If They Only Knew What I Was Thinking

As parents to children with special needs, we’re graced with many, many opportunities to kindly and compassionately educate others about our children. We endeavor to dispel myths, preach inclusion, and promote equality and acceptance.  It’s not always easy to be so kind, especially when we read extremely ugly comments to posts online, or hear others speaking crassly about autism or other special needs.

Sometimes we just want to let the snark fly.

So I did. Here. Following are some of the things I only wish I could say sometimes. I’ve chosen to write responses to some of the most common questions we hear or read. Just to be clear, these are things I think in my head, not things I actually say. (I feel like I have to make that abundantly clear, so no one gets their panties in a bunch.)

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“Why should our kids have to go to school with all these ‘challenged’ kids?  Why shouldn’t kids with special needs go to their own school?”

It’s important that your children are prepared for the real world by being exposed to different kinds of people.  When they are adults, no one will be there to shelter them from all the “different” people they will come in contact with, and we don’t want it to be a shock to their system when that happens.

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“Why should our tax dollars be used to support kids with special needs?  They use up money that schools could be using for materials, teacher salaries, and extracurriculars.”

Everyone knows that teachers are in it for the love of teaching*, not the money.  It would almost be insulting to offer them MORE money, just for doing what they love.  Besides, most of those special needs kids get denied for services they really need, so we’re not spending THAT much extra on them.  I’ve also got enough cookie dough in my freezer from the PTA fundraiser to fund a sports team for an entire season.

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“What if our children pick up bad habits from the special needs kids, who have unusual or severe behavior problems?”

Many behaviors occur because of teasing, bullying, or not being included by their peers.  Your children should be safe as long as they continue to ignore the special needs children, as though they’re not really there.  If one of them does have a behavior in front of your children, they should move as far away as possible and stare at the special needs child, whispering to their friends about him or her, and basking in the warm glow of satisfaction, knowing they aren’t as weird as that kid.  Because being a friend to a child with specials needs is just unimaginable, right?

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“These kids take up more of the teacher’s time in the classroom, so the rest of the kids suffer because they’re being held back.”

It’s true that children with special needs often need more one-on-one time, keeping the typical kids from mastering the content in record time, forging through the grade-level work by mid-year, and resulting in them not being the next Doogie Howser.  That’s the reason we don’t ever see 14-year-old doctors in clinics and hospitals, and it’s a damn dirty shame.  On the plus side, it saves parents from having to pick up their doctor-child at the end of their midnight shift.

Sorry folks, urban myth. Your little precious isn’t the child prodigy you think they are.

I don’t know about you, but that felt good. Now that I’ve let the snark poison out of my system, I can go back to kindly and patiently educating these stupid fuckers misinformed parents. I try to equate educating the masses with the formation of the Grand Canyon. Time and pressure. If time and pressure can carve out something so massive and breathtaking, then there’s hope for autism awareness and education.

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*Teachers TOTALLY deserve more money, they work hard.

My House is a Death Trap, Part 2

A couple of weeks ago we asked Connor to take the trash out. We like to say that this is part of teaching him independence and self-care skills, but really, we just don’t like to take the trash out.

One thing we do when it comes to tasks, is we make it a game or a race. This way Connor comes back within a half hour, and we can have him do more chores. So on this particular day, we told him “bet you can’t be back in less than a minute” – because we had a lot more chores to do. And of course he said he could, because he likes to win. We don’t even need to promise him anything, he just likes winning.

When he came back 45 seconds later, still holding the trash bag, we weren’t that surprised. He tends to get distracted and off-track pretty easily. We told him, “uh, you’re supposed to leave the trash in the can, not bring it back.” But he said, “I couldn’t, there’s a lot of bees outside.”

I happen to know that there is a bee shortage, due in large part to the alien abductions and recolonization of hives on other planets, as a food source for the Mayans. So when he said “bees”, I was thinking, like, two bees.

