Guest Posting at Confessions of An Asperger’s Mom

Karen, who writes at Confessions of an Asperger’s Mom, was kind enough to ask me to guest post.  Since I’m a big whore, you know I said YES!!!

Pop on over there and check out her site.  She writes about her challenges and triumphs of raising two boys with Asperger’s.

My guest post will catch you up on the first week of school, and my fragile mental state.

The First Day of School Couldn’t Have Been More Annoying If I Had Planned It That Way Myself

Today was the first day back to school, but before that story unfolds, let’s recap yesterday, shall we?

The Extended Day Program (after-school program) was operating all day yesterday, and given the disaster we just went through with the napping nanny, it was the only choice for the day.  Of course, we knew it would not go well.  It’s not pessimism, it’s realism.  It would not go well, there would be bad reports, and there would be the same old talk at home that we have almost every day.

And?

It didn’t go well.  There was biting and hitting, but they aren’t “giving up on him”.  So I picked him up after work, and we had the same conversation about hitting and biting, and we went home so Connor could learn how to wash dishes.  There are no TV shows if we’ve hurt our friends, and there are chores.

As usual, I left the room to cry because I’m a big baby.  I mean, really, it’s been three long years of this, you’d think by now I would just be mentally prepared for it, but every single time it sends me spinning.  And all I can think is, “what if it never ends?  What if he never learns?  What will life be, if he can’t ever learn to manage that?”

Now let’s move on to today.

New light-up Spiderman shoes, a new Transformer’s shirt, new Darth Vader backpack, and new Star Wars lunchbox.  We were superheroed up, and ready for action.  We met the regular teacher and resource teacher last week, all that was left was to show up.

Hubs starts work at 7am, so I do school drop-off in the morning.  We took our first day pictures in front of the house, and got in the car.  It was 7:10 a.m., a perfect time to leave and get there early.  Except…the car didn’t start.

Back in the house and a call to hubs, who got back to the house at 7:35 a.m.  Off we all went, and walked in just as the bell rang.

It's all about the backpack!

We went to the resource room first, since that’s where Connor will start each day.  The resource teacher was very welcoming, and informed us that Connor will be in a different class, with a different teacher, than he originally met last week.

Wait, what??

It seems there was a last minute change, and he was moved across the hall, with Ms. Smith.  I suppose I was already on edge from the morning chaos, but I was not pleased to hear about the change.  I asked why, for a student on the spectrum, they can’t have their teacher and room assigned at the end of the school year, for the following fall.  It makes for much better planning and transition management.

“No, there are far too many changes that take place over the summer, with teachers leaving or coming on board.”  Okay, I can see that.  But why could we not have a teacher and class set in stone at least two weeks before school starts?

“Sometimes there are changes going on right up to the last minute.”  Okay, but could we not have something set as of the day of “meet the teacher”??  This seems really unfair to a student that has challenges with transitions in the first place.

She assured me that it would be fine, it was a great teacher, and these things happen.  I could tell she was already getting super angry with me, but I just couldn’t fathom how a special-ed teacher could be telling me about this last minute change, and not understand what that means.  Why could nobody at least call me the day before, so I could have a preemptive conversation with Connor about it?

If there are any readers here, that are also teachers, I would really value your comments and feedback.  Am I really that unreasonable to want at least a little notice of a classroom change??

Ugh.  We left school and headed home to jump my car, so I could go get a new battery.  But first, I had to take several minutes to cry, AGAIN.

This first day of school seems to have been much, much harder on me than on Connor.  Maybe if I start biting and hitting I will get their attention, and I’ll at least feel a little better.

This is going to be a long week, I better start drinking now!

Private Eyes, They’re Watching You; Our Adventures in Surveillance

Sometimes parenthood is an adventure in doing things you never thought you’d have to do.  Serving as a rock-hard, fossil poop extractor and a vomitorium technician are a couple of things that come to mind.  Or serving on the PTA…a trip through hell requiring a never-ending supply of fake smiles and a high tolerance for dealing with petty, catty behavior.  But this week added a new notch to my belt of weird parenting experiences.

This past week was the last full week of summer vacation.  All the summer camps were closed, except the one we had already been 86ed from early in the season.  Our county department that coordinates an embarrassingly scant amount of “services” for  children with disabilities actually came through for us, and offered to cover childcare hours for the week.  The case manager told us about a nearby agency that provides services.  We called and got things set up.  The first two days would be a female caregiver that works for the neighboring school district, and the remainder of the week would be the agency director, Joseph, because the woman would go back to work at the school district on Wednesday.

