked it up in the days leading to the visit. After all, if both mom and dad wear glasses, so could he! He was excited and nervous at the visit. We picked out the frames and ordered the lenses.

A week later we returned to pick up his glasses. As we sat down at a small table to have them adjusted, he put them on and turned to look at himself in the mirror. My throat was dry and I held my breath. It was all I could do to keep from biting my fingers in fear. Here was my baby, my eight year old, about to see himself in a new light. Would he love it? Would he hate it?

He examined his face for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at himself in the mirror, winking, while a huge grin spread across his face. I almost fell out of my chair. "What?" I asked, giggling.

"I look like Harry Potter!" he proclaimed.

Thank you, J.K. Rowling.

A second career

2009-07-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

Nearly nine straight years of constant diapering and I am ready for my youngest to be potty-trained. I am ready to be done. I would say that I can "almost taste it," but that would be gross. We have begun the training, complete with numerous tiny underpants and an enormous bag of M&Ms.

Three weeks into his training, he has only approached me once to tell me that he needs to go. I am waiting for the light to turn on, for that elusive cerebral "click", for that heralding of the end of diapers. I will celebrate! It will be earth-shaking! A monumental moment! We'll run with glee to the nearest commode and I will dance.

Yesterday I loaded the boys into the car and headed to Leesburg, a city about seven miles to our west. My oldest was attending science class for the week. He was learning about electromagnetic cars and trains, and he was loving it, my baby enginerd. The class was held at Leesburg's community center, next to a bucolic little park complete with a stream. I had whiled away every afternoon that week at the park with my two younger boys, and today was going to be no different.

I settled onto a bench and watched my little guys tear around the park. Suddenly we heard the sound of a helicopter. I looked up and noticed it was a police copter. I watched it circle, again, and again... and again. The circle got tighter and we appeared to be almost at the center. Then we heard sirens, more, and more, and more sirens. I grew up in the L.A. area, so it didn't really faze me. My boys just thought the copter was cool.

A little while later I saw community center employees heading my direction. They informed me that there had been an armed robbery and that the community center had been placed in lock-down mode, with my oldest inside. There was no way I was going to leave now, but I still wasn't too worried. An employee watched with apprehension as I stretched out my legs and folded my arms behind my head. "I'm from L.A.," I said. He shrugged and left.

Later I learned that the robbery had happened a half mile from the park. The perpetrator had unsuccessfully tried to rob a jewelry store, shot at someone outside the store, and fled to a nearby residential street. He broke into a house, tied up the couple inside, and stole their Jeep. He fled in the Jeep to another residential street. At this point I heard and saw the cop cars race past the park, but didn't know what was going on. I still wasn't going anywhere with my baby in lock down. I did, however, examine the park for good hiding places.

When the suspect arrived at the second residential street (a mile from our park,) he abandoned the Jeep and broke into a home of an elderly couple. They dialed 911 right before he took them hostage. I did not know this at the time, of course. I just knew that I wasn't going anywhere. Then, my toddler ran up to me.

"I need to go potty, mommy!"

The moment! The moment I had been waiting for! At the worst time EVER! All bathrooms were Fort Knox-ed during the moment that was to mark the beginning of the end of diapers! Finally, I was motivated enough to leave. My oldest was safe with his physics teacher and I was ready to dodge all law-enforcement vehicles in my way. We went to the outlet mall and did our business. And my oldest was released on schedule.

Why did we not just use the nearest tree? I didn't want my little guy to end up on the evening news sans pants. No, really, my dad's minimalist camping training is too deeply ingrained. I can't let my kids do their business that close to a running stream. Plus, my son hasn't learned to take care of business standing up yet. Man, he's going to hate me for this post.

Epilogue: The hostage situation lasted until ten o'clock p.m. when the suspect surrendered peacefully. Apparently the negotiators did their job extremely well and talked him down. And after raising three boys, I think that just might be my next line of work.

Gems

2009-06-25T09:28:00.000-07:00

My children delivered all three of these gems within a five minute time period, so I thought I'd share the chuckles with you:
___________

3 year old, looking outside during lunchtime: "Mommy, the sky is not dark. They sky is on."

___________

6 year old: "Mom, what is daycare?"

Me: "It's for if both mommy and daddy went to work all day. We would take you to a place where the people would take care of you until we got home from work."

6 year old: "Is that called jail?"

___________

8 year old: "Mom, if I lick my elbow joint, it means I want to change the subject."

::lick::

An acronym to die for

2009-06-11T11:36:00.001-07:00

My oldest son came home from school one day and started talking about something that happened during deer time. It caught me off-guard, so I stopped him.

"WHAT time?"

"Deer time. When we read."

After a bit of investigation, I uncovered the shocking truth: it wasn't deer time, it was D.E.A.R. time. Well, that explains everything, I thought. No, really, D.E.A.R. stands for "Drop Everything and Read." It's a program that fosters the habit of random reading anytime, anyplace. They hold it near the end of the school day. Okay. I can get behind this idea.

A few months later he came home with what looked like a quick pencil drawing of the inside of his classroom. I held it up and asked him to tell me about it. He said,

"Oh, yeah, we drew that during Drop Everything and Draw time."

Hmmm... I can see why they don't use the acronym for that one.

Overshare

2009-06-07T17:54:00.000-07:00

My youngest son, now three, is no shrinking violet. I'm not sure where his friendliness comes from; after all, I was painfully shy as a child. Even my older two boys have been reserved around unfamiliar people.

So I glory in his chatty nature. Is it because he's third in the birth order? Who knows. He certainly sucks the marrow out of life: burping, giggling, chewing loudly. His enthusiasm brightens my day when it's been a tough one. And I like to share his happy disposition with others.

Lately he's been updating everyone on the planet about our family acquisitions. He'll run up to a complete stranger, out of the blue, and tell them that we just bought milk. Or paper towels. Sometimes the information is just about him, like his birthday bike. People are gloriously forgiving of a tiny person with a smile. At times the unfamiliar person will look at me for direction and I will just smile and nod. Thankfully, they just mimic me.

For our middle son's birthday we gave him a baby leopard gecko. This type of lizard only grows to be about nine inches long. I figured it was a safe first pet. However, you would think it belonged to our youngest with the way he kept the public informed.

TOTAL STRANGER: "Oh, hello little guy."

YOUNGEST: (standing inches from stranger) "I got a gecko."

TOTAL STRANGER: "A what?"

ME: (stage whisper, with hand motions) "A gecko. Lizard?"

TOTAL STRANGER: "Oh...." (walks away, smiling.)

I like to think that his friendliness is a reflection of my parenting style, though as any parent knows, you can only take so much credit (and sometimes you really don't want to.)

We went to the pet store recently to buy more lizard food. My little guy was fascinated with the small bucket of mealworms and held them all the way home. Next time we were out, he ran up to yet another unfamiliar (and unsuspecting) person and declared,

"I have WORMS!"

Oh, lovely.

Now We Are Six

2009-05-31T19:38:00.000-07:00

Dear "S",

Another year has passed and suddenly you are six years old. I could say something cliche about how time flies, but there is nothing cliche about you.

The nature of being second in birth order is quite familiar to me. I have a big brother like you. And your big brother has blazed a trail for you. This means that your parents were much more relaxed about your arrival, your nightly wakings, your tiny newborn noises.

On the day we were going to leave the hospital, I curled up with you in my bed. You were dressed in a white hospital gown and swaddled in white blankets. The light coming from the window was a muted glow due to the rain clouds. Your little face shone as you slept, and you were perfect to me. I knew that our time alone was limited. So instead of resting up for the journey home, I wept. For two hours. I didn't care if someone saw me in such a state.

And that was the beginning of a life lesson for me. In my preteen, teen, and young adult years, I cared too much about what people thought of me. It's common, I know. Lots of time spent on my appearance. Lots of time pretending to be someone I wasn't. I thought too much about what other people thought.

Before your diagnosis of autism, I was so worried. That doesn't mean I don't worry now. But no one could put a name to what was happening. Inexplicable behaviors, learning difficulties. Late at night I would kneel next to your bed while you slept. I held your hand and wept, again.

Now we have a name, a course of treatment, a goal. And I have finally learned to stop caring-- about what other people think. I don't care that you are not a typical kid. I don't care that some people consider me a bad parent for "letting" you have a fit in public. The moment I see someone make a face or a noise, I turn away. Life is too short for me to spend it worrying about what other people think of me or of you. The most important thoughts are those I have of you, and those thoughts cannot be described with words.

So, thank you for being my son. I no longer cry at your bedside out of fear or missed opportunities. You have focused my life and increased my purpose, and I will be forever grateful that you came into my world.

Mom

Heroes, big and small

2009-04-21T16:22:00.000-07:00

There are many aspects of motherhood that I enjoy, and many I don't. Thankfully the good far outweighs the bad. I do not regret becoming a mom, for parenting has enriched my life in ways I cannot describe with words.

I love saving the day. Most of the time it is a small event. I try to keep first aid cream and band-aids in my purse for the inevitable fall and skinned, tender knees. Or when my child's feelings have been hurt and I help him through the pain, then role-play with him for the next time it happens. Which it will.

At times, saving the day means studying about my children's special needs and making a connection that will smooth their path in the future. Or it could mean a trip to the ER when there's been a lot of blood. Being the hero has helped me to grow further than I ever thought possible. But there are times when I can't do enough.

My oldest has a penchant for map-making. He continually astounds us with his increasingly detailed maps, most especially of the Washington, D.C. Metro system. These maps include a key, color-coded routes, two major rivers, different colors of green for each county, even planned lines that haven't been built yet. He has memorized the names and locations of nearly all 94 stations. He peppers me with questions daily about the Metro system, and I simply don't know the answers. It makes me feel a bit inadequate.

Recently the cherry blossom trees were in full bloom in downtown Washington, D.C. We decided to visit on a chilly Saturday, and, of course, we were going to take the Metro. As we packed, I was in full-swing saving-the-day mode. Diapers? Wipes? Full lunch? Snacks? Water bottles? Sunscreen? Lip balm with sunscreen? Camera? Jackets? Cash? Extra clothes? Hand sanitizer? You name it, I was ready for anything. Our oldest asked to bring his most recent Metro map. It was enormous, four 8.5"x 11"sheets of paper taped together. I almost said no, but decided to humor him. He folded it carefully and stashed it in his backpack.

When we stepped out of the Metro and into the city, it was windy. Too cold for standing around and admiring the blossoms. We heard the cherry blossom parade winding along a few blocks away, and we figured that we could hit the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History before the parade crowd dispersed. It was a lovely visit full of exotic orchids, massive diamonds, and enormous bugs that we held in our hands. The highlight was the butterfly habitat. I could hardly contain myself when our autistic son, who never stops moving, stood stock-still in order to coax a butterfly into his palm. It was magical.

After lunch we decided to try to beat the crowds home. We headed toward the closest Metro stop, aptly named the Smithsonian stop. As we approached, I groaned. It was swamped with people. What we didn't know was that not only were the blooms at their peak and the festival in full swing, but the city's hockey, baseball, and basketball teams all had home games that day. It was ridiculous.

We waded through the seething mass of people to get to the entrance. But when we arrived, we found that the platform had been closed to incoming foot traffic. We turned and waded through, then walked another block to find the other entrance to the station. Once again, people were everywhere. There was such a huge crowd that everyone was at a standstill. People spilled out onto the nearby streets.

The idea of waiting in that line made my blood run cold. What would happen if our autistic son had a meltdown underground, in that crowd? We would have NOWHERE to go, and he would probably injure himself and innocent bystanders in the process. My family was tiring rapidly. We were out of options. I was not prepared for this, and I was not going to be saving the day. We weren't even close enough to the station to see the Metro map on the wall or grab a paper copy.

Suddenly I remembered our oldest son's map. I turned to him and asked him to pull it out. An enormous grin spread across his face as he unfolded it and held it up for us to see. He crowed,
"I knew this would come in handy!"

We held it tightly against the wind. As we searched the map, I knew that our second child had a finite number of steps left in him. Our decision was critical. There was no room for mistakes. All we really needed to know was which direction to head, and which street to look for. Our little map-maker pointed out the closest stop, and though the street name was not on the map, he knew it.

The station was exactly where he told us it would be. He was beside himself with glee. We were able to board the very next train and were on our way home in short order. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Our map-maker turned to me with an impish grin and asked, "Did I save the day, mommy?"

Did you ever.

The best things come...

2009-03-31T19:26:00.000-07:00

In this blog entry I described moments in my life as a parent to a special-needs child. I got a lot of feedback from the entry so I wanted to share a related moment that was immensely fulfilling. I share this on World Autism Awareness Day in honor of my sweet boy.
____________

I admit it. I'm one of those moms that uses the canned "mmmhmmms" and the "that's great, sweetheart"s when my kids are chattering away and I'm not quite there. It doesn't mean I don't love them, of course. It just means that I've got a lot on my mind. We've all been there.