My husband went out to investigate. He came back in less than a minute too, out-of-breath and waving his phone, saying “wait til you see this!”

mother fucking bees

Now this was cause for some excitement, because we’re from Los Angeles, and it’s a pretty big day if you manage to spot a couple of squirrels at the park in springtime. So this is like real life Wild Kingdom in our backyard.

I nominated my husband to be responsible for the bee-removal task, mostly because I have a bug phobia. He called several people, but nobody would come out on the weekend. I spent the weekend worrying about aliens being attracted to our house because of the bees, and hoping that they would not bother us but would, instead, take my mom’s dog because that damn dog barks too much. Meanwhile, my husband made plans to take Monday off to deal with the issue.

On Monday he sent me this picture:

An actual beekeeper!

Now if you look at all that schmutz on the inside of the trashcan lid, you will see that it’s actually MORE bees. There were THOUSANDS of them, and they’d set up a hive in the yard clippings can. Stupid bees.

Apparently bee removal is a highly skilled art, involving specialized tools. You’ll see in the picture that next to the trashcan is a shop vac. The bee dude literally just vacuums up all the bees. Then I guess he takes them someplace else, opens up the vac, and runs like hell.

Hubs sent me this picture too:

It’s really true about bees being busy.

I texted hubs that this would be an awesome thing for Connor to take to school for some educational benefit, but he said he’d already disposed of it. Maybe it’s for the best…I don’t really need CPS showing up at my house. I’ve barely just escaped the aliens, after all.

My House is a Death Trap, Part 1

Although the house is almost never completely clean and organized because of our busy lives, I don’t generally consider it hazardous to our health.  But lately in seems that the universe is conspiring against me to see exactly how much more drama it can add before I finally relinquish control of my sanity.

Several weeks ago I arrived home from work to find a huge, gaping hole in the front yard.

Welcome home, I’m your new death trap!

Dafuq?

Inside the house, hubs and Connor were already embroiled over homework.  Hubs showed me the slip that was on the front door.  It was from AT&T, and explained that they were digging in our yard to repair some kind of cable that runs underground.

Fabulous.

You know what’s fun?  Trying to keep a super hyper seven-year-old from messing around with that giant hole.  Twice a day, morning and evening.  It’s like they dug the Grand Canyon in my front yard, and I was telling Connor that he couldn’t explore the canyon.

We thought they’d forgotten the hole, when 3 short weeks later they showed up again.  I arrived home from work and found workers digging a second hole, on the other side of the driveway.

And then I lost my mind.

“You’re supposed to be filling in the hole, not digging another one!  I have a small child and an elderly parent here, one of them is bound to take a header into one of these holes, and then what!?”

They politely told me they had to construct A FUCKING TUNNEL under my driveway, to replace the elusive, faulty cable line.

I threatened a lawsuit if someone fell in the hole.

I mentioned the neighborhood children being at risk.

I threatened to get a shovel and fill in the holes myself.

I tried to bribe them with cookies.

And still they dug.

Because two holes are better than one. (I can’t believe I said that)

I guess you can’t beat death, taxes, or the cable company, no matter how hard you try.

This time only a week went by before they finally filled in the holes.  And by some kind of miracle, no one managed to take a header into one of them.  But not for lack of trying.  I swear, if I ever have to argue with my child about playing in huge holes in the ground again, I’ll throw myself in and pull the dirt in on top of me.

Note: Yes, I realize this post is subtitled, “Part 1.”  That’s because there is a “Part 2″ forthcoming.  Because there’s always some kind of tomfoolery going on at my house, that’s why.

Poop

Sweet, sweet Gwyneth.

Sometimes I can’t help myself, and I pop over to her site, Goop, just to see what that saucy little minx is cooking up.

As always, I can never relate to what she’s doing, seeing, cooking, or selling.  Our lives are as different as they can possibly be, separated by more than big money and a rock star husband.  I wondered, what would her site look like if she was a parent to an autistic child?

