I changed my theme again. I know, I know. Enough already with the changes. The right column on the old theme was all wonky, and I couldn’t get over it. I tried. Really. I didn’t mean to move your cheese, I swear.
The new theme is called, “Under the Influence.” Ironically.
So, comments please. Old theme, new theme, a different new theme??
One of my posts is #50 on the Blog Gem list today, over at The King and Eye.
American Idol was dead to me. I was done. After the final episode of season 8, where Adam Lambert lost to that other guy, I knew it was a sham. What a travesty that the more talented, versatile, and totally bizarre contestant didn’t win. But this season, Idol brought the big guns.
Robbed!!!
No, I’m not talking about J. Lo. She means nothing to me. No matter what she says, she’s not from my block. She’s not fooling me. I’ve never seen her at the Target with a fistful of coupons. No, it’s Tyler. Steven Tyler. He’s like, an icon and stuff. I mean, it’s Steven freaking Tyler. Hello??
So hubs and I are watching Idol, and marvelling at the odd, dead-corpse-walking facelift that someone carved into Steven’s noggin. We started talking about how Tyler is a grandpa now. Can you imagine being 4-years-old and climbing onto grandpa Steven’s lap, playing with his shark tooth necklace, and his feathers and beads woven into his long hair?? “Look mommy, grandpa Steven did a magic trick! He just pulled a shiny new roach clip from my ear!” Anyway, he’s still the coolest mo-fo ever.
Grandpa's gonna take you fishing...for strippers!
But then, THEN, something else pulls me in. They’re narrowing down the group to the 24 finalists, and they call in James Durbin. They show his little vignette, and he talks about having Asperger’s and Tourette’s. And besides that, he’s a really good singer. So he sits down with grandpa Steven and the other two judges, and they tell him he’s made the cut for the final 24. Get this, I start crying. Yeah, I totally did. Poor James started ticking up a storm sitting with the judges, but when he’s singing, you would never know he has a disability. It was just so refreshing to see someone on the spectrum doing so well at something, in a normal environment, and I couldn’t help but feel hope for my own kid. Well, okay, I don’t know how normal the environment is, but you know what I mean.
But I’m still torn. Is it a shameless ploy to capitalize on someone’s disability, just to lure in viewers, or an inspirational story? I guess they’ve sucked me in again so I can decide that after a few more episodes.
Grandpa Steven scares him a little.
Just finished listening to the most recent Autism WTF show, on blogradio, with Big Daddy Autism and Lynn from Autism Army Mom. Awesome show about the challenges of public places with a child with autism.
Check them out:
They also had special guest, Jillsmo, from Yeah. Good Times. See who the first person to drop a swear word was!
In only 6 short hours, I have finally prevailed in the great “Create a Button” challenge!!
Hallelujah!!!!!!
Big Daddy Autism has a button…Autism Army Mom has a button…Life in the House that Asperger Built has a button…and of course, Yeah. Good Times. has a button. And now, I HAVE A BUTTON! Actually, it’s kind of anticlimactic. Stupid button.
Anywho, feel free to grab that code and put my handy little button anywhere you want. I dare you.
Okay people. I’m trying to make a button, because all the cool bloggers have buttons, right? Not that I’m cool. I’m so not cool. Just a newbie that had some crap to say, and before I knew it, I had a blog that people like YOU were reading. What?? How did that happen? So anyway, look over there on the right side. What is that shit? I mean, how did those extra words appear on top of the button?
I even used this nifty “grab my code” wordpress.com code generator for buttons. I don’t know code, I can barely get a post up. But lo and behold, I “grabbed my code” and it screwed me.
And then, I’m not even sure I like the button now. Maybe I need a whole new button. What say you???
Somebody out there knows code…and they should help me. Because it’s good karma or something. Or because I will send you some beer. Yeah, that’s it, THAT’S why you should help me. Beer. How am I ever going to move my way into the top 100 on Top Mommy Blogs if I don’t have a proper looking button? (sigh)
Jill, over at Yeah. Good Times. felt sorry for me because I was whining, and she offered to help. I think she was drunk again (probably). But I thought I had this locked up, and now it’s apparently a wordpress.com issue.