And we've all been kids at one point, too. So we can't blame our own children when they use the same time-honored techniques to grab attention from the Distracted Parent.

"Mom. Mom. MOM. MOM. MOM!!!

My five-year-old autistic son employs these techniques as well. He learns well from observation and imitation. For example, I got him to say, "I love you" when he was about three years old. It was simply an imitation of my speech. But it was the last time I heard it from him.

He soon took a downward turn and was subsequently diagnosed with autism. It was crushing. But he continued to observe and imitate, including raising his voice to get my attention. He also formed his own technique that is more effective than any other.

I can always tell when his synapses are on overdrive because his voice changes. It's not a loud change or an obnoxious change. It's a quiet change. A breathy, mumbly, I'm-making-progress-so-listen-carefully change. His voice takes on a peculiar energy and excitement that my husband and I delight in.

He will breathlessly recount an event in great detail or describe how he is going to construct an invention (most frequently a rocket pack for his back, just like Buzz Lightyear.) This little voice grabs my attention better than any yell for Mom.

Recently we were sitting on the floor in our living room. I was tickling my youngest son and making lots of noise in the process. My autistic son sat a few feet away, staring intently at the floor. I wished I could get inside that head and hear what was going on. Whatever it was, it was all-consuming.

Amidst the squeals and giggles I heard his breathy, quiet voice. He said a few things that I didn't catch, then he looked straight at me.

"I love you, mom." Then he smiled.

I froze. His voice couldn't have been softer but I certainly heard it. It cut me to the soul and took my breath away. I left my youngest child on the carpet, momentarily forgotten. Crawling across the floor, I folded him into my arms. I couldn't hold him tightly enough.

He giggled as I squeezed him and choked back my tears. I had waited so long for this: a moment that was unprompted, un-canned, un-imitated. The fact that I had waited over two years for it made the moment all the sweeter.

Those who help others...

2009-03-26T10:10:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine owns a couple of horses. I was bemoaning the fact that therapeutic riding programs (for special needs children) were few and far between, expensive, and often had year-long waiting lists. She brightened and said, "He can ride my horse." I was thrilled. When I explained to my autistic son what we were going to do, he was beside himself with anticipation.

We had an unseasonably warm February day. As we drove west to the stable, the air was almost warm in the Blue Ridge mountains. We received permission from the stable owner to use her resident Shetland pony for my little guy's first riding experience. She was beautiful and brown and her name was Minnie.

My son's attention and speech increased dramatically as we groomed her. He delighted in feeding her apples, sugar cubes, and knobby carrots. He asked questions constantly but did a great job of controlling his excitement over his new experience. He asked me a question so softly that I had to bend down and ask him to repeat several times. Finally, I got it: "What's her last name?" By virtue of the owner, we dubbed her Minnie Smith. It was official.

Then came time to ride. He was stiff as I lifted him and placed him in the saddle. He kept his arms around my neck and made little nervous squeaking sounds. I peeled his arms away and stepped back a bit. He grinned from ear to ear as she shifted around.

We led the pony partway up the side of a nearby mountain (a relative term in the Blue Ridge) and stopped at a bench someone had placed at a rise. My son puttered through the dead, dry grass and leafless trees as we basked in the sun. He was at such peace in nature and with an animal nearby.

We returned to the stable and headed home. As we drove, my friend confided in me that she had been experiencing an emotionally difficult time. This was her first foray out of the house in a week. I was dismayed that I was unaware of her struggles. But when she turned to smile at me, I saw the same joy reflected in her face as I had seen in my son's. The pony, the sunshine, and the camraderie all made for a wonderful day.

Euphemisms are for sissies

2009-02-28T19:04:00.001-08:00

When we had our first child, my husband and I made a decision about names. No, I'm not referring to those that end up on birth certificates. I'm talking about what to call ::ahem:: those all-important parts that are supposed to stay covered up. We were going to teach our children the true names. No euphemisms for us!

We knew that we would be opening ourselves up to embarrassing situations in public, but we were prepared for it. Who cares if the stranger in the next stall hears our child use an anatomically correct term? We're in the bathroom for heaven's sake! I've heard a few giggles over the years. Then came one Sunday.

We were sitting in an oh-so-quiet congregational meeting when my two-year-old son grabbed at me and yelled, "Nipples!" Those around me tried unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter. So much for my pride.

And with three sons, we hear a certain non-euphemism on a regular basis. For the most part, we have de-mystified the term and it is used without giggles or hush-hushes. However, these are BOYS we are talking about.

Sometimes I wonder what my children hear when I teach them a new word. My youngest son has learned that the brown delivery truck is called the "Yoo Pee Ess" truck. He loves to see and hear it go zooming past our house. It doesn't matter that it rarely stops to deliver a package; it has wheels and rumbles! Sometimes he waves through the window, an unseen greeting. Not this time.

The truck had stopped at a neighbor's house. My little guy ran to the door and threw it wide open, greeting the truck and driver with a loud and gleeful, "Hi, _____ truck!"

I'll let you fill in what you think he said. But I'll give you a clue: this anatomically correct term was definitely not a euphemism.

Small moments

2009-02-23T18:47:00.000-08:00

My oldest son's basketball season is winding down. As the coach, I will miss my little athletes but I am also ready for the end. It's been a long season.

The first time I met my players I was a tad concerned. One of the kids was too young to be in the league but the organizers had placed him on my team because they knew me. I took it in stride. As for the rest of the players, it seemed that most of them were in a perpetual state of withdrawal from a massive dose of Ritalin. Weeknight practices certainly didn't help any.

One of the athletes really caught my attention. His parents never came out and told me that he had an attention deficit, but it was quite obvious. I never needed an explanation from them. I just dosed up on some extra patience before each practice and game.

I've come to love this slim, strawberry blond bundle of frenetic energy. At first, if he found the ball in his hands, he would turn into one of those wind-up toys and frantically tap dance down the court, forgetting to dribble. He entertained the entire gym with his earnest, forgetful attempts. He still has a hard time with remembering to dribble, but he has improved.

He struggles to focus on my instruction and I need to constantly redirect him. At times I have to physically turn his head toward me so that he will hear me. His eye contact is fleeting, but I am used to that. I can tell that he is eager to please and really loves to play.

I spend much of my vocal energy on reminding the players to stick with the person they are guarding. This young man is no different; in fact, every time he runs down the court, I need to remind him. He tries so hard and during a recent game it was no different.

We were in the thick of play when suddenly I saw him launch his body at a rebound. Little people were everywhere as the rest of the players did the same. He emerged triumphant and passed it to a teammate. He knew immediately, as did I, that he had done something great. I saw his head pop up out of the crowd, searching. Not for the referees, not even for his parents. For me. He stood rooted to the spot while the others ran past. Finally we made eye contact and he beamed at me.

I'll never forget that joyful expression on his face as he searched for validation. And I hope he always remembers how I celebrated that small moment with him.

A bit of fear is good

2009-02-16T15:29:00.001-08:00

After high school and during a couple of college summers, I worked for Six Flags near Los Angeles. The second summer, I ended up in Guest Relations at the new water park. It was a less-than-thrilling job but ideal for a carefree college kid.

At one point during the summer I decided to train to be a lifeguard. This was a big deal for me, as I am a land beast. My swimming skills were sufficient to save my own skin but not to save anyone else's. The idea scared me, so I chose to tackle it head-on.

I thoroughly enjoyed the first aid aspect of it, memorizing the ratios of chest compressions to airway ventilations for children and for adults, with two rescuers or with one. I missed one question on the written test and passed the CPR practical with a perfect score. I did not, however, become a fabulous swimmer. I certified to lifeguard in the shallower pools of the park and left the buff swimmers to save those in the wave pool.

I was quite proud of myself for doing something that frightened me. Since then, I have never used the lifeguarding skills in an emergency. And not one of my first aid courses over the years has compared to the militaristic lifeguard first aid. But those skills can come in handy.
____________

Today I had a house full of rambunctious boys out of school due to the holiday. We had already visited the doctor and the pharmacy, thanks to a raging case of pink eye in my second child. The weather was just cold enough to make playing outside uncomfortable. Needless to say, I was ready for the day to be done. I heated up some hot dogs and served them to my crew.

Mealtime is an opportunity for me to get something done. I eat while standing up, folding laundry, loading the dishwasher, or whatever else needs to be finished. The boys are stationary for a moment and I must jump on the chance.

So I was in the basement when I heard coughing. I could tell from the timbre that it was my newly-three year old. I called up to my oldest whom I could trust to make a fair judgement:

"'T', is 'L' okay?"

A pause. Then, "Mom, you need to come up here RIGHT NOW!"

I took the stairs twenty at a time and found 'L' with his hands grabbing at his mouth. Sure enough, the lifeguard training kicked in. I became very calm. CLEAR MOUTH.

I reached in with my index finger and hooked out an enormous chunk of spit-sodden hot dog bun. I heard air moving down his throat and sighed in relief. He coughed and retched a little, then turned away. He took a few steps and I heard him gasp. Then I heard nothing. He whirled and threw himself at me, grabbing for me with those little hands.

I scooped him up and ran into the kitchen. I didn't know if he needed to throw up or if, heaven forbid, I needed to do abdominal thrusts (not p.c. to call them the Heimlich maneuver anymore.) I held him over the sink and tried to clear his mouth again. Nothing. He was still flailing so I knelt to the floor and held him upside down, over my knee, and whacked his back.

Kneeling in this position, it finally hit me that this was serious. I whacked him a few more times while trying to ignore the little voice that asked, what if I can't help him? What's going to happen? I tilted him back upright and POP! Out came a soggy yet solid pellet of hot dog bun. It was small, but it was the same round shape as his trachea.

He stopped flailing immediately and I held him tightly. My fingers tingled from the adrenaline. His lower lip jutted out and tears welled up in his eyes. Then came the understatement of the year,

"Mom, I just a lil' bit scared."

You and me both, kiddo.

Stomped out

2009-02-09T04:42:00.000-08:00

Dear Betty Crocker,

I am a big fan of your Warm Delights microwaveable treats. They are the perfect antidote to fourteen hours of three little boys running amok. What more could I ask from a tiny bag of dessert mix that only requires a tablespoon of water and a few stirs? Forty-five seconds in the microwave and voila! The sheer artificiality soothes my tattered soul.

There are a few hurdles to jump over. First I must remove the outermost cardboard box that has the nummy picture of gooey goodness. Then I have to tear off the shrink wrap that surrounds the plastic bowl you so kindly provide. You know, the one that will survive not just the radioactivity of my microwave but that of an entire nuclear holocaust? Recycler's guilt starts to trickle in but I push it away.

Then I tear open more plastic to get to the mix itself. After adding water and nuking the morass, I have to cut open yet another package. You know, the one with some kind of metal in the lining? After squeezing the chocolate syrup onto my treat, I survey my counter. I am dismayed to find an enormous pile of trash for one tiny dessert. My gustatory pleasure is STOMPED out by the giant carbon footprint your treat has left behind.

Please, Betty, find me a way to enjoy your dessert without destroying our little planet!

You never know

2009-02-05T19:46:00.000-08:00

Last year I signed up to coach my oldest son's co-ed basketball team. Upon entering the coaches' meeting, I discovered that I was the only female head coach in the league. I tried not to let my nerves get the best of me; after all, this might be my first time, but the kids were just six and seven years old!

I have no daughters with whom to share my skills and philosophies. Basketball would be my chance to make a difference in girls' lives! I would be fun! A knowledgeable and enthusiastic teacher! A great role model! I got my roster-- and one girl graced the list. ... No matter! She would be my star!

Or so I thought. Minutes into the first practice, I could tell that she would be a challenge. She was not at all motivated or even interested in touching the ball. I took a deep breath and crossed my fingers.

During games, she was content to stand in the middle of the fray, twirling her long blond hair around her fingers. Don't get me wrong-- she took it well when someone plowed her down on the way to the basket. But her parents and I continued to hope.

And then: oh frabjous day! It was the middle of the season and my ridiculous sideline antics spurred her to dribble the ball. She barely made it past half court and the referee gave her MUCH leeway in the double dribbling department. But she was able to pass it to a teammate! We cheered! We clapped! Progress!

At a subsequent game, there was a "loose ball" (no one had possession of it at the time) that caught her eye. She pondered it for a moment before seizing it and dribbling through the crowd. I don't even remember what happened next because I was overcome. Initiative! Aggression! We were getting somewhere!

I never saw her again.

Her father called a few weeks after that game to tell me that she had lost interest in basketball. I was heartbroken. What had I done wrong? He assured me that it wasn't me or my coaching skills. It was just his daughter being herself. I tried to shake it off, but it was difficult.