First off, she’d probably have to name her site “Poop”, instead of “Goop”.

The recipes alone would be vastly different, since many autistic kids are such picky eaters.

On Gwyneth’s Goop site:

Duck “cassoulet”

“I first had duck confit with my dad on a trip to Paris at a place called Josephine Chez Dumonet. I never realized how delicious, tender, and yet crispy duck could be. When I discovered cassoulet (in which duck confit is the star) I was transported. When I stopped eating pork and red meat, I couldn’t indulge in it anymore, so I set out to make my own. This pork-free version is rich and deeply flavored—a great one-pot weekend supper.”

On Gwyneth’s Poop site:

“Since my son will only eat “triangle pizza”, I’m careful not to buy any frozen brand of pizza shaped as a square.  Although he’d prefer plain cheese, he will begrudgingly accept pepperoni pizza by picking off each and every piece of pepperoni and flinging them onto my plate, like greasy, salted bits of torn paper.”

On Gwyneth’s Goop site:

Slow-Bake Kale Chips

“I am a real snacker. Most days I don’t sit down to a real full meal until dinnertime. Lately I have been trying to improve the quality of my snacks so that they are packed with real nutrition. It’s no good to grab a handful of chips, so we have devised these super easy, healthy small bites.   We love kale chips, which are as satisfying as potato chips but much better for you. This recipe takes it slow, cooking it at a low temp for longer to get an evenly baked chip.”

On Gwyneth’s Poop site:

“Since you have to introduce a food many, many times for a child to begin eating it, I, once again, put a tiny head of broccoli, the size of my pinky nail, on my son’s dinner plate last night.  After arguing about eating it for 10 minutes, he begrudgingly rolled it through high-fructose corn syrup-free ketchup, put it in his mouth, then downed his entire glass of milk to swallow it whole.”

Another thing that would change would be the clothing that Gwinny recommends.

On Goop:

“This is one of our favorite trends, bringing punk into our daily wardrobe with leather pants and jackets and studded accessories.”

And the jacket is a STEAL at $1,995.

On Poop:

“Target has yoga pants on sale for $13.99, so stock up on a pair in every color.”

Limber like a little monkey.

Let’s not forget about vacations.  You remember what those are, don’t you?  If not, you can read what Gwenny from the Block has to say:

Goop:

“Inspired by Couture Week, which just ended, and all the very au courant and spontaneous things to see in Paris these days, we decided to explore everything temporary, finite and in motion right now in The City of Light.”

Poop:

“We’ll be spending every day of vacation at the very au courant bounce house, since that’s the only thing that doesn’t trigger a full-scale MEP (meltdown of epic proportions).  Stop by and  say hello – I’ll be the one in yoga pants.”

I want to like her, really I do (No, I don’t. I have better things to do).  But she is just so hopelessly out-of-touch with reality, she’s making it SO hard.  Maybe Gwyneth will read this and gain a new appreciation for the plight of special needs parents.  Maybe she will be so moved that she will offer to take Connor for a week.  She can try and feed him kale chips and dress him in little motorcycle jackets, while hubs and I traipse around Paris, solo.

Yeah, I doubt it too.

Besides, we’d rather just sleep for a week.  I’m sure Gwyneth will be able to relate, after the week is up.

 

edit:  Thanks to everyone who commented and shared this post.  It’s officially the most popular post ever on this blog.  If you enjoyed it, you can click here to give it a vote for BlogHer voice of the year, in the humor category (it only takes a second!).  Thank you!

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Crimes Against Chickens

A good example of how I think Connor knows something, but apparently doesn’t really know it happened the other night.  He’d finished his dinner and asked if he could have one of his colored Easter Spring Equinox eggs.

Me:  “Sure.”

Connor:  “Eggs are really like bird eggs.”

Me:  “Yes, they’re exactly like bird eggs because they come from chickens, and chickens are birds.”