Okay, I’ll just be sitting here drinking…so if someone comes up with a bright idea, let me know.
EDIT: Now I have the button and code box right, but when I grab the code as a test and add it, there’s some extra <div that appears at the bottom!!!!
Last week the boy asked me why he doesn’t have his own toothbrush cup on the sink. Daddy has his own, and the boy and I share one. A few months ago the boy knocked his off the sink and broke it. But I don’t want to make him feel bad, so I don’t remind him about it. I just pick up a plastic toothbrush cup at the store.
Every day for the last week, I find my toothbrush has been relocated to the new cup holder, with Connor’s toothbrush. It happens when I’m not looking, sort of like when someone is trying to make their frazzled and tired mommy believe that she is losing her mind.
Me: Do you keep moving my toothbrush to your cup?
Connor: Yes.
Me: Why, I thought you wanted your own cup?
Connor: Because I like it in my cup.
Me: So then why did we need another toothbrush cup, when we had them both in the other one?
Connor: I don’t want them in that cup. I want them in my cup. I like putting your toothbrush in my cup.
Me: Why?
Connor: I don’t know. I like them in that cup.
Yep, no control issues there. AND confirmation that my mind is still, mostly, in tact.
What I'm Really Worried About in the Back of My Mind...
I don’t have any witty tales or snarky stories today. Sorry. And there are very bad words ahead.
Today just really sucked.
Fuck you autism, and fuck your friend, ADHD. I’m sick and goddamn tired of you two ass-clowns turning my sweet little boy into an aggressive little monster and turning homework time into a battlefield. You’re holding our family hostage and sucking the joy out of our very existence.
And while I’m at it, a big FUCK YOU to Smokey Robinson and his “Tracks of My Tears.” Why? Because I fucking want to. What does Smokey know about tears anyway? Has he ever had his only child completely unravel emotionally because he was born with a disorder that came on like a freight train? Maybe he has. I don’t really know. Whatever. Screw him and his stupid sad-ass song anyway. When Smokey dreads driving home from work every day because he doesn’t know what he’ll be walking into, then I’ll apologize. And then he can sing about sad clown tears until the cows come home.
Look. He's not even crying.
Aside from Smokey, this is one of those days I want to bust out of this prison of ABA therapy and behavior extinction. But I can’t. No, wait, I could if I chose to. But I’m in this for the long haul.
You’ll have to excuse me, but, like Bobby Brown, it’s my prerogative to lose my mind on occasion. Yeah, you know, I pretty much warned you right up front, right there in the title.
I’m taking my tired ass and throbbing head and ringing ears to bed now, so I can get up and do it all again tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll have something more witty, and less self-pitying to say tomorrow. And I’ll try not to insult any more Motown legends.
So move along now, there’s nothing more to see here.
All it took was one after-school playdate to jack-up the smooth seas we’ve been sailing on. Romeo went to my good friend’s house after-school, to visit his Juliet (who is three years older than him). There was running, playing, laughter, snack consumption, and Scooby-Doo watching. Magic, pure magic.
Oh, but then I arrived.
“Mommy, I didn’t want you to come until Scooby Doo was over” (said with sad, whiny voice).
“Don’t worry, I’m just going to chill right here and chat until it’s over.” Yeah, but don’t thank me or anything for being so nice to allow you extra time to finish your show. No, anything but that.
So then 15 minutes to get shoes on, ten minutes out the door. Oh, but then he realizes he’s forgotten his Ironman figure in the house. Juliet says she will get it (because she’s a little helper monkey like that), and I tell Romeo to wait right here, no need to go back in the house (NOOOOO, not back in the house, where it will take me another 10 minutes to extract you). But what does he do, totally blows me off and runs where? I don’t think I even need to say it.
Damn it!!
So I finally extract him, and tell him to put Ironman in my hand, because he has not followed the directions.
“Fine, but you’re MEAN!” Whatever, I’m so okay with that.
One more word, I dare you.
I'm no match for you and your evil.
So all the way home, which, by the way, is only five minutes away, all I hear is “when can I have my Ironman back?”
“When I decide you’ve earned it back, and when you stop asking me about it.”