Sometime later I was packing up after a practice with my all-boy team. Families had arrived to pick up their little athletes so there were extra people milling around. I turned to address my son and for a fleeting moment, caught a girl staring at me. She was probably ten or eleven, too old to be playing in this league. Our connection was so brief that it took a moment to process the look on her face. But it was staggering.

I admire you. I want to be like you.

Maybe I was just trying too hard. All I needed to do was be there, for all the little girls in the crowd.
___________
This year, I have two girls on my team. And they have stuck with me all the way.

Over the hill

2009-02-03T19:03:00.000-08:00

I am a classroom teacher and individual tutor for a major test preparation company. I teach teenagers how to handle the SAT. You should see the reactions I get from people when I tell them what I do. I can now empathize with my dad, who is a dentist.

"You do WHAT?" or

"Uh, that's nice..." (turns and walks away,) or

"Eeeeewwww." or

"Unnnnghhhhh."

Sometimes it's just a frightened pucker, like someone didn't want to eat a lemon, but forced it down, because they thought their future and career depended on it and because their parents paid a lot of money for it. It's amusing.

The other day I was assigned a tutoring student whose previous tutor was too low-key for him. The student has attention issues (diagnosed.) I have been assigned to sing and dance. No, really, I got on the phone with his mom to reassure her that I have plenty of experience with such things. After she quizzed me on my math abilities, we bonded over high-maintenance children. She apparently was satisfied with my qualifications once she knew I was a nurturing type as well. What I didn't expect was her relieved outburst:

"I'm so glad that you're an older woman!"

I was speechless for a moment. Deep breath. She's never met me, I reminded myself. I just laughed it off and told her that I was glad I could help out her family.

I wonder if she'll remember what she said when I walk in the door, all 32 years of my old self.

Not chocolate

2009-02-01T20:33:00.001-08:00

My youngest son is a little delight. Don't get me wrong, he is still two years old, and reminds me of that fact in grand style. His tantrums are loud and at times destructive. But when compared to those of his autistic brother's, his are downright cute.

He loves to snuggle and cuddle, and since he is my baby and my last child, I treasure those moments especially. A few nights ago he had his little arms wrapped around my neck and was kissing my cheek and lips. I squeezed him tight. He nestled into my neck and caressed my dark hair, which has grown long in these past months.

"Is soft." What a sweetie.

"Why, thank you, 'L'. I washed it just for you." He inhaled.

"Smell good." Patted me again.

"Oh, that's nice."

"Is not chocolate." The snuggly moment was over as I burst into laughter.

Quite an observation. I'm just glad that he ignores the gray that insists on creeping into my hair. Because what would he call that?

Mea Culpa

2009-01-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

Last week I was in traffic court for the first time in my life due to a late-night violation. It was thrilling. Right. I learned why Law & Order is not based on traffic court cases.

An officer stopped me at the metal detectors because of the forgotten knife on my keychain. Once I had taken care of that and my cell phone, I waited outside the courtroom for my Day of Judgement. Some of the guilty ones wore sloppy sweats; some wore suits. My choice of outfit was a gamble on the idea that the judge wouldn't mind a lady in heels and a slim skirt.

Inside the courtroom, the bailiff looked like Edward James Olmos after the Jenny Craig diet. He crabbed at everyone to spit out their gum and take their sunglasses off their heads. Enter the judge in a neighborly cardigan under his robes. He nodded to the accusing officers and scanned his docket.

I happened to have seated myself as close to the officers as possible. They seemed official and respectable enough with their stacks of traffic citations in hand. The judge addressed us all and proceeded to call us up one by one. Some had DUI problems but most were like me.

I take that back. I was completely out of place. These people had multiple violations and were really pushing the envelope. When the judge gave them a chance to make a statement, most would lamely try to justify their mistake. To his credit, he would listen until they were done. Then he would hand down his judgement, without any changes. I wondered why none of them invoked their driving record. Then I realized-- it was because it would only make things worse.

What would I say? That I was tired? That would go over really well. Who doesn't drive when they are tired? Should I read my blog post to him? Or should I tell him that frankly, I didn't know the law? Sure. I could probably recite with him that, "Ignorance of the law is no excuse..." Didn't I have an ace up my sleeve?

I observed the body language and terminology that everyone in the courtroom used, filing it all away for my turn. At one point an offender was cited for illegally tinted windows along with his DUI. An officer nearby leaned close to another and I could hear him whisper about what he would do to a girl in a car with tinted windows...

AAHHHH!!!! I tried not to react but I must have twitched or something, because he suddenly clammed up, glanced at me, and looked away. Phew. Finally I heard the judge call my name. I stood up and said, "No contest, your Honor." Immediately my accusing officer called out,

"I would like to amend the charge, your Honor."

I froze. There was no way on God's green earth that I was going to plead no contest to an unknown charge. I looked back and forth between the judge and the officer, waiting for an explanation. The two tossed complicated decimal-pointed codes around while I stood there, clueless.

When the judge invited me to stand before him, I suddenly realized my mistake. My three inch heels made me 6'5". The entire motley courtroom gawked at me as my heels clicked on the way to the podium. So much for the strategic wardrobe.

The judge cited the new charge. I leaned WAAAY down to the microphone and asked how it differed from the previous charge. The judge actually had to dig out his code book. Turns out the officer just got his codes wrong, and he was correcting his mistake. I agreed with the new charge.

"Is there anything you want to say?" the judge asked.

"No your honor, except that I ask the court to take my driving record into account." Here was my hidden ace.

Eddie Olmos, the bailiff, handed him a sheet of paper. The judge looked it over.

"You have a perfect driving record." He sounded surprised.

Exactly!!! Can't you see that I don't belong here? That I made a stupid tired mistake??? That I wasn't trying to endanger law enforcement officers? Drinking while driving is a no-brainer. But how many people in this courtroom would be able to recite the law that I had broken?

He decided that I was not a threat to society and lessened the charge to a more general traffic violation. I thanked him lamely and made my Amazonian way out of the courtroom as quickly as I could.

While I was at the window to pay my fine, I could hear the officers who manned the metal detector. Their conversations were pitiful at best. One of them discussed how he likes to use a falsetto voice while inviting courthouse visitors to step through the detector. I rolled my eyes. No wonder these guys had been positioned here. I couldn't get away fast enough.

On my way out, I turned around and click-clicked my way back to the officers at the metal detector. I had their full attention as they straightened up. I smiled my best charming smile and said, "Gentlemen! I've been listening to your conversations and truly, they have been enlightening."

One of them grimaced. "Which one?"

"ALL of them." I whirled and flounced my way out the door, glad to be done.

For my fan

2009-01-26T21:44:00.000-08:00

Dear grandma,

I write this post to you knowing full well that it will arrive in your mailbox a few weeks from now. Your daughter, a.k.a. my mom, will have literally cut and pasted it onto sheets of paper and sent it via snail mail (that's the kind with a stamp on it) across state lines. Why? In order to appease my fan.

Yes, grandma, this is a great big thank-you for your encouragement. You sent me a handwritten note recently. May I quote it for all to see? I thought so.

"I wish my mother could read your writings. She would be even more thrilled than I, or (your mother) or (your father.)"

Here's my favorite:

"The little incidents are better than those I read in the Reno paper!!" (original emphasis.)

I'm glad to know that there are people out there ::sniff:: whose days are brightened by what I have to say.

But here's a little secret for you, grandma. You, who supported your pilot husband during World War II, and afterward, through polio and 43 years of teaching. You, who raised two children. You, who celebrated so many of my birthdays and Christmases with me that I cannot count. You, who attended my high school basketball games and my wedding. You're still alive and kicking and still use my favorite adjective: peachy.

You may be my fan, but I am most definitely yours.

Perry the Platypus

2009-01-12T20:00:00.000-08:00

When my now-eight-year-old decided (on short notice) that he wanted to be a certain Disney character for Hallowe'en, I discovered that the show was too new and I would have to make the costume.

I am finally getting around to posting pictures. He paid me the ultimate compliment by asking if he can wear the costume next year, too. I did not bring up the fact that his parents are giants and the likelihood of it fitting a year from now is slim.

So here is "T" as Perry the Platypus. As you can see, all those years of Method acting classes have really paid off.

The duckbill was the hardest. It took a lot of engineering and I tried to use the lightest materials possible. My downfall, however, was being short on time. I used a glue gun to stick the felt to the cardboard. I used a LOT of glue. And that stuff is heavy. Loyal to then end, my little guy insisted on wearing the bill despite its ungainly nature.

To a certain reader named "Swampy": will you contact me? I have more pictures for you and some compliments to drop in your pocket.

Here's my info: queenofthefive (at) gmail (dot) com.

Kiss the chicken

2009-01-11T16:29:00.000-08:00

My three boys have a condition called sensory defensiveness. It's the body's way of misinterpreting sensory input. It shows up in various ways. You may be familiar with milder forms of it-- if your socks don't feel right in your shoes, you don't like people to hug you, or certain food textures just feel weird. We have the food thing. On steroids.

Meal time is very interesting in our house, to say the least. I don't like having guests during meals. I consider it tantamount to torture. We try to balance our meals between food that the boys will eat and food that they should get used to. But when we introduce something new, the shrieking begins.

Chicken, of all the bland, kid-friendly meats, has been the bane of our existence. Our younger two have refused it repeatedly for the last year or so. Mashed potatoes are deadly, and pasta may as well be the Axis of Evil. Kim Jong-Il is the father of spaghetti in our house.

One of the techniques that we have learned from the many therapists is the kissing technique. You work the undesired food into mealtime by having it on the table. Then you move it to the plate. Then, if the plate doesn't go flying, the food goes on the fork. This is the sticky part. Getting your child to let that food go ANYWHERE within the vicinity of his mouth is sweaty work. Hence, the kissing technique. All you need to require of them is that they kiss the food. Nothing more.

"Here comes the chicken. Mmmm. Sure looks tasty. All you need to do is kiss it."

::headshake, tuck head under table:: "Uh, uh."

"Come on, you can do it. Wow! Looks delicious!"

"No. NO!" Slaps it away.

"JUST KISS THE CHICKEN!!!"

It goes on and on. No progress, just frustration. Our youngest will go dinner after dinner without eating ANYTHING. It doesn't matter what type of desirable food you offer if he just tries it. Nothing works. You feel like the winner of the Worst Parent Ever award when you can't get your kid to eat. I refuse to make alternate meals, so he goes to bed with an empty stomach.

Our kids enjoy a show called Pucca. It's about child ninjas and it's made in Korea, I believe. It's also made of pure speed, right off the streets. Seriously. I go into convulsions from the first few notes of the intro song. It's catchy but oh so dangerous. And I owe it a lot. Because pasta is now our friend.

Our middle child, "S", decided that he wanted to help me cook spaghetti noodles because Chef on Pucca does the same thing. And after you cook noodles, what do you do? Eat them, of course! Which is exactly what he did. It doesn't matter that I've tried to get him involved in cooking meals before. Pucca is the Korean dictator in our household now.

"S" found two plastic sticks that were about two feet long and declared them chopsticks. He sucked down noodle after noodle. He even took the bowl of noodles to bed with him. I couldn't say no! This was the ultimate payoff.

Tonight we had plain spaghetti noodles around during dinner as well. And you know what we saw? Our youngest, handling noodles. A first. He ::ahem:: was decorating a toy bus with the spaghetti. But for us, this was huge. He looked up with a big smile and a wrinkled nose and declared, "Sticky!" And then he went right back to the noodles.

Thank you, Korea.

Truer love never spoken

2009-01-09T17:12:00.002-08:00

"Mom, did you know that boys rule and girls drool? Except one girl of course, and that's you."

I'm feelin' the love.

Hold on tight

2009-01-07T12:47:00.000-08:00

It sounds just like a bad Hallmark channel movie when you compare parenting an autistic child to a rollercoaster ride. But it certainly rings true. Today I hit the part of the ride where the train brakes suddenly and you are thrust forward against the harness.

My son, in a fit of post-school exhaustion, threw his backpack onto the sidewalk in front of our house. I refused to pick it up for him and left it in the rain. Back inside, I reminded him regularly that his backpack would continue to get wet if he did not retrieve it. He refused to retrieve it. We went back and forth.

Finally I got him to go outside with me but when he realized that I still expected him to pick up his own backpack, he tried to go back inside. I closed the door and told him that he would not be able to come in until he had picked it up himself. Then the fit began. He screamed, tore at his pants, punched the glass storm door, jumped up and down, and nearly burst a blood vessel in his forehead. Each time he paused to catch his breath, I quietly reminded him to get his backpack.

It's a testament to the understanding neighborhood friends of mine that the Department of Children and Family Services was not called. His was a cacophony of sound. I wouldn't budge from my requirement that he pick up his own mess. He was beside himself. He was also getting damp from the rain and claimed that a spider was going to crawl out of the nearby plant to get him. I could barely keep a straight face.