Connor:  “REAL chickens?”

Me:  “Of course.”

Connor:  “Wait.  You mean these are eggs from actual chickens?  So I’m eating a baby bird when I eat the yolk?”

Me:  “No.  They aren’t fertilized, so it’s not a baby bird, it’s just an egg.”

Connor:  “So you mean you stole the eggs from chickens?  You just took the chicken’s eggs away?  That’s really mean, mom.”

Me:  “No.  Farmers gather the eggs and send them to grocery stores.  Chickens lay eggs almost every day.”

Connor:  “So when you lay eggs does someone take them and send them to a store?”

Me:  “I don’t lay eggs.  Human eggs stay inside the mother.”

Connor:  “Can I just have yogurt instead?”

If he asks us where chicken nuggets come from, I’m screwed.  Imagine the persecution I’ll endure when he finds out I’ve committed MORE crimes against chickens.

Light it up brown for poultry awareness!

Whistler’s Mother

Whistling comes naturally to some people.  Not me, though.  I didn’t learn to whistle until I was 15.  I’m still horrible at it, and can barely emit a sound lasting more than a second. My husband isn’t very good at it either.  Yet, for some reason, Connor has decided he wants to learn to whistle.

Connor:  “Whirsh.  Was that a whistle?”

Me:  “No.”

Connor:  “Whiiiirsh.  What about now? Was that a whistle?”

Me:  “No.”

Connor:  “Whirsh.  Was that one? Was that a whistle?”

Me:  “No.”

Me:  “You know, whistling takes a lot of time and practice to learn.  Maybe you should take a break and practice learning something else.”

Connor:  “Okay.  Thwish…thwish.  Was that a snap?”

Me:  “No.”

Connor:  “Thwish.  How about that, was that one a snap?”

Me:  “No.”

Connor:  “Thwish-thwish-thwish.  Was that a snap?”

Me:  “No.  Oh hey, look, it’s bath time!”

Later than evening we snuggled on the couch while Connor read from his daily reader.

Connor:  “Some cats are *whirsh* small cats and *whirsh* are known as *whirsh* domesticated house *whirsh* cats.”

Me:

Spectatorship Requires a Lot of Gear

So out of the clear blue, Connor starts talking about wanting to play soccer.  This began somewhere between turkey day and Festivus.  This was surprising because we had offered many options for extracurricular activities in the past.  You know, in case there was something he wanted to try out.  But there never was until this came up.

I am not a sports person.  I could care less about about playoffs and finals and whatnot.  But I’m all about supporting my kid if he wants to try something.

But this soccer thing has really been an adjustment.  For me.

First, I had to go buy one of those camping-type chairs that fold up and can be stowed in the trunk of my car.  It will be in the trunk of my car until the day I get rid of this car, because I never have time to clean out my trunk.  So I will always be ready to do some serious sitting around, in my fancy, foldable chair.

By the end of the season this is a total possibility.

The next issue has been the weather.  We haven’t had snow like most other places (don’t hate), but we’ve alternated between 50-degree days and 80-degree days.  Every Saturday when we set up our spiffy chairs on the sidelines, it’s a toss-up as to whether I’ll need a blanket or sunscreen.  Two weeks ago I froze my ass off, and had the sniffles for a week.  Last weekend I forgot to sunscreen myself, and I went home and passed out for two-hours, with a sunburn and probably heat stroke.

Yeah, this is me. What?

Now let’s talk about bathrooms.  I’m a 40-something (cough) mom with a bad back and a tiny bladder.  This whole soccer game thing has really wreaked havoc with my bathroom schedule.  They have bathrooms at the park, but like most park bathrooms, they are beyond disgusting.  And usually they’re out of paper.  And don’t take a chance on actually touching that seat.  So I’ve got to bring my own paper and be some sort of contortionist to try and use the facilities.  And I’ve got to be drinking something during the game, to ward off that heat stroke.