Back at home, finish homework, into the bath. I’m in the kitchen trying to cook dinner, and I hear SCREAMING from the bathroom.
“MOMMY, WHEN CAN I HAVE MY IRONMAN BACK??!!”
“Stop asking me, I told you I would give it back when you are behaving and when you stop bugging me about it.”
“You’re mean, mommy.” Uh huh, I know.
Dinner time. Little man does not appreciate the beef stir fry I made. I inform him that this is dinner, and he can either choose to eat, or be hungry. “Be hungry! You’re mean, mommy.”
Five minutes pass, and he comes over, stands next to me and hugs me, and says “I just want to say that I didn’t ask for my Ironman back, so can I have it now?”
It took every ounce of willpower and fortitude to not jam Ironman into the garbage disposal and flip the switch.
I will destroy Ironman AND make you wear this frilly dress!!!!
But I didn’t. I might be “mean,” but I’ve dodged being evil, at least for today.
Usually going to the grocery store on a Sunday, after 11am is a huge mistake. If I go early on Sunday it’s a breeze, because it’s just me and the other heathens. But I was lazy this weekend, and got a late start.
Let ye all go forth and descend upon the grocery store like locusts upon a field.
Note: For this post, my “inner” dialog will be written in parentheses.
While perusing the first strawberries of the season, I heard someone call my name. I looked over, and saw the district autism coordinator (oh geez, summon a big fake smile, quick). I’ve had mixed feelings and experiences with her (god, she doesn’t have any makeup on and looks like hell), so I wasn’t sure how I felt about the random encounter (AND she’s wearing sweatpants. I have makeup on and jeans. Awesome, I have the upper hand in terms of presentability.)
We talked for a minute about the budget issues. The school district is bracing to receive 20 million less in funding this year, and many positions are on the possible chopping block, including hers. She said she’s stressed because she has a son in college (lucky for her she doesn’t have a kid with autism to worry about), but she’s thinking of starting a daycare if her position gets cut (I wouldn’t let her dog-sit for me).
Because I’m selfish and single-minded, I steered the conversation toward the behavior intervention plan they were working on creating for Connor, at my insistence (because they’re slackers and shouldn’t need me insisting to have the obvious). She says they’re working on “data tracking.” So I told her that my original question was can an aide or someone spend a week shadowing Connor at recess, and helping with social skills on the playground, because that’s when he has a difficult time. How hard is it to understand that a kid on the spectrum needs help and coaching to learn how to play with the other kids?
“I’m sure we can find a way to make that happen.” (standard bullshit answer) So I reminded her that my initial question about a shadow was never answered in the onslaught of back-and-forth email between me, regular teacher, sped teacher, and her. I was told about the social stories they read him (great, but forgotten by recess) and about his “motor time” (still useless at recess). But no one could ever give me an answer about a shadow at recess to help with social skills.
Oh yes, she assures me she will look into that (lying sack of shit). And I remind her that it shouldn’t take me ten emails back and forth about something like this (and if they thought they would wear me down, they were sorely mistaken, because I will take it to the ends of the earth just to prove a point, because I’m that much of a bitch). It should be common sense that a child with autism needs some help with social skills on the playground.
I did not, however, tell her that I was completely aware that they were all using stall tactics to try and stretch this out to the end of the year (goddamn them to hell). I also did not mention that I called the principal to request the behavior intervention plan to force them to include social skills training into his IEP (how can I make these people care half as much as I do about my kid’s success in school?).
I’m not sure if our encounter will produce any results, but I thought it was fortuitous timing to run into her (why was her hair so freakishly dry?? She needs a deep conditioner…). Maybe it was an unfair advantage to run into her and push my agenda, but autism isn’t fair, school districts aren’t fair, life isn’t fair. And damn it, I have a job to do.
<div align="center"><a href="http://theconnorchronicles.wordpress.com" title="Living on the Spectrum: The Connor Chronicles"><img src="http://i1195.photobucket.com/albums/aa385/nuttydingo/Button-1-1.jpg" alt="Living on the Spectrum: The Connor Chronicles" style="border:none;" /></a></div>