He finally grabbed the backpack (after tossing it around the front yard a few times,) chucked it through the open front door, and rocketed himself into the house. I have learned to read the pitch of his voice. The danger note in it and his flailing showed me that physical harm was imminent. He tried to take out his little brother with his feet so I put him in a headlock. We curled up at the base of the stairs, him in my lap. I repeatedly dodged his flailing head, certain that if he made contact he would break my nose.

This was my bad movie moment-- the one where the viewer is supposed to feel sorry for me and go home depressed, or feel grateful that he is not in my shoes. I just held on (a running theme for parents of autistic children) and waited. He was screaming, "Let go of me, mom! AAAHHHHH!!! LET GO OF ME!" Then, suddenly, he went limp in my arms. He laid his head against my neck and pleaded,

"Don't let go of me, mom!"

Hot tears spilled down my face as I knew that we had made it through another loop in the rollercoaster.

To brighten your day

2009-01-04T20:00:00.000-08:00

Just a quote from my oldest. I suppose there are some who would beg to differ with his declaration:

"Mom, did you know that they actually speak English in Texas, too?!!"

Party like it's 1989

2009-01-02T04:57:00.000-08:00

I am such a party animal. And while I discussed my lack of New Years' Eve plans with fellow blogger and neighbor Akaemi, we came to the conclusion that we are both party animals. So naturally, we decided to paint a bedroom in my itty bitty townhome.

This project has been in the works for months. My oldest child is an avid builder, especially of Legos. He will spend hours making fantastical creations. Then along comes my youngest, who can destroy things faster than a nuclear bomb. There is no malice involved, just a pressing need to handle something so amazing. Crunch.

So I'm going to bunk all three boys in aforementioned room and turn the other bedroom into a dressers/books/shoes and Lego building table room. I bought the curtain and rod, picked out the paint chips, took a bunk bed off a friend's hands... and then nothing. I'm sure a shrink could pick apart my inability to finish projects. I'm also sure that mine is a common ailment.

Thanks to Akaemi's encouragement we celebrated New Year's Eve in high style. A lovely coat of sky blue for the ceiling and we called it a night! The next morning we chased away our paint-huffing hangover with a dose of tan paint for the walls. Blue and tan is a color combination that is so in vogue. After the first coat we stepped back to admire our peachy handiwork.

Four peach-colored walls stared back at us. PEACH!!? I chose tan!!! Why are my walls screaming PEACH??? The paint that is dried on the bottom of my socks, clinging to the bathroom sink, plastered across my old college shirt is TAN!!! I'm gonna climb across the paint counter at Home Depot and throttle that salesman.

The combination of light blue ceiling and peach walls brought back crushing memories of 1980's color schemes. Why, why, after this herculean effort did I have to end up peaching the walls of my THREE SONS' bedroom? The room that is the repository of many things masculine in this house? Akaemi was politely neutral (actually, she didn't say much about my color choice. Bad sign.) I crossed my fingers that it was all in my head.

My husband opened the bedroom door and said it all in one recoil:

"WHOA!"

::groan::

Rent-a-Swedish-daughter

2008-12-18T18:16:00.000-08:00

My sister-in-law has alerted me to a program that an IKEA in Seattle runs annually. It's a rent-a-Christmas tree program. Yes, that's right. You can borrow a potted Douglas Fir from those clever Swedes. Only maybe they're not so clever, because they will take the blasted thing back after the holidays. To be recycled. Not composted or thrown away. You can always keep it and make it part of your family by planting it in the yard. But if you return it, you get a $10 IKEA gift card.

So let's imagine that the eco-friendly consumer returns said tree. It is stripped of its garland, glass bulbs, and petrified gingerbread ornaments manufactured in kindergarten. And if the consumer is anything like me and my black thumb, this poor tree is in bad shape. It lists alarmingly to one side, needles cascading at every shiver. Who would recycle this poor creature? Why, IKEA of course! The Scandinavian king of cheap organization! Who else?

Oh, those clever Swedes. I have uncovered the racket. I now announce to the world that IKEA makes its multitude of engineered wood products from... recycled Douglas Firs! Mwah ha ha! ha... ha... huh. Maybe this is something the rest of the world knew already. What a great plan! I propose another!

There is a dearth of daughters in our household. I just adore my boys but every once in a while I start to wonder... what would it be like to borrow a girl for a bit? I'll propose the program to IKEA.

"Yes, I would like to rent a daughter, please. No, it's okay if she only speaks Swedish. Yes, I'll take one that is still in diapers. How much is the deposit? Let me think about this... how much will the gift card be worth when I return her? Phew. I'll take her."

I'll have a grand old time reminding myself why I'm glad I only have sons. Then, when I return her:

"What do you mean, I forfeit the gift card if I return her before puberty?"

Don't dog my spice

2008-12-13T18:03:00.001-08:00

When my parents were newlyweds, my mom made chicken curry for my dad. Apparently the recipe wasn't exactly stellar. He claims that he asked her about the dish in a neutral manner (memory is always a peculiar thing.) She then admitted that she didn't like curry and had omitted it from the dish. So it was chicken... chicken. Hey, she tried! They both giggle at the memory.

Needless to say, I did not grow up eating much curried food. Presently I like using curry for a handful of recipes. It is not, however, a staple spice in our household. I buy it in the smallest size available. The jar usually sits on our spice rack until I decide to make our favorite crockpot recipe; remarkably, it's a chicken dish.

A while ago I was at the grocery store replenishing supplies. I snagged a dinky little curry jar and headed to the check out line. As I unloaded my groceries onto the conveyor belt, I looked up at the checker. It was pretty obvious that she was Indian. I cringed inwardly and wondered what she would say at my pitiful little offering. Maybe she would applaud me for my lame attempt at international flavors? Or maybe she would toss the jar-- and me-- out the door, banishing me from the premises. Or maybe....

She picked up all 1.25 ounces of curry and pondered it for a moment. Then her face cracked into a smile. She giggled. And with a lovely thick accent, a single word:

"Curry!"

She cackled to herself as she scanned the rest of my groceries. I took the grocery bags meekly and headed out the door.

Hey, give me some credit! I'm trying here.

Moving violation

2008-12-10T18:49:00.001-08:00

A good friend of mine is moving her family to Stuttgart, Germany on short notice. So the other night I traveled to her home in a nearby city to help her pack. On top of the house full of stuff, she has a new baby. As we worked, we chatted about having been roommates, the relationship between husband and wife, and raising kids. It was a bittersweet night full of endings that went late into the evening.

I finally drove away around 12:30 a.m. I was tired, it was raining, and the roads were rather empty. I had a lot on my mind. Partway home, I saw police lights flashing. Two cruisers were parked on the median ahead of me. I also suddenly noticed another cruiser parked closer to me and pointed at me, on the median, lights completely out.

Like any driver would, I glanced down at the speedometer. What a Citizen! I was going three miles under the speed limit. I proudly passed the cruisers with their flashing lights and continued home, SO ready to hit the sack.

A minute later red-and-blue flashers lit up my rear-view mirror. Me? I thought. What the heck did I do wrong? I pulled over and waited for the officer. He came up to the window and informed me that I had passed too closely to the cruisers. I should have been in the far right lane. Oh, man. I had nothing to say but to apologize, lamely. He took my license and registration back to his car. I waited the Wait of Shame as cars whizzed past.

When he returned, he handed me a clipboard with the form all filled out.

"This information that I wrote here is what I got from your license and registration. Signing is not an admission of guilt. Please sign here."

"You wrote this information?" I asked. He nodded. "So I should double-check that it's all correct?"

"Uh, well, if you want to. It's all correct."

Now, before you gasp, I did briefly think that he was telling me to double-check to make sure that my address, etc. was correct. But then I realized that it would be an interesting moment of levity. I was tired, mad at myself for my mistake, and ready to lighten the conversation.

"I'm... teasing you."

"Yes, ma'am." Strike one for the humor.

He then proceeded to explain the rule about yielding to emergency vehicles, blah blah. I just nodded at appropriate times. Then I asked:

"So, all these cars that are whizzing past us right now-- they are breaking the rule as well?"

"Well, ma'am, I can't get everyone. Besides, if I tried, it would put me in danger."

"And we definitely want to keep you safe."

"Well, yes, ma'am." He looked surprised.

"I'm teasing you again."

"Yes, ma'am." Strike two. I wasn't going to try for strike three. That might be classified as a felony.

::Sigh:: We'll see what happens on my court date next month.

The Santa Theorem

2008-12-06T04:40:00.001-08:00

My alter ego is that of SAT preparation instructor. I know, it sounds soooo thrilling. People want to come see me almost as badly as a dentist. You know you gotta go, and it's good for you, but man, those nightmares...

I also tutor SAT math. Which is strange, because math was not my strongest subject. But I did adore Geometry. Some of my favorite problems to solve were proofs. I know! Yeeesh! But they made a lot more sense to me than some of the later math that I had to endure.

Turns out I've given birth to a child who has an aptitude for math. It's pleasing to know that "T" is good at it without being a tortured genius. Plus we have various discussions that seem to go beyond his years about things like civil engineering, magic, and why seagulls have claws. His logic is fun to hear and it leads to deep discussions between us. Then came this...

"Mom, is Santa real?"

"What do you think?" (I felt like a I needed a psychiatrist's couch for this one.)

"Well, I know that Santa is magic. And I know that magic isn't real. So does that mean that Santa isn't real?"

A proof! A proof that I must affirm or deny! At stake here was not just a correct test answer, or even a college entrance exam score... it was the beginning of the end of childhood for my oldest. I wavered, cringed, and then wimped out.

"Magic is an important part of our imagination, like in Harry Potter. It's wonderful to have an imagination! Would you like some more Cheerios?" Did I mention that he's easy to distract?

Please Santa, just one more Christmas before I have to prove that theorem.

A few more coins

2008-12-05T18:12:00.000-08:00

You try your hardest to teach your kids to do the right thing. And they tend to honor you in less-than-honorable ways. Like belching at the table at a friend's house on Thanksgiving. Or pitching a fit in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Or shoving people out of the way in the halls at church. Sometimes, you wish you could melt into the floor.

Several days ago the Salvation Army bell-ringer appeared in front of our grocery store. That tell-tale red bucket suspended from a tripod is a definite guilt trip. This year, though, I tried to turn it into a life lesson for my three musketeers. I had a bunch of quarters in my wallet so I handed some to each boy. I explained that we would be helping out people who need food and clothes.

They were thrilled-- to listen for the plunking sound that each coin made. My oldest proudly dropped his in; my middle son, curious for a moment, followed suit. Then my youngest, who was barely tall enough to reach, dropped his coins into the slot and GRABBED the bucket. He spun it around and inspected the lock carefully. Satisfied, he grinned up at the teenage girls who were ringing the bell and, by the sound of their mews, melted their hearts. You can just imagine-- "Awww! He's so cute!"

Several days later we were at the store once again. As we hopped out of the van, "S", our five-year-old autistic son, heard the Salvation Army bell ringing. He darted back into the van, barely missing the automatic door as it clicked shut. He re-emerged with something clutched tightly in his fist. Turns out he had raided a rarely-touched stash of change that he hides in a dark corner of the van.

"S" proudly trotted over to the bucket and deposited his offering. I was so touched by his gesture and wished I could explain to the bell-ringer what had just transpired. As I herded my sons into the store, I marveled at how just a few coins could affirm that indeed, I am doing something right.

Worst. Mom. Ever.

2008-12-04T10:51:00.000-08:00

The youngest of our three boys, "L", is one tough cookie. He is pummeled and pushed and whacked on a daily basis. This treatment comes mostly from his five-year-old brother who has impulse control problems. (The eight-year-old carries the rest of the blame.) I try my best to intervene but thankfully "L" has grown quite a thick skin.

As a parent you learn that your child's response to an injury directly correlates with your reaction to their tumble. It took me a little while but I have learned to keep a neutral face when my children fall or otherwise injure themselves. Ninety percent of the time, after checking your reaction, they jump up, dust themselves off, and go right back to what they are doing. It saves so much energy and emotional effort.

I took "L" to the mall to run some errands. As a treat for sitting patiently in the stroller, we stopped by the indoor playground to wreak havoc for a while. At the playground, there's a lot of screaming and running involved, and every imaginable surface is thoroughly padded. It's like a mental institution, minus the sedatives (although I can't speak for all the parents there.)

The kids must remove their shoes so you've got a bunch of stocking-footed munchkins tearing around the place like there's no tomorrow. On one side there's a 12-inch wide balance beam that is a favorite of the smaller kids. That lovely padded surface, though, is remarkably slick and leads to many a fall. I watched one child after another clamber on, stand up, and ::pffth!:: Down they go. It was mildly entertaining, until "L" came along.