And apparently there is snack duty involved in sports.  I guess each parent can’t just bring a snack for their kid.  That would be too easy, especially since we all know what our own kids like.  Nope.  Each week we trade off being in charge of bringing snacks.  So I’ve got to carry my folding chair, sunscreen, blanket, toilet paper, AND snacks.

All this, to watch some 2nd graders play soccer for an hour.

But you know what?  I may have battled frostbite, heat stroke, dehydration, and filthy bathrooms, but it wasn’t all for naught.

I get to watch my son play as part of a team.  And I got to see him score his first goal.

And he is having FUN.

But most importantly, he feels like he’s part of something.  And for a boy that’s always been different, always struggled to fit in, it’s a BIG DEAL to be part of something.

It’s been worth every single discomfort.

I Was Almost Killed by Birds. Again.

Screw autism.  There’s something else more pressing on my mind.

Birds.

Birds are dicks.

You may or may not recall reading about my immense dislike for animals of the feathered variety.  Of course I’m aware that there are plenty of people that love and admire birds.  We can agree to disagree on the merits of birds, but as a friend, I feel like I should pass on some valuable information so you can make an informed choice about who you align yourself with in the animal kingdom.

1.  Birds are predatory – Simply put, they eat people.  Oh, and they also eat rodents, sheep, and dogs.  But mostly people.

2.  Birds travel in packs (flocks) – They are very similar to the drug cartels or other organized crime syndicates in the way they travel together.  And yes, another similarity is that they will kill their own if they piss them off.

3.  Birds will lure you in with trickery – All that fancy chirping and singing and colorful, feathery decoration is just smoke and mirrors.  It’s how they lure in their victims so they’re within striking distance.  Do NOT be fooled.

4.  Birds hate all living things that are not other birds.

5.  If you have a pet bird, it is secretly waiting for a chance to kill you.

The reason I’m telling you this is because I almost fell victim to a roving gang of lawless birds.  See, I normally do my grocery shopping in the early afternoon, sometime during the weekend.  A couple of weeks ago I went later than usual, just before dusk.  As I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, I realized I had not been to a grocery store past 3pm for at least 4 years.

Why, you ask?

Well apparently birds don’t give a shit if you put up a strip mall where their nightly nesting field used to be.  See, every single stinking evening they congregate in the grocery store parking lot, wreaking havoc until dark.  And I had forgotten this very important fact.

Get a load of this:

Hitchcock must have grown up in this town.

You’re literally taking your life in your hands if you grocery shop at dusk.  I have no idea how I took that picture without getting an eye pecked out.  That’s why the picture is blurry, I was bobbing and weaving while I took the damn thing!

But that was just the preliminary assembly of birds.  They came in full force just as it was almost dark, so they could claim space in the small, ornamental trees in the grocery store parking lot.  It’s how I picture Alfred Hitchcock would decorate his Xmas tree.

What are you looking at? RUN, you idiot!

It’s a wonder I made it home in one piece.  If we hadn’t been out of EVERYTHING, I would have skipped the shopping altogether.

But mark my words:  this will NEVER happen again.  My family will eat stale crackers and ketchup before I play parking lot dodge ball with 8000 vicious birds again.

Hair Today Gone Tomorrow

Sometimes my husband works late. Those are the days I don’t like, because it means I have to get off of work at 5 o’clock, race to pick up Connor from afterschool care, race home to do homework, then send him to the shower while I try to throw together dinner in under 15 minutes. We had one of those nights last week.

Now while I assemble dinner, I send Connor off to the shower.  He’s a few months shy of 8, and should be able to handle a basic shower.  Except for hair washing.  Oh, and soap.  I still need to run in and remind him of those things, because the last 873 reminders haven’t sunk in yet.