We met both before the week, so Connor would be familiar with them.  Monique came on Monday, and off we went to work.  I checked in with her during the day, and she reported things were going well.  That evening, Connor reported to us that she “was sleeping on the bed” in our bedroom.”

What.  The.  Fuck??

I started asking Connor more questions about this, and he eventually said, “I got you, I was joking.”

By that time, Hubs was tap-tap-tapping away on the computer.  I was fairly certain Connor was trying to be funny, but it occurred to us that there was no way to know for sure.  Any number of odd things could take place, and Connor wouldn’t think to tell us.

Hubs left for Fry’s, they were open until 9pm.

I hate Hall & Oates, and I hate that song. Let me now pass it on to you as my special gift.

We stayed up until midnight, setting up the new camera.  I never thought I’d have to stoop to using a “nanny-cam”, but here we were.  The bonus to this was that I could check it using my cell phone.

On Tuesday I checked the camera periodically, with nothing unusual to report.  That was a relief.

On Wednesday, Mr. Joseph took over duties.  I spent some time that morning giving him info about Connor, including diet, behavior, preferred activities, etc.  I kept my phone tuned to the camera all day, but the downside was the lens couldn’t capture the entire room.  So while I had full view of one couch, the other was out of view.

That evening, Connor reported that Mr. Joseph took himself a nap on the couch that wasn’t in the camera view.

Now some people might not think that’s a huge deal, but I’m of the mindset that it’s not professional to sleep at your job, especially when the job is caring for a child.  That motherfucker stretched out on my couch and caught some Z’s, while Connor was left to just sit and watch T.V.

But I couldn’t take Connor’s word for it, and I knew I’d have to confront him directly.  The next morning when he arrived, I asked him directly, “did you sleep here yesterday?”

Joseph:  “Well, I dozed off for about 10 minutes.”

Me:  “That’s not okay with me.  If you’re watching my kid, then you need to be watching my kid, not sleeping.  Also, he is not to go to anyone’s home, only community outings.”

Joseph:  With a look on his face that can only be described as a mix of surprise and incredulousness, as though this was a foreign concept, or something he’d never heard before.  “Uh, okay, we don’t ever go to someone’s home, it’s against our rules.”

But, apparently, sacking out for a cat-nap isn’t against your “rules.”

Here’s the part where you might judge me.  It’s okay, go ahead.  I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a position where you were backed into a corner, and had no options.  That’s where we are.  After all the summer camp drama, and the numerous calls before noon to leave work and pick up my child, my job is hanging by a thread.  My husband started a new job in March, so he is in the same position.  The only friend I have that doesn’t work during the day was out of town.  And the going rate on care.com is $10-$12 and hour, which isn’t that terribly far off from what I make, so not a good solution.

No options.  It’s a horrible place to be, and I hope you’re never there.  With much trepidation, I left for work.  I put my cell phone on my computer keyboard wrist guard, and kept the camera on all day.  I typed and I glanced, for 8 1/2 hours.  You know what I saw?  I saw Mr. Joseph sitting at my kitchen table, on his computer.  Out of a 9-hour day, he spent about 30 minutes playing or interacting with my child.  The rest of the time Connor watched movies and cartoons.

Un-fucking-believable.  But at the very least, I knew he was safe.

I went home that evening and Mr. Joseph needed a ride home, because his wife had the car.  Awkward!  I had already managed to put together a hasty plan for childcare the next day, so I was ready to be rid of Mr. Joseph.  Upon pulling up in front of his house, he turned to me to clear the air.

Now, here’s the other part where you may judge me.  On the first day, when I was telling this guy about Connor, the subject came up about how much Connor likes girls.  I mentioned the story of a few months ago, at Walgreens, when Connor wanted to buy jewelry for a girl.  I made the mistake of saying “ghetto earrings.”  I know, poor choice of words.  You can go ahead and think terrible things about me, it’s okay.  In my defense, I hear that word everywhere, and it seems to be a part of culture.  It’s a very, very commonly used word, which doesn’t mean it’s okay, but it has seeped into my vocabulary.

So after I called him out for sleeping, and he didn’t have the balls to apologize, he sat stewing all day and this is the only thing he could come up with:

Mr. Joseph:  “I really appreciate you having a dialogue with me this morning about your concerns, and there was one thing I wanted to discuss with you.  It’s about our conversation the other day, when you used the word ‘ghetto’ to describe something.”

Me:  “Uh huh.”

Mr. Joseph:  “Well, it’s just that that word is typically used to describe something in a negative way, and to stereotype a socio-economic class of people, usually black people.”