He followed the drill but when he stood up he was just on the edge of the beam. His stocking feet slipped dramatically and he fell full-bodied onto the floor, his head slamming against the edge of the beam on the way down. I tried to school my expression as he lifted his head to see my face, but I failed. Instead, out burst

"Ha ha HA haha ha!"

Mine was a full belly laugh that came out of nowhere. I tried to check myself but it didn't work-- and then "L" hopped up and went right back to what he was doing. There! My lack of impulse control had a purpose! Except... I suddenly noticed that several moms within earshot were staring at me in horror. Yes, that's right! I am the worst mom ever because I laugh at my child. Gimme a break.

I turned away, hid my smile, and controlled the impulse to laugh at them.

Flush with happiness

2008-11-29T19:07:00.000-08:00

Automatic toilets are the bane of my public existence.

I have three little boys in various stages of independence. One thing that they do not vary on, however, is their fear of automatic toilets. What a tragedy! Here is the epitome of cleanliness-- someone to flush for you-- and they avoid it like the plague. If you were in the stall next to mine, you'd think I was torturing them:

"Please, please, just go potty."

"No, mom, NOOOOOO! It's too loud! It's TOO LOUD!"

"Here, I'll cover your ears for you. Now go."

"The light is flashing... there it goes! It's gonna flush! IT'S GONNA FLUSH! AAAAHHH!!"

Next comes the shrieking and the stomping. That would be my eight-year-old. Now, my five-year-old doesn't bother to shriek. He simply throws all his weight against mine and drives me backward, out of the stall, and pins me against the opposite wall. Who knew that a little guy with pants around his ankles could move an amazon woman.

My five-year-old-- we'll call him S-- is autistic, and tends to anthropomorphize items, especially appliances. Toilets apparently fall into this category. I've always wondered how he classifies automatic toilets in that brain of his, besides the "avoid at all costs" category. Once he is informed that I expect him to use a public toilet, his first question is, "Is it audomadic?" This, of course, means that I have to investigate and report. He will immediately reject any automatic toilet and his bladder will turn to steel. It's disturbing but admirable at the same time.

Several days ago we took the D.C. Metro into the city for the Christmas tree lighting at Union Station. Riding the Metro is the penultimate of existence for my boys, so this was heaven. We missed the lighting ceremony, but it didn't matter! We got to ride the Metro! We had a lovely visit and ate some delicious pizza.

On our way out of the station, we made a potty stop. I cringed at the idea that we might be doing the toilet dance. But lo and behold, the people at Union Station are traditionalists. No automatic toilets to be found. I was thrilled, the boys were thrilled, and we had a successful stop.

S was so glad to have been spared the agony of automation. As we walked away from the restroom, he turned and ran back to the doorway. He threw his arms wide, exclaiming, "I love you, bathroom!" and hugged the doorframe tightly.

I think we'll be going back to visit that restroom-- er, I mean, Union Station.

No Thanks for the Giving

2008-11-27T04:57:00.000-08:00

I'd like to bring to light a conspiracy that no one has uncovered. It is that of the disappearing Thanksgiving holiday. Interestingly enough, the Jewish people have two types of holidays: major and minor. The major ones, as you can imagine, involve buying gifts and preparing food and lots of hoopla. The minor ones merely get a passing notice. Thanksgiving is rapidly devolving into a minor holiday in this country, which I consider a great loss.

If Thanksgiving disappears over the course of time, who will celebrate it? The Native Americans? Right. 'Cause it marks such a happy time in the history of their people. Ah--maybe that's it? Why Thanksgiving is a non-holiday? Because it's no longer politically correct?

Why do retailers skip so egregiously over the holiday? Maybe it's the lack of choices in decorations. What would retailers hang up in their windows to attract customers? Turkey feathers? And the cornucopias-- oh, the carnage! Imagine a full cornucopia hung decorously over the front door of a store. The cord breaks... the cornucopia teeters and out pours the contents... customers are beaned in the head with corn and squash and millions of acorns. Now that would make headlines.

Not to mention the limited musical selection. Shoppers would be inundated with songs about food, no matter what store they were at. And all those songs would have one word in the oft-repeated chorus: "Gobble, gobble!" Customers would lose their marbles en masse.

On second thought, maybe we'll leave the holiday as it is. A time to hang with the family or friends, spend a lot of time baking pies, and eat way too much food. Now THAT is a truly American pastime.

Rocky Horror Twilight Show

2008-11-21T19:50:00.001-08:00

I would like to propose a new movie rating system. This new system will address the decibel level of the audience. It can be in addition to the current rating system-- I don't care. Just slap a warning on any upcoming doozies. Because thanks to the new Twilight movie, I am now deaf in both ears and my brain.

Yes, I read the books. Yes, I enjoyed them like a twinkie (thanks to the hilarious cleolinda for that fabulous analogy.) And yes, I told a few of my friends about the books. I even got to meet the author (briefly!) at a book signing and find out that she is an everyday mom like me. Except she's a bazillionaire with millions of books in print. That's okay, I won't hold it against her.

I read in one of my screenwriting magazines that the female scribe for this movie was handed the job right before the Hollywood money-hungry writer's strike. That meant that she had FIVE weeks to write the stupid thing. Oh, man. I almost returned my ticket right then. But I didn't.

I saw the trailer online and got a little excited. Then I saw one on t.v. and noticed that all the quoted praise across the bottom of the screen only mentioned the Twilight phenomenon in general. NOTHING about the quality of the movie. Oh, man. I should have paid attention. But I didn't.

I waited in line on opening night and tried to shrink my 6'2" self down to a prepubescent size so I would blend in, but I couldn't.

Instead I sat with my friends, half of whom had not read the book, and waited for the movie to start. We could taste the anticipation in the air. Pheromones and Junior Mints. It was like sitting in a room full of cats with ADD.

Then came the screaming. Not out of fear, or horror, or disgust. It was simply because the actors were first appearing onscreen. No, wait! That was just the title sequence! This audience was wound so tight I was sure the theater was going to disintegrate before they could rest their greedy little eyes on the male lead.

And so it went. The audience members knew the book by heart. And since the movie was faithful to the book, the viewers knew what was coming next (so much for suspense.) First twittering, then giggling, then a near-silent scream opening up to a full-throated screech in unison. Oh, my brain. My brain! I wanted the actors to die -- or anything-- so I didn't have to put up with this assault on my eardrums! The squealing was sending me into reverse puberty!

All complaints about permanent hearing damage aside, it was entertaining to be there. The audience participation was nearly on par with Rocky Horror viewers, minus the fishnets and flying toast. I laughed quite often, albeit at the wrong places. The dialogue and special effects were so bad that I think the director was going for camp rather than anything else. Though it may have been lost on the audience's youth-- I don't think they know what camp is.

Time to find myself a pair of hearing aids. I'm getting too old for this.

Forget Diplomacy

2008-11-17T06:56:00.000-08:00

I inherited a tendency to avoid conflict at all costs from my mother. So when I chose to study diplomacy via International Relations in college, it was a tad ironic. Diplomacy involves lots of back-and-forth. Diplomats also try not to use threats because it stalls the process.

I suppose that I can mark the start of my journey away from conflict avoidance with my entry into high school basketball. Someone would clock me in the head or knock me to the floor and I would fight back by playing harder. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "Ooooh, she's so tough! She played harder!" But you must realize that it was a big step for me.

Flash forward to last week. Our water heater's life ended with an epic failure. It was way past its prime; still, what did we do to deserve the flood? We shut off the water to the unit. More water. We shut off the water to the house. More water. It was frightening to see how fast it poured out and we could do NOTHING to stop it.

I called our home warranty company and explained to them just how major our situation was. Their question, "Is there property damage?" Yes!!! Our carpet is swimming! Please help! It was eight o'clock at night. They promised to get a contractor out to the house. Two hours later I called back. "Oh, no one has contacted you yet?" No!!! We are still bailing out our basement WITH BUCKETS! Please help! Two hours later I called again. "We will try to get a third contractor on your claim." Gee, thanks. I wondered just what I would have to say to convince them that our situation was an EMERGENCY!!! I was tempted to take a drink of water and gurgle into the phone, "We're drowning!" We waited, all night, for them to call us back.

In the meantime, we had to set our alarm clock for every forty five minutes. The husband and I took turns getting up, emptying the bucket, and sucking the water off the hard floor and out of the carpet. It was like having a newborn again. Frequent nighttime wakings, out-of-control liquid emissions. We were exhausted.

The next morning I took my urchins to the bus. When I arrived home, I plunked down with the phone and was determined not to get up again until I had results. Here is my conversation, once the agent on the line knew of my situation:

"I really don't know how I can emphasize to you how desperate our situation is. This is BAD. We are WET. I am EXHAUSTED. And nothing is happening on your end."

"Let me see if I can find an available contractor for you.... (long pause) Ma'am? I apologize, but the only contractor we can find is not available until tomorrow."

Twenty-four more hours of this? You've got to be kidding. Alright. The gloves are off. You've knocked me on my on butt and thumped my head in the process.

"This is not acceptable. I cannot wait that long, and more of my property will be damaged while I wait! I am going to call my OWN contractor and bill it to YOU!" Wow, what a threat. So much for diplomacy.

Apparently, that was all I needed to say. They had a plumber on the way ten minutes later.

Birthday

2008-11-14T13:41:00.000-08:00

Dear T,

My last letter to you was lighthearted and fun. I don't want you to take this one less seriously because of it. Today you are eight. I have traveled to foreign countries and had great adventures and taken on various names in foreign languages. But nothing compares to what you symbolize.

Celebrating my oldest child's birthday is a funny thing. It marks the advent of motherhood. It makes me feel older. It reminds me of how far I've come. And it makes me stand back and realize that yes, indeed, you are no longer my baby. Somehow my brain continues to superimpose that baby face of yours onto your current features. When I step back and your eight year old face comes into focus, it is startling.

I don't think anyone is truly prepared to become a parent. And if your friends who are already parents are worth their salt, they won't really tell you what it's like. The emotional highs go higher, and the lows go lower. You realize that humans can actually survive on little-to-no sleep for long periods of time, though mental stability might go out the window. You wonder just how the human race perpetuates itself when so much work goes into a singular, tiny creature.

I distinctly remember one night. It was late and I was up feeding you. I was struggling with post-partum depression but I still had moments of true joy. As I cradled your tiny body against my shoulder, I worked on getting that elusive burp that always brought about your great contentment. I mulled over how physically close you were to my heart and how much I truly loved you. And at that moment, I just wanted to wrap my body around yours and keep you there, always, in this tiny form, forever. I knew it wasn't possible, so I cried.

But I am okay with it now. You are no longer an appendage of mine. You leave my side every day to go to school, and someone else watches over you. You come home safely and back into my arms, however briefly, before you head off into one of your adventures with toys or friends. You still have that cute little nose and deep, black eyes that fascinate me. But I no longer cuddle your tiny head against the curve of my neck and feel your downy newborn hair. I miss it, yet I welcome the future.

You are my daily reminder of the start of my greatest adventure of all.

Just kidding

2008-11-13T06:15:00.001-08:00

For the purpose of keeping my children off the radar, I shall call my seven-year-old "T".

Dear T,

We have been telling you for seven years that your birthday is on November 14th. What silly jokers we are! Yes, I realize that we were there for that eventful birth. And no, we are not old enough to be losing our marbles. But we have to admit that we've just been pulling your leg.

This has nothing to do with the fact that the economy has gone down the drain. Or that mommy's job is slow at the moment. Or the fact that the dryer choked and we had to have it fixed. Or that the dishwasher leaked into the basement and had to be replaced. Or that our water heater has exploded and is now draining onto the utility room floor.

No, we are just forgetful, loving parents who would like to correct their mistakes and tell you that you were in fact born... on... April 10. Yes, that's it! In five months we will celebrate your birthday with a huge party and lots of presents and plenty of sugar. I know, I know. We shouldn't have been joking all this time. But we love you all the same. Happy Birthday! Here's your lollipop.

Now, can you help me bail some of this water out from under the water heater?

(For those of you who worry, don't. Should the rain let up, "T" and several friends will be on a miniature golf course this Saturday to celebrate his eighth year on this planet. If the rain continues, we'll invade the local movie theater for "Madagascar 2", which I'm sure will provide plenty of blog fodder.)

Amazon Utopia

2008-11-12T06:05:00.000-08:00

I am a very tall person. And my dimensions are not typical-- very long arms and legs, broad shoulders, big feet, not much meat to me. I've got the dimensions of a model but not the megawatt face or abysmal dietary habits. Before I continue, let me just remind you, the grass is always greener.