Now somewhere between the meatballs and garlic bread, it got quiet in the bathroom.  I called out to see if he needed help, and he called back that he was drying off and getting PJs on.  He then came out of my room and headed to his, to put his clothes in his hamper (yay, he remembered that one without a reminder!).  I went into my room to grab something and stopped short.  There was an odd little trail on the floor, leading to the bathroom.  *alarm bells*

That’s not my hair.  It’s not my husband’s hair. And it certainly couldn’t be Connor’s hair because WE JUST HAD THIS ISSUE LAST YEAR.  And we agreed that we do NOT cut our own hair, because we are not people with hair cutting skills.

So I asked Mr. Connor if there was something he wanted to tell me.

“Weeeeeeell, my hair was a little poofy on top, so I cut it.”

Just a little bit off the top.

How convenient that it’s 7pm and too late for me to run him out for a haircut.  So that means that he would have to go to school the next day, looking like that.  I wrote a short note to the teacher, “Yes, we know what Connor’s hair looks like.  Don’t even ask.”

Again I explained why we do not cut our own hair, because you have to go to school to learn how to do it and get a license.  Connor wanted to know if you can go to jail for cutting your own hair.  I told him that even though some people “should” go to jail for their crazy hair, it’s really not an offense that requires time in the state pen.

The next evening we went straight from school to see if we could salvage what was left of his hair.  Connor didn’t seem to mind getting a haircut, although I was sad to lose all the gorgeous curls.  Before the haircut he posed outside, with a flower he picked for me (aw, he loves his mama).

Look at all those curls!

The hair stylist informed me that, because of Connor’s flair for cutting his hair down to the nub, we’d have to go with a #1 setting – a military-style buzz cut.  Watching the curls get shaved off reminded me of sheep for some reason.  I guess because his hair is so thick.  (Speaking of sheep, this post is really funny.)

Baaaaah!

At the end, Connor admired his new look in the mirror and proclaimed, “I look just like a rock star!”

Rock on, baby boy!

I hope when he’s thinking of rock stars, he’s thinking of this one:

Mmmmmm hmmmmm.

And not this one:

Miscellaneous Rambling. About Cake.

I originally posted this two years ago.  I know, I was surprised that I’ve been blogging that long too!  Since cake is one of my favorite things, I thought I would rerun it.  And because, cake.

You know how sometimes when you’re shopping something catches your eye and causes you to come to an abrupt stop?  Yesterday I was in the grocery store cake aisle (yay!) looking for Jello instant pudding (boo!), when I stopped short, and my head whipped around (maybe it’s my tiger blood that makes me acutely aware of any changes in my regular territory).  Look what caught my eye:

Yes Paula, I DO want that chocolate cake.

You know Paula, right?  She’s the well-coiffed southern belle that whips up all that sinful comfort food.  Look at her, she’s got cake mix now.  Chocolate cake mix.  And look at her white teeth and blonde hair.  You want that cake, don’t you?

Now, strategically placed right next to Paula, is this:

What. The. Fuck.

What the hell is that?!  What’s wrong with that Nora woman?  Why did she not do something with her hair?  Couldn’t she have put on some makeup before her cake box photo shoot?

Hell to the no.

For a very long time I have asserted my belief that Paula Deen is, in fact, the devil incarnate.  No, really.  Under that poofy blonde hair there are horns.  Look at her.  Go ahead, take a long look.  I’ll wait.  Okay, can you see under that smile the evil that lurks within?  I mean, I look at her and I immediately know that Paula will cut a bitch, for no good reason.  But still, if I’m going to buy someone’s cake, it’s going to be the devil’s.  Seriously, who do you think makes better cake?

Come on, take just one bite of my cake…

Poor Nora. What hope does she have of proving that her all-natural cake is moist and delicious, when it’s next to satan’s Paula’s chocolate devil cake?  Slim to none, that’s what I say.  Especially when the devil’s cake is over a dollar less!

Sooooo, all natural, washed out, pasty yellow cake, or creamy, rich, delicious, well-groomed and coiffed chocolate cake?  Let’s hope Nora has a day job to fall back on.