Me:  “I believe it originated during World War II, to describe the Jewish encampments.  They were white.”

Mr. Joseph:  “Well, that’s true, but it’s come to typically describe lower income minority groups.”

Me:  “It wasn’t my intention to insult anyone.”

Mr. Joseph:  “Well, it’s just that I have friends in interracial relationships, and often the white partner will feel entitled to use certain kinds of words like that.”

Me:  “Someone should alert Diddy and Snoop Dog.”

Mr. Joseph:  “Well, uh…”

Me:  “You need a car.  Have a good weekend.”

This came up when I googled "ghetto."

So yes, judge me, I understand completely.  But in this circumstance, where this douchebag didn’t even apologize for being a complete loser in watching my kid, and decided that the only thing he had was to throw that back at me, I just didn’t have it in me to be sympathetic.

Goddamn it, last week sucked!  But that is our adventure in surveillance.  I really, really hope we don’t ever find ourselves in a position like that again.

Guest Post – Kung Fu Fighters Are Assholes

My funny dried up, I got a nasty cold, and school is ramping up to start in a couple days, so I’ve kind of been off the grid.

Did you even notice?  DID YOU???

Lizbeth, from Four Sea Stars noticed, and she called me out and was all, “what the fuck, sister?”  Then she foolishly kindly mentioned something about doing a guest post, and I jumped all over that shit like a donut at a PTA meeting.

Lizbeth is a rock star.  Do you know her?  You should.  She writes about stalkers and men with small penises that drive orange sports cars, and other wildly funny things.

Here is her wonderful guest post, which is her way of saying “you better get some shit up on your blog, loser.”  She is the bringer of the funny…

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I’m sitting here tapping my hands on the keyboard hoping something magical will come out.  Something so as to not let Flannery down.  Something so filled with poetry and words with rapture so as not to disappoint.

And I’ve got nothing.

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Not even making fun of my mom’s cooking will suffice.  And I am granted some creative leeway here.  The fact I came out of my childhood house without a social services consult for failing to meet minimum nutritional standards is still unnerving.  I have images seared on the backs of my retina’s of my mom using a can opener for every meal and pulling out frozen corn and spinach from the freezer, mixing them and calling it dinner.

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I will never get those years back.

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A fire extinguisher was always on the counter and trust me when I say we had a personal relationship with the Mac Fire Department.  As a kid I knew all their names.  If only I could be on a first name basis with our Fire Department men.  Lord Almighty, they are easy on the eyes.

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I don’t think I’ve ever met a not-hot fireman.

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Wait.  What?  Sorry, I digress.

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Anyway, it has taken me many years (and I do mean years people, I’m not a quick learner) to figure out that if you have a kid on the Spectrum and they really like music and certain TV shows ad nauseam then the smart thing to do is get your ass in front of that music and TV pronto. Like yesterday.  Like, seriously, the day before yesterday.

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And yes, my son is still talking like a Valley Girl.  Thanks Disney Channel, I owe you one.

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Now I’ve had my son listen to Bolero for years now as a “go to” song.  Its soothing, its repetitive.  He loves trying to identify what instrument comes next.  But the real glory?  The real reason I went with Maurice??

 It’s thirteen-glorious-minutes long.

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Thirteen minutes of freedom.

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Thirteen minutes I can use to pee, put on deodorant, unload the dishwasher, to do laundry, to drink–yes I really said that, to sit and catch the news or just do nothing.  All wrapped in the sanctity of sweet music made by Maurice.

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But now my panties are in a bunch.  I mean they’re really shoved up and in there good.  I’m usually the one at home doling out the music and TV shows.  I’ve finally gotten used to Phinneas and Ferb.  I’m OK with them.  I can tolerate them.

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But my husband got in front of my son and let him listen to his music.  I can’t stand his music.  And now I’m screwed.  Royally and totally screwed.  And not in the good way.  The really, really, bad ugly way.  The kind of way that may involve a murder/suicide.

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See, he let Alex hear the song, Kung Fu Fighting and Maurice had been unceremoniously punted off the back deck.

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My zen has been destroyed.

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Kung Fu Fighting by fucking Kool and the Gang.  Kool and the Gang.  I thought they were all dead.  No.  NO.  I take that back.  I don’t know about Kool and the Gang.  I don’t care about Kool and the Gang.  I could have gone my whole life not giving a shit about Kool and the Gang but now they’re back.  In my house.  And I can’t get them to leave.

These bastards need to get out of my house.