Clothing is hard to come by. Maternity clothing was even harder to come by, but that ship has sailed. I celebrate when I find a single item of clothing that fits me, truly fits me. Add on top of that the fact that due to my faith I choose to keep my shoulders, stomach, and thighs covered. This leaves me with a very small sample of clothing to choose from. I can't just walk into the mall and shop for clothes. It doesn't work that way.

Instead I have one mail-order catalog that I can look through once a quarter from a company called Long Elegant Legs. They have cute stuff sometimes but the quality is hit-and-miss. Frankly, I'm just glad to find a t-shirt that I can wear, so I bite the bullet and accept that the clothes probably won't last as long as I'd like.

Enter my next-door-neighbor. She introduces me to a store called Tall Girl. This is a real store. In a mall. That I can go visit. And try on the clothes. Wa-hoo! I had to go see this marvel for myself, so I made the pilgrimage to the closest store in Tysons Corner, VA. I was beside myself with anticipation.

When I walked in, angels sang the Hallelujah Chorus. No one checked my I.D. at the door to see if I was a certifiable Tall Girl, but it was obvious that I fit in. Every woman there was an Amazon like me. I nodded regally to a few of them, acknowledging the sisterhood we shared. Then I got to work.

The racks were taller to accommodate longer pants. There were dresses, coats, skirts, jeans-- all the normal stuff but in my size! I could barely contain my glee as I explored the store's offerings. A few times I even got a little misty-eyed at the prospect of coming back each season. A winter coat that will go down to my wrists! Pajamas that keep my ankles warm! This was my Valhalla, my Utopia. The streets of heaven will be lined with 36" inseam pants!

Thank you, Tall Girl, for acknowledging my existence and my need to wear clothes.

L'chaim, L'chaim, to Bingo!

2008-11-11T04:40:00.000-08:00

Read my 60-second Esther story and the celebration of Purim if you want to get my silly references in this post.

Several weeks ago I attended my first elementary school bingo night with my seven-year-old, who desperately wanted to go. I did not feel the same way, but I obliged. The gym was packed to the gills with be-costumed children and parents who wore the same tolerant expression that I did.

One costume that I saw repeatedly was this pink and orange swirly, sequiny two-piece dress with a matching headscarf and white go-go boots. I saw this costume run past me repeatedly on girls of various shapes and sizes. What I also noticed was that it didn't quite cover all their strategic areas, so most girls had to wear both shorts and a t-shirt underneath this dress. Now, I am not a mother of daughters, so I could be wrong, but when you have to dress your child in an entirely additional outfit under their dress, MAYBE YOU SHOULD TRY A DIFFERENT COSTUME. Just sayin'.

It was a bizarre look. I heard someone ask what they were supposed to be, and a set of three identically dressed girls announced, "A hippie!" Huh. I don't remember this double-outfit trend (or sequins, for that matter) in any drug-addled war protest pictures I've seen. But I digress.

So the gym was packed with costumed kids hopped-up on sugar and ready to rumble in the bingo scene. We started into our first of ten games and it was eerily quiet. The letters and numbers would appear on the power point screen as the announcer called them out. My son was eating it up, sure he would win one of these games, the $100 grand prize, and the capacity to buy himself a huge Lego castle set.

Eventually someone announced a winning card, and as they ran to the front to confirm, the most bizarre thing happened. The gym erupted in the chant, "False alarm! False alarm!" They were stomping and clapping and rockin' the house. Now, it's been a while since I've attended a typical bingo night. But I don't think it's a stretch to say that the typical senior citizen attendees of said bingo nights would not be screaming fit to shake the gym down. The cacophony continued until the winner was announced or the player was sent back to his/her seat in disgrace for accidentally marking the wrong square.

As my ears rang at the end of every game, I was reminded of the Purim celebration-- a packed room, costumes, sugared-up kids, and people screaming to drown out the dreaded word. It was a flashback to my visit to the synagogue in Jerusalem. But this time, the only thing at stake was a Lego castle.

Walking for autism

2008-11-09T17:29:00.000-08:00

You may have read some of my accounts of parenting an autistic child (such as the Waterford fair story.) Most of them detail struggles and worries. Yesterday, however, was a day of celebration and hope.

Our family participated in the Walk Now for Autism, a fundraising event that occurs all over the country at different times and in different cities. We live near Washington, D.C. Our local team was one of the largest to participate. We were blessed with beautiful weather, a huge crowd of participants, and lots of metropolitan police to block off strategic streets.

An event like this is certainly one to remember. Most parents of autistic children cringe at the idea of carting their children to a place with masses of people. Multiple unknown factors combined with unpredictable behaviors equals stressed out parents. But when everyone has a child like yours, it makes life a lot easier. My son is prone to sensory-seeking behaviors like bumping into random people, turning them into irritated random people. At the walk, all he got was smiles.

Looking around at the crowd truly sobered me. It was amazing to see so many people touched by autism. There were t-shirts of all colors, some detailing autism statistics (1 in 150 children,) some with pictures of a beloved child or adult, some with positive slogans or team names. I was so touched by the hopeful nature of this event that I spent most of the walk fighting back tears.

The most remarkable memory I will keep with me is that of the families. It was usually quite obvious who the autistic member of each family was. They were the ones who were in the middle, circled around by the rest of their family like satellites. They might be adults, teens, or toddlers, but their handicaps or challenges were quite apparent.

I looked at my family, and I realized that we are not the same as many others. Our autistic son is not immediately obvious to a casual observer. He looks "typical" (the academic word for what people would call "normal") and can hold a conversation most of the time. He can walk at a regular pace without assistance. His brain can process what people say and he can act on it.

The lesson: there is always someone with a tougher road than mine. I need to be grateful for what I have rather than what I don't.

(Insert hop here)

2008-11-08T13:47:00.000-08:00

When I was little, I had pet rabbits. Notice the plural. It started with one, then one more, and then... a deluge of baby rabbits. They were coming out of my ears. They pillaged the backyard of anything green up to 24" high. My parents were very patient, and that poor backyard has never quite recovered.

One of the things I loved about the rabbits was their random movements. They had bizarre little twitches that would hit out of the blue. Sometimes it was while they were stationary-- a random popcorn jump that would make me giggle. Sometimes it was while they were in motion. In midair, they would change direction 180 degrees and head back the other way. Those moments would send me, laughing, to the floor. I loved those fuzzy little puffballs all the more for it.

One of the conditions that some autistic children have is difficulty with sensory processing. It's like their brain struggles with properly digesting all the input that they receive from the world around them. One example is tickling.

You and I know that tickling is a form of socialization and friendly physical contact. But the nerve pathway that transmits tickling input also transmits pain input. In people who have sensory processing difficulties, their brains might tell them that the person who is playing with them is actually trying to hurt them. You can imagine the social and relational problems that would follow a pain- rather than a tickle-reaction.

My five-year-old struggles with sensory under-stimulation. He doesn't get the same input from everyday actions like you and I do. Walking, for example. To get the same amount of stimulation as a typical person, he would need to stomp, stomp, STOMP along. This sensory need leads to uncomfortable and sometimes embarrassing situations when we leave the house. He has created some coping mechanisms, some of which are socially unacceptable, and some of which are downright cute.

A recent addition to his repertoire is random hopping. Nothing elaborate, just a tiny hop. Sometimes he'll be standing nearby and I'll see him elevate for a moment. And sometimes it will be in the middle of a conversation.

"Mom, at school today, I used paints ^hop^
and made a pumpkin ^hop^
and it GOT ALL OVER MY ELBOW ^hop^ ^hop^."

This new habit of his is quite endearing. I hope he keeps it up for a while. It makes me want to hold him close and squeeze him tightly, a sensory experience that we both enjoy.

^hop^

Sticks and snails and puppy dog tails

2008-11-07T17:40:00.000-08:00

Just yesterday, I was discussing with fellow blogger Akaemi about how I prefer boys to girls. Now, I could be a little biased. But I declared to her, "I prefer dirt and ER visits to the emotional games that girls play." Boy, have I got to be more careful about what I say.
__________________

Before-school preparations consume my peak multi-tasking skills. I'm waking children, changing diapers, dressing children, checking homework folders, preparing breakfast, packing lunches, and trying to keep the house from burning down simultaneously. I've gotten pretty good at it. But I am not a superhero.

This morning I was helping my kindergartner put on his shoes while talking on the phone with my husband about paperwork. My two-year-old had just whomped me in the glasses with a large plastic stick and I think he was feeling guilty. So I didn't notice when he disappeared around the corner.

Suddenly I heard a cry. Not the "I hurt my foot" cry or the "my brother bonked me" cry. It was the "I'm really hurting so come to me right now" cry. And then he yelled out, "Dere's blood!" I hung up on my husband as I dashed into the kitchen. And he was right. There was blood. All over his hands. He held a knife in one hand while the other reached out to me pleadingly. The blood was already pooling on the floor. The poor penitent child had tried to help me slice an apple for the lunches.

I grabbed a paper towel and tried to staunch the flow. I checked his hand and saw just a slice across his index finger, but there was an alarming amount of blood. We soaked through one, two, three paper towels. I looked up at my other boys who were watching fearfully. I had to make a decision: take them with me to the doctor/hospital or send them off to the bus alone? My seven-year old helped put pressure on the wound while I finished packing their lunches and sent them out the door. He is my little hero, taking his autistic five-year-old brother to the bus for me so I could concentrate on the little one.

I finally stopped the bleeding and checked the wound. It was borderline stitch country. So I packed him off to the pediatrician. A nurse and a doctor both said he needed stitches, so I headed to the local pediatric ER. The nurse there wasn't sure and she brought in a doctor. He wasn't sure either so he brought in another doctor. All in all, it took one pediatric co-pay, one ER copay, and five medical professionals to decide that stitches were not an option. Apparently the skin on fingers heals differently than the rest of the body, especially on children. Plus, kids regenerate faster than a lizard's tail. They sent me home with a package of Steri-strips and a pat on the back.

After I strapped the little one into his car seat, I plunked down into my seat and heaved a great sigh. I was already exhausted at 9:00 in the morning. I turned to my freshly bandaged two-year-old and he smiled at me. Then he said,

"Thank you, mommy. Thank you."

Yep, I still prefer boys.

Wisdom in a Rolling Stone

2008-11-06T17:02:00.000-08:00

While excavating the top of our computer desk today, I came across a petrified cocoon. I suppose that if I could carbon-date the thing, I could tell you exactly how long it's been there. But I'm pretty sure it's from this past spring.

The neighborhood was lousy with brown and yellow-striped caterpillars. They were everywhere, in every form-- alive and unmolested, or captured by the local children, or squashed to oblivion by a passing bicycle tire. My gaggle of boys decided to bring one home-- "Can we keep it, mom?" I figured it wouldn't poop on the carpet so hey, why not. The caterpillar got a leaf, an orange slice, and a little plastic bug box on a corner of the kitchen counter. Then we did what little boys do oh, so well: we waited.

Several days into our vigil I noticed that the caterpillar was spinning threads in its box. We gathered round and watched the caterpillar systematically spin from one part of the box to another. But the boys' attention span was gone in a flash so I tucked him back into his corner. The finished cocoon was a lovely pale green. Again, we waited, for about two weeks. It was torture for the little ones. I kept reminding them of the beautiful butterfly that we would soon meet.

Finally I saw movement in the box and once again gathered them around. We leaned in closely, hoping to catch the first glimpse of new color and life. And then, AHHHHH! Repulsion! We all recoiled. Instead of a bright, slender butterfly there was a fat, hairy, monochromatic moth. The number of antennae was WAY past the legal limit. Worst of all, from my vantage point through the magnifying lens on top, the monstrosity looked like something one would find battling Godzilla in the streets of Tokyo. I nearly dropped the box.

I muttered some lame "nature is beautiful" excuse for the poor thing as my boys made their escape back to legos and playdough. Then I took our new houseguest and ushered him out to the front yard. He found a place amongst the sprouting mums by the window.

As I walked back inside, these lyrics ran through my head, "You can't always get what you want..."

Labor of love part deux

2008-11-05T18:36:00.000-08:00

I started this train of thought here but didn't finish it due to the length of the post... or maybe it was because I fell asleep on the keyboard. I can't quite recall...

I'd been up to my elbows in fuzzy fleece and stringy thread and flimsy tissue paper patterns for the week leading up to Hallowe'en. My clothes have a fine film of fleecy lint. My contacts don't let me focus close-up so I looked like an old lady squinting at the sewing machine needle as it threaded. My fingers are cracked and raw. It was only out of love that I didn't chuck the whole project out the window.

It's safe to say that I put every effort into this last-minute project, and I learned many things:

1) Don't do this again.
2) If you do do this again, give yourself more time. And find a stress-management technique that doesn't require your hands or your pedal foot.
3) Making Hallowe'en costumes does not give you permission to yell at your two-year-old when he plays with the needles or spool YET AGAIN. Your baby is more important than your project.

I also learned to step back and look at the costumes through the eyes of my children. They had a vision. So did I. Mine involved perfect seams and adorable little details. Theirs involved becoming characters from t.v. that do wonderful, impossible things. My vision did not matter. Theirs did.

I won't remember every mistake I made on these costumes, but I'll tell you what I will remember: the way my seven-year-old's body language changed when I put on the last bit of his outfit. The way he darted around the house like a little platypus spy. And what is seared into my memory is the smile that shone on my five-year-old's face as I pulled the costume over his head. His pleasure at becoming Ferb in that moment. I rarely see such a smile.

All my insignificant perfectionist worries fell away and made me realize that it was, actually, all worth it. I hope some day my children will have the same attitude about me as they do their costumes. I have plenty of imperfections and missing details that they may overlook. But I do my best, and at the end of the day, I do it for love.

From the mouths of babes

2008-11-03T04:31:00.000-08:00

My seven-year-old tumbled off the bus with an "I voted" sticker on his chest. His school had held a presidential election and he was jazzed about it. I asked him who he voted for and he proudly announced, "Obamu! Or however you say it."

As we walked home, I mused over the landmark nature of this election. Our country will finally have diversity in the Oval office, whether it be a woman or an African-American man. The issues are incredibly divisive. I'm not old enough to remember the world before Reagan. And I take much greater interest in international politics than domestic issues. But let's face it, you have to be living in a hole to not understand how the world is changing and how this election will break ground.

I also marveled at how my children's generation may finally be growing up blind to the color of skin. My parents tried to raise me that way, but I still learned racial slurs from others throughout my childhood. I do my best to teach my kids not just tolerance but love for the diversity of human beings on our sorry little planet. So I was thrilled to know that the color of Obama's skin gave my child nary a pause-- it wasn't even a factor.

Later, when we were alone, I asked him why he voted for Obama. I imagined something simple and profound that I could share with all of you. His response?

"Well, this girl Elaine in my class, she said that he will be really nice to the kids who get off the bus."

Ah, proof as to why you have to be eighteen to vote.

Purim

2008-11-01T19:30:00.001-07:00

You can read my summary of the Purim story here.

Purim is celebrated in the Jewish synagogue. Since one of the underlying themes of the story is "people are not always what they seem," many Jews wear costumes for the holiday (quite a few also get extraordinarily drunk, but I digress.) Some dress up as characters from the story, others simply dress up. And then there are the Americans.

There are a lot of American Jews living in Jerusalem. I attended a local synagogue for Purim that was largely attended by Americans. It looked... just like Hallowe'en (minus the glut of candy.) There were clowns and cowboys and railroad engineers. I heard people speaking American English everywhere. It was strange.

Jews commemorate the story of Purim by listening to the story as it's read aloud, in a sing-song chant called cantillation that I find haunting and exotic. Everyone sits and enjoys the story until the reader says the name "Haman." And then...

SCREAM! SCREECH! HOWL! :: STOMP STOMP::

The entire synagogue erupts in a startling cacophony of sound. I was caught off-guard, though not surprised. It's just that I don't speak a whole lot of Hebrew and I wasn't keeping up very well with the reading. I glanced around, wide-eyed and smiling as I understood that the pandemonium was just part of the ritual.

The idea is to obliterate the name of evil, namely Haman. So you stomp and clap and scream your heart out at each and every mention of his name. It makes for a long night.

As a side note, there is a neat little cookie they serve just on this holiday. They are called Hamantashen, or Haman's ears. It's a circle folded in on itself so it has three points, and it's filled with fruit preserves or seeds and nuts. Apparently the cannibalistic overtones of this tasty little snack don't seem to bother many (or they're too drunk to care.)

Labor of love

2008-11-01T17:43:00.000-07:00

My recent escapade to create a costume for my seven-year-old has really started me thinking. Thanks to two fellow bloggers, Shelli and Akaemi (both of whom live on my street... I really need to get out more,) I was able to finish nearly everyone's costume in time for the Hallowe'en frivolities.

I completed the Perry the Platypus costume just in time for our church Hallowe'en party. And since I'm a glutton for punishment, and a sucker for my five-year-old's long dark eyelashes, I agreed to make a Ferb costume (another character from Phineas and Ferb.) One more trip to the fabric store. And more head-banging on the steering wheel, "What am I THINKING??? I don't have time or brain power for this!!!" I've been using Akaemi's sewing machine, which is missing its regular sewing foot (imagine that it holds the fabric against the machine) so I've used the zipper foot (yeah, meant for zippers!) instead. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Then I discover that the white thread I was planning to use was not the right kind. Shelli lends me this MASSIVE spool of white thread for people who know what they are doing. Sadly, I do not, and the little machine did not have a place for the spool. So I MacGyvered a contraption on top of the machine using parts from a broken-down Jelly Belly dispenser. My baby brother would be proud-- he's going to be a mechanical engineer when he grows up.

I finished the Ferb costume a few hours before dark. Then, of course, to complete the entourage, I HAD to make sure that Ferb's brother, Phineas, was well-represented. AAARGH! This time it was fanatical desperation. I cut out strips of orange fabric and basted (wanna-be stitched) the strips onto a white shirt. Combine it with a pair of jeans and Ta-DAA! Hey, the kid is two years old. He doesn't care.

My only regret is that I did not finish my husband's costume in time. He was going to wear a lab coat and be Perry's nemesis Dr. Doofenshmirtz. But I AM NOT A SUPERHERO and I did not get it done in time. Some day I will learn.

Old-school women's lib

2008-10-30T18:47:00.001-07:00

In 1997 I studied overseas in Jerusalem. While there, I had the privilege of observing and participating in various holidays for the three major world religions. It was a fantastic experience. One of my favorites was the minor Jewish holiday of Purim. Here's my version of the Purim story:

***
Purim celebrates the delivery of the Jews from annihilation while they were in exile in Persia. The star of the show is Esther, who became queen after the original queen, Vashti, refused the king's order to strip naked in front of the court (technically it's "display her beauty" but considering the patriarchal society, I don't think it's a stretch.) My response would have been a swift right hook. But poor Vashti didn't have the decades of women's liberation movement behind her like I do.

Along comes Esther, handpicked by the king from all the fully-clothed women of the Persian empire. What good ol' king Ahaseurus doesn't know is that Esther is Jewish (oh no, she didn't!) Esther turns out to be pretty good at her queenly duties, discreetly watching out for her peeps with help from her cousin Mordechai, who's on the inside.

Enter big, bad Haman. He's the newly appointed Prime Minister. He gets ticked at Mordechai and plots to kill not just Mordechai but all Jews in the empire. Esther catches word of it and orders the Jews to stop eating (okay, to fast) and pray-- for three days. Then she puts on her best threads and bling to appear before the king. There's a feast with Esther, king Ahaseurus, and big bad Haman, who thinks he's all that.

Then there's another feast. Haman is livin' large as PM and Esther is decked out once again. But sista's got plans. She tells Ahaseurus about Haman's evil scheme to kill all Jews, including herself. The king pops a cap in Haman (technically, he hangs him.) But Haman's extermination order can't be repealed, so Esther and Mordechai write a new law that allows the Jews to defend themselves. Mayhem and blood ensue. Later, Mordechai is appointed one of the king's brothas.

***

Dishwasher, meet Platypus

2008-10-27T04:39:00.000-07:00

We recently had to buy a new dishwasher. This was due to a grim diagnosis given by the repair man (the appliance was, after all, fifteen years old.) We also needed to get rid of it because it was creating a puddle on the floor below it. My escapade to buy the thing is chronicled in an earlier post.

Anyway, our five-year-old took a shine to our brand new dishwasher, and it has become his not-so-imaginary friend. He talks to it, sometimes from across the room. He checks to make sure it is closed properly. And he invites it to dance with him. It doesn't seem to matter that the dishwasher never talks back, except when it delivers delightfully clean dishes.

Flash forward to Hallowe'en. My seven-year-old, for a long time, wanted to be Yoda this year. I went online to find a budget-friendly costume but didn't actually order one yet, which was a good call. About a week ago he changed his mind and declared that he wanted to be Perry the Platypus from the Disney show Phineas and Ferb. Why a platypus? He may be a cross-eyed teal colored lump some of the time but he's also a spy-- a semi-aquatic egg-laying mammal of action. Brown fedora and everything.

Once again I went online, only to discover that the show is too new to have an established line of costumes. Get with it, Disney! Usually you are so on top of things. I hit the fabric store and decided to make a teal-colored sweatsuit. The challenge? To find some creative way to attach a long, flat tail in such a way that he won't get a wedgie when he sits down. So that's my current project of desperation. I stayed up until 12:30 this morning in hopes of sewing enough of the costume that I could have him try the costume on, then I would hem the pants and sleeves while he was at school. But my two-year-old had other plans.

My alarm did not go off. Or should I say, the time was changed. By tiny fingers, I believe. I woke with a start and saw that it was too late to do any costume work before school. Aargggh! I stayed up late for nothing!!! As I frantically packed lunches and prepared breakfast and dressed children I heard my five-year-old say, from the next room,

"Watch out for the platypus, Mr. Dishwasher."

The Guilt

2008-10-23T18:43:00.000-07:00

I have the guilt. The guilt that all parents feel when they have too many school projects lying around the house. Seriously. For those of you who do not have children, I'll describe it for you: mountains of paper, in every nook and cranny, on every level surface that can hold something. It's viral. It's intimidating.

I know that teachers want us to see that our child is doing something during the day. That they are making progress. I get that. But when you consider how much they are sending home, you really wonder about their motivation. Multiply those projects by 25 students, and it becomes clear. In the words of the late, great comedian Mitch Hedberg, it's like they're sending home the projects and saying, "Here, YOU throw this away."

I made a colossal school-project mistake recently. It was my choice of garbage bag that did me in. I had discreetly tucked my 7-year-old's schoolwork into the bottom of the kitchen trash bag and covered it with various and sundry kitchen cast-offs. What I did not consider was the only-slightly opaque nature of the white Costco trash bags that we use. On trash day, my son spotted the covertly disposed schoolwork and threw a fit. He apparently was quite attached to his math work of weeks gone by and did not want to see it go. After his much weeping and wailing and my refusal to go dumpster diving, I wrested the bag to the curb. Thank goodness he's got a short memory.

I once heard of a great idea from a parenting magazine/public service t.v. spot/Dalai Lama or somewhere. The idea is to place your child's beloved work into a gigantic envelope and mail it off to a poor, unsuspecting grandparent. It's like telling your child that his deceased Rover has gone to live at Happy Farm with all the other doggies. The child is appeased and thrilled to know that his work is in a better place.

But what of the inhabitants of that "better place?" Do these poor grandparents really know what has hit them? A manifestation of love in a deluge of paper. Actually, it's more like me saying across 3,000 miles, "Here, YOU throw this away!"

Say what?

2008-10-05T16:44:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday evening I happened upon a water puddle on the floor of our basement. It was in a strange place, which prompted me to look up rather than around. Sure enough, water was dripping from the crossbeams. I noted the sound of our locomotive-style dishwasher whooshing away and thought, oh dear. Or something like that.

So I did some research online and found that dishwashers are impossible to shop for in cyberspace. I would just have to shop the good old-fashioned way. I am a very tall person and therefore need to be particular about the dimensions of an appliance with which I spend so much of my time. After a trip to Home Depot and a chat with a salesperson, I found what I liked. Then I went home and searched thoroughly online for any consumer complaints. Nothing. Hopefully it's a good sign.

On Friday I went back to Home Depot with the entire gaggle of boys in tow. There was a different salesperson this time, a woman. I asked her to follow me and told her that I was ready to buy a dishwasher. I pointed to the one I wanted and pulled out my wallet. She took one look at my face, glanced at my boys, and said, "You are ready to buy a dishwasher. Let's get this done."

We scrolled through the many features on a computer screen. I didn't care about most of them, just the the child lock-out button and the Sanitize option for when the stomach flu makes a round in our house. There were so many lovely features that it seemed Maytag had it all covered. Except for one.

"Would you like to purchase a power cord?"

"I'm sorry. My boys were hanging each other over the side of the cart by their toes. What was that?

"A power cord."

"You've got to be kidding me." Most of the time I can employ a verbal filter instantaneously, thus avoiding any uncomfortable situations. This was not one of those times. "The dishwasher doesn't come with a power cord?!!"

She looked sheepish and assured me that this was a relatively new thing that Maytag was doing. Oh, how comforting. I wonder what else is not included with the dishwasher.

"Well, since I intend to USE the dishwasher, I suppose I would NEED TO BUY A POWER CORD."

I mean, really. How ridiculous is that? Is this the new trend in appliances? Maytag: "Yes, we know you want our product but here's the true test of whether you're actually going to use it. Will you buy the... (drumroll please) power cord?"