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I’ve gotten some sense and made him upgrade to the Fatboy Slim version but I’m still in hell.  It’s just moved out of the 70′s and into the 90′s.  All I’m listening to is how everyone’s kung fu fighting and how they’re all fast as lighting and I don’t give a shit.

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And how they’re all looking real fine and how he’s a got a white suit on and how he’s got perfect timing, just like when he’s kung fu fighting and I still don’t give a shit.

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And how there’s some girl singing about her sexy kung foo fighter and how she’s gonna take you higher. And he’s got something that will tease ya.  Whaaat???  And now, now, I give a shit.

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See, my son’s great at memorizing things and within three repeats he had the whole song down pat and now he’s running around singing, “ONE TWO, DO THE KUNG FU.  THREE FOUR, ON THE DANCE FLOOR.  I SAY, ONE TWO DO THE KUNG FU.  THREE FOUR ON THE DANCE FLOOR.  SING IT GIRL!”

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To which he looks over to my daughter and she sings out, “SEXY KUNG FOO FIGHTER!!!  LET ME TAKE YOU HIGHER!!!!”

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To which he sings back, “I’M THE ONLY MAN THAT WILL PLEASE YA.  I’VE GOT SOMETHING THAT WILL TEASE YA!!!!”

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To which I am screaming in my head, “THIS IS A LITTLE BIT FRIGHTENING!”

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My beautiful children are belting out, at the top of their lungs, how they are going to sex each other up.  And they won’t stop.

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I’m in hell.

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I’m ready to slit my wrists.

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Slowly.

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But first I’m going to find my husband.

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And that will be frightening.

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Why Does Cool Stuff Always Happen When I’m At the Grocery Store?

Independent play doesn’t happen at our house.  Ever.

Connor doesn’t know how to play by himself and stay entertained, no matter how many toys we buy or how many times we teach him how to play with different things.  After 30 seconds with a toy, he will come and find one of us and ask, beg, plead, bargain for us to play with him.

If we’re busy and we tell him we can’t play right then, he will follow us around asking questions.

“What does ‘sometimes’ mean?”

“Does the sun move really, really fast?”

“What does ‘liquid’ mean?”

So anyway, the only way for us to get anything done is to let him watch TV.  I don’t like this solution because the very smart people of the universe say that too much TV will make you a mutant zombie.  But, you know, dinner’s gotta get made, and undies need to get washed, so there you go.

So, every time there is a birthday or holiday, I try to get Connor toys that require attention…not just rolling a car around or something.  Because I’m trying to avoid the whole TV zombie thing.  But still, he does not spend more than a minute at a time with any particular toy.

When he had his last birthday, I got him this Lego build-a-hero thingy.  He has never really liked Lego’s.  I think, to him, it’s this big pile of colorful shapes that have no rhyme or reason because he can’t visualize the picture in his mind of an assembled item.  I’m pretty sure he gets that from me because I feel the same way about those stupid Lego’s.  I could stack and build ’til the cows come home, and I would just have some big, colorful, misshapen blob of plastic bricks.

But this thing I got him, it had purpose!!  It had direction!!

He wasn’t interested.

So, it has sat on a shelf in the dining room for the last 2 months.  Not because I’m too lazy to put it away, which I probably am, but because I want it to be seen every day, in the hope that he will be inspired to build himself a HERO!

Because I believe, dammit.  We’re keeping hope alive up in this beyotch!

This weekend I was paying homage at the holy mecca (Target), and I got a text from hubs, with a bonus picture attached!

See the dingo in the background? It's like a bonus "Where's Waldo" picture, for your enjoyment.

Notice in the background that the TV is OFF…BONUS!!  He’s got the instructions out in front of him, and has that look of fierce concentration on his face.  I texted back and asked him how he got him to do it.  He sent back the message “He asked!  He can’t wait to show you, he’s so proud!”

So I started crying, right there in the meat section (by the way, did you know that Target has really, REALLY good meat?  No?  Their meat is better than what I used to get at the regular supermarket.  The top sirloin is like budda, I swear on Kim Kardashian’s big ass!).

Since I’m impulsive, I headed straight to the toy aisle, and I picked up another Lego build-a-hero thingy, this time a black, cyborg-looking one.  I’ve added it to the prize box.  Knowing my kid, the next time his good behavior earns him a trip to the prize box, he will open it, see the Lego guy, and say “Oh man, I already did one of those.  I want something cooler.”

When I got home later, he was so excited to show me his new creation.  Later that evening, he even took it apart and put all the pieces back in the container, without being asked.  Weird.  That’s never happened before.

Next thing you know, I’ll get to pee all by myself, without interruption.

A girl can dream, can’t she??