I suppose the hundreds of dollars I had already handed over wasn't proof enough.

ADDENDUM: When we unpackaged the new dishwasher, we discovered that yes, indeed, a power cord was included. I have no idea what that associate was thinking.

A quarter past crabby

2008-10-04T19:04:00.000-07:00

We hauled our gaggle of boys to a fair in a quaint little town called Waterford today. The town is filled with quaint houses surrounded by quaint lawns with quaint old, well-preserved cars out front. It was a lot of fun, namely because we stayed far away from these quaint little houses that, if exposed to our brood, would no longer carry the quaint label.

Instead we enjoyed everything else there was to offer. There were traveling minstrels and a squeeze organ playing, of all things, "Country Road" by John Denver. Periodically cannons would fire and scare the heck out of our little guys. We watched a blacksmith, working over coal, twist and turn strips of metal into hooks. All the vendors at the fair wore costumes of yesteryear and yore. There were bands were tucked into every corner, singing gospel and folk and strumming their mandolins. We even watched a fife-and-drum group, dressed in Confederate garb, beat out "When Johnny comes marching home again" and "Dixie," among others. During that last song, the vendor ladies nearby stood up, in their hooped skirts and bonnets, and sang the words proudly like they were the national anthem. At moments like these I am reminded that Virginia fought for the South in the Civil War. It's easy to forget when you live in a very blue Northern Virginia.

I had a great time. The older kids, however, complained during most of the fair. My legs are tired, or I'm hungry, or I want to go home. Even my husband wasn't too thrilled to be there. We decided to call it a day after about three hours. My two-year-old had been an angel in his backpack carrier, never muttering an ill sound (though he did growl a little.) We bought our seven-year-old a ginger ale from the local brewer's table, which was served in a beer bottle. Great. We looked like fabulous parents.

During the entire fair, we had walked through roped-off streets that were usually used for normal car traffic. Our autistic (middle) son had gotten used to the idea and enjoyed it quite a bit. Now, as we headed back to our car, we had to balance carefully on the edge of the road. There were cars whizzing by quite close so I held his hand tightly. He was confused about the change in family policy-- why couldn't we walk on the street now? I had to rein him in and explain repeatedly about the danger. We were all tired and I could hear in my husband's tone of voice that he was near the breaking point.

Our middle son began to growl and grunt loudly between his observations of the locals and their homes. This is something that I am so used to that I don't even notice. But there was quite a crowd exiting the fair, and I noticed people looking at us curiously. Their amusement soon turned to pointed stares when they heard my repeated injunctions. Many people who notice the interactions between me and my child jump to the conclusion that he is a naughty boy and I am a permissive parent. At this point I typically keep my eyes on the ground and just pray that we get to our destination as soon as possible. I would like to say that my feelings are not hurt that people judge me so harshly, but that would be a lie.

My son then proceeded to bump into me repeatedly, seeking what is called sensory stimulation. I wrestled him to the side of the road over and over, calmly repeating that he could get hurt. I forgot to remind him that his mommy could get hurt as well. At one point he bumped me so hard that I stumbled into the road, and I called his name sharply in alarm. My husband, who does not have the extensive experience of being in public with our child that I do, barked his name as well and grabbed his other hand. A couple walking in front of us turned to look at us again. I kept my eyes straight forward and wished we could fly.

The wrestling continued into the grassy parking lot. There was a gravel drive for the exiting cars, and my son tried to throw himself at it. I had a few ounces of water left in a bottle and told him I would pour it over his head if he did not cool off. My theory was that distracting him from one sensory problem with another sensory experience might derail him from his fixation. He did not stop so I poured the water. He immediately stopped his wrestling but then proceeded to howl about the water dripping from his hair. The couple turned to stare again, and my husband barked at them, "He has autism. You don't need to stare like that."

We made it to the car without further ado and collapsed into the seats. On the way home, our middle son continued to howl, and when I finally calmed him enough for him to speak, he cried, "I want to go baaaaack!"

All in all, it was a typical experience for a family that copes with an autistic child. I was able to shake the day off rather quickly. But my oldest son watches and learns from us, and it makes me wonder what he will do in future situations. Will he ever jump in and defend his brother? Or will he learn to keep his eyes on the ground? Will my husband and I ever figure out which of those two is the best thing to do?

Deuteronomy

2008-10-01T19:46:00.000-07:00

Deuteronomy is the fifth book of the Old Testament, and includes a covenant between God and the children of Israel. I have a five year old who has been diagnosed with autism. If you have not heard of autism, I must ask you to first climb out from underneath your rock and tell you to turn on the T.V. or radio or surf the web. We've all seen the fuss about it lately and I am glad for it.

So I will now set forth a covenant I make with my five-year-old-- not fifth child, like the book-- but five, as in years.
________________________________

I will try not to be angry at you when you jump off the couch (right after I tell you not to) and break your foot.

If you hurt someone on the playground, I will try not to sound like I am making excuses for you. Instead, I will explain how your brain works differently.

When you hold completely still, move your eyes around rapidly, claim that the room is dark, and declare that your eyes are flashlights lighting up the corners, I will laugh at your joke.

When you paint a sun with many colors, because that is where rainbows come from, I will love your creativity.

When you crash into me repeatedly and then curl up into a fetal position on my lap, whimpering like a puppy, I will recognize your special need at that moment.

When you wrap the metallic sunshade from my car around your body and wear it up and down the stairs because it's your elevator, I will marvel at your ingenuity.

When you keep batteries on your nightstand because they will power your dreams, I will wish I had your imagination.

When you won't eat non-threatening bits of chicken but will eat meatballs rolled in grated Romano cheese, I will not shrug.

When you pour an entire bottle of Gatorade over the T.V. because it needed a bath, I will not raise my voice.

When you get angry because your Starburst has dissolved in your mouth, because you, "...didn't want it, so don't give it to me again!" I'll wait until you've rounded the corner to shake my head in befuddlement.

When you want to touch every baby's head and are incredibly gentle about it, I will always smile.

When you bring home your first handwritten "A", I will celebrate with you. And sigh in relief.

The first time you hug me and tell me that you love me, I cannot promise that I won't break down in tears. That is one covenant I would not be able to keep.

Numbers

2008-09-26T18:48:00.001-07:00

A good portion of the book of Numbers contains an account of Israelite wanderings before they entered the Promised Land. There's a reason why they were referred to as the "children" of Israel. They groaned, they griped, they kvetched (linguistic anachronism, I know. Stay with me.) They wandered a long time, but apparently, didn't learn much from their prolonged stay in the desert.

This summer we attended a family reunion in Lake Tahoe. On our last full day there, we hauled all the kiddies to a place called Wright's Lake. It's in an area called-- get this-- Desolation Wilderness. Not making this up. It's no Sinai Peninsula, but this place is ARID for a forested area and somewhere between 7,000 and 8,000 feet in altitude. The summer heat and the thin air suck you dry so fast you don't know what hit you.

Several generations of my family have schlepped to Wright's Lake. I hadn't been there in 17 years but I was ready to go back and bring a fourth generation to enjoy it. My boys are small so I was prepared for some complaining. What I wasn't prepared for was how I would feel by going back.

The explorer John Muir referred to the Sierra Nevada mountain range as the "Range of Light." There is some inexplicable draw here that I did not fully understand when I was small. My father brought us to the Wright's Lake area repeatedly. I did not know how lucky I was, or how unusual it was for a girl from Los Angeles to be traipsing through these woods each summer. But now I understand. Call it hiker's karma or what you like, it all came tumbling back to me as I hiked hand-in-hand with my oldest son.

All sixteen of us were headed to a little-known place off the map that we called Enchanted pools. We were pretty sure we knew the way and didn't need a guide... that was our mistake. We stayed on the trail rather than veered off like we should have. Once we realized we had gone too far, we backtracked and ran into several park rangers. We looked at their maps and saw where our destination should have been. Our energies and water supply were rapidly disappearing, so we decided to call it a day and head back.

Walking back to the car, I expected to hear some complaining about our failed trip. But miracle of miracles, nothing happened. We all chatted happily. My five-year-old led the way, as he did during the rest of the hike. Rather than tired or complaining, he was invigorated by the day's events. I was surprised to find that I, too, was not disappointed. Why? We didn't get to our destination. We made the effort with nothing to show for it. Shouldn't that be upsetting? Apparently not.

Then I realized that it was the hike itself that was so important. Had we arrived at the pools, we would have stopped. Instead, we kept moving, marveling at the ever-changing scenery, and listening to sounds of our children making memories of the journey, rather than the destination.

All this, without a bit of complaining.

Leviticus

2008-09-25T20:31:00.000-07:00

As you may have noticed, I've been naming my entries after the first books in the Bible. The practice will continue until I no longer find a connection between my life's happenings and the titles. We'll see how long it lasts.

Leviticus, the third book, outlines 613 strict rules of priestly conduct, some of which make sense, and some of which seem beyond ridiculous. So, of course, the first thing I thought of was homeowner's association rules.

Our HOA is like all the others out there. It keeps the neighborhood looking nice. It gives its members a chance to feel like they're bucking the system when they paint their door one shade off of the required hue. I'm committing an act of civil disobedience when I leave my child's trike out in the front yard at night. You know me.... always fighting against "The Man."

So I was thoroughly entertained when I received a letter from the Association informing me that I run an in-home day care. It's especially funny when I tell you that I stay at home with my youngest child-- alone-- while the other two boys go to school. I have a feeling that I know who brought this day care idea to the attention of the Association, but I'll not mention names to protect the not-so-innocent. Here's the first paragraph of my rebuttal:

"Dear Sirs:

It has come to my attention, per your letter of September 23, that you believe I am operating an in-home day care business. I can only guess at your source of information, since I have not had any communication from the Association about this topic. However, let me caution the AFA not to be a pawn in the hands of scheming or otherwise bored members of the Association."

I then detail how many children I have at home during the day, what I actually do during the day (grocery shopping! a thrill!), and how my house is overrun with children when the school age kids come home, thus giving the impression of a day care.

I believe that I exercised great self-restraint, since I actually wanted to say much more unsavory things... and believe me, my pen is much mightier than my sword. Which is saying a lot-- just ask the guy who pickpocketed me in Jerusalem. I got my wallet back-- and the contents in their entirety.

Addendum: Turns out I was reported by "a guy who was walking by and saw 8-10 children in (my) front yard." You've got to be kidding me. And I got a personal apology from one of the Association employees, which was rather unexpected.

Exodus

2008-09-24T17:19:00.000-07:00

Little did I know that there were items in my house just waiting to be Freecycled. After familiarizing myself with the set-up, I posted a couple random things on the website. SNAP! People jumped on my stuff! How did that happen? I got rid of a baby gate that I hadn't used in forever. Some toddler feeding supplies. Unused photo albums that had been sitting in a closet...

I gleefully combed the house with Freecycling in mind. This was like free therapy! Posted those nursing blouses hiding in a bin and BAM! Four hours later they were gone from my house. It was a virtual exodus of still-useable-but-not-to-me stuff. I felt lighter, empowered. I also gained an insight into my father's psyche.

My dad is a MAJOR pack-rat. I used to tease him but I finally realized one day how much it bugged him. For example, he keeps stacks of magazines for years, just in case there's something in there he'll want to read again. He can't help it. And I could never explain it. Lazy? No. Obsessive-compulsive? Not quite. There's something else going on... and I figured it out!

This stuff is still useful! It kills him to think that his stash could end up in a dump when someone... somewhere... just might be able to use it again. He's a born Freecycler, he just hasn't found his place yet. I'll convert him someday. First, though I need to find someone out there who would actually be interested in Car & Driver magazines from 1988. Any takers?

Genesis

2008-09-18T19:49:00.000-07:00

So I have this delightful neighbor who is a self-described humanist. Rarely have I come across a more unique personality-- down-to-earth, all-accepting despite her small-town upbringing, a hippie born a generation too late. She and I are very different in so many ways. Yet among our close-knit neighbors, we seem to be kindred spirits. She once called me her Zen friend. For the purposes of this blog, I shall call her Hippie.

Hippie and I share an affinity for things enviro-conscious, especially recycling. She introduced me to Freecycling, a Craig's List/town dump hybrid that's based on the idea that you don't have to toss everything once you're done with it. Heck, someone else might want it and be able to put it to good use! I logged on (www.freecycle.org) and was instantly hooked.

Get those rich CEOs of Pfizer and Astra-Zeneca on the line. I have found a non-invasive, drug-free, 100% effective cure for pack-rat-atosis with no side effects except that delightfully empty space in the corner. Squee! I've also discovered a way to exorcise my demons (minus the priest and all that creepy stuff.) Thank you, Hippie. You've restored my faith in my ability to bring order to the universe.