Kindergarten Commandos

 
Every morning begins a new day, a new hope that things will be good again. It is a new chance to try again, for redemption in yesterday's errors and tribulations. Every morning is filled with transitions to where the day will take you and unfortunately, mornings are the hardest with a bunch of kids with autism.

The morning wasn't going quite right, somehow we were ahead of schedule, which meant we would wind up being late for sure. Since the weather was nice, we decided to walk to school. I was trying to get them all ready to go, and #2 said, "mom, I need something else to eat, I need more brain-food." Really? Now? Cause you spent half your morning playing on the computer. Why didn't you do it then? He wanted a full size Clif bar and I told him he could have a mini Clif bar, and then he lost it. (I probably should have let that argument go, instead of going into an explanation of his daily calorie consumption and how the full size Clif bar would exceed his needs. So noted.) I managed to get them all out of the house though #2 was still upset and chucked the mini Clif bar across the yard.

We got to the first corner three houses up and I did the usual pants check before we crossed the street. We are known as the crack house, because someone's heiney is always coming out for air.  I pulled up #1's pants and when I got to #2, I noticed he was not wearing underwear. We could just walk to school and I can bring by the underwear later. But, how would that look when he is sitting in class and the office calls down to his class, "Mrs. O'Leary, J's underwear is here"? That is something the kids could make fun of him for years to come. Uh, not doing that. I could have let him go through his day all commando, however, his ass is usually out half the day when he is wearing pants and underwear so this was non-negotiable. We had to turn around.

I think it is easier to turn around a semi truck than to redirect five kids anywhere.  It may also be easier to do eye surgery on yourself or juggle elephants, than redirecting five kids.  #2 was screaming because he was still pissed off about the Clif bar and now had to go home and get underwear.  #1 melted at the unexpected change and threw himself on the ground. I was trying to pull #1 up off the ground and he was not cooperating. I half picked him up, half dragged him a few feet and gave up. He had it in his mind that he was walking to the corner, and that was what he was going to do. (#1 goes to a different school and is bussed. So, we walk up the hill together and he waits with the crossing guard until the bus comes) Knowing I could not transition him back to the house, I let him walk by himself to the corner. I knew that he would see a few parents on the way up, who would look after him. The three younger ones decided to listen and head back to the house. 

We got back to the house and I let #2 back in to get underwear. He took a long time and I had to go in and get him out the door. We were going to have to drive to school instead of walk because now, we were late. I loaded the other kids into the van and managed to get #2 in as he said, "I hate you mommy. You are a horrible mom." Ouch. Jab, cross, hook, ouch. I told him, "Yup. I am. Sorry you're stuck with me. I could sell you on ebay if you're not happy." He continued to scream all the way to school. When we pulled up to the drop off, I was glad the school guidance counselor was there to help get him into school.

I sat in the van and watched him run around the front school yard for a few minutes until he saw the principal and quickly made a bee-line into school. I hoped he was able to turn it around.

I spent most of the morning tracing the steps that lead us down that path. I tried to identify triggers and strategies that could have made the morning better. I replayed each interaction and wondered how my actions played into the situation. I came to the conclusion, that I need to say less; maybe I am talking too much and clouding the message. Next time, I will try that. Maybe next time, I will have vodka in my OJ and that will make make me a wee bit more tolerant.

Turns out he was able to turn things around. My husband and I have a hypothesis: if they start the day in 'time-out' then they will have a good day at school.  Today it was proven to be true. He recovered nicely and #3 had a really bad day. (Never underestimate the power of osmosis).

As we were getting the kids undressed for baths, I noticed #3 managed to go the whole day sans underwear. He was the kindergarten commando. Talk about irony. I can only imagine how crazy it would've been if two children had to go home and put on underwear. Well, I know now, it could've been much worse. Note to self: do underwear check before leaving house. 

Let's hope tomorrow we have an easy, transition friendly and underwear clad day. It will be a new day, the possibilities are endless. And, maybe some Bailey's in the coffee wouldn't be such a bad idea. It is Friday after all.

 In the Wrong Hands, Goldfish are Evil

“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” – Benjamin Franklin

There are days that I wonder, what am I going to write about? Maybe committing to three days a week and delivering a quality product would be too much. Little things happen during the day and I'd think, "that was funny, I should write a blog entry about that," but the funny thing would take a line or two and then what would I write about?  I felt that way this morning facing a deadline and no topic. Lucky for me, that was temporary. A topic was already in play, waiting to be expanded on.

#2, the aspy, is allergic to wheat, egg whites, and dairy. His allergies are not severe, but if he eats compound allergens, like baked goods or pizza, he will get a rash. He has had this condition since he was little, so his allergies are a matter of fact. We always have food that is just for him, though he still gets upset from time to time when the other kids are eating stuff he can't.

In my house, food disappears. That is the condition you have with five roaming locusts. You leave a bag of goldfish on the counter and by the end of the day, it is gone, a mere shadow of the bag it used to be. As if leaving the empty bag would fool me into thinking there were still goldfish in the bag. I usually credit #1, the stealth snack stealer, with the goldfish annihilation, but now, the twins know how to get the stool and take the things they want. So, when I saw the empty bag of goldfish on the counter on Monday night, I chastised #1 for eating all the goldfish and went on with the day. 

Wednesday morning, #2 wakes up with a face that is redder than normal and a slight rash. "Ok, #2 what did you eat?" That rash screams "I ATE WHEAT".  He then tried to deny it.  I told him, "biology doesn't lie, what did you eat?" I asked him several times before he answered me. "I had a few goldfish." Then I had to find out how many "a few" really is. I gave him the lecture again, for the millionth time, about him being allergic to certain food and the rash was his body's way of telling him that certain things make it sick, but it is hard for him to be rational when his impulsivity comes to stage.

Later that day, I got a call from school nurse telling me about the rash, which had gotten worse as the day progressed. I am glad this school nurse is a bit more relaxed that some of the nurses I have come across in my day. I told her that he had a compound allergen (goldfish) and he has a history of aggression when he takes Benedryl, (I know, I just can't catch a break here) and the rash is usually the only manifestation of the allergy. She let him stay and when he came home, I inspected the rash. I reminded him several times throughout the evening to be mindful about what he ate. I took his approved snacks out and told him the only way the rash would leave is if he didn't eat wheat, dairy or eggs. (I felt like we were in Dr. Wink's office in Pinkalicious. Only have read that book a million times to the girls, but I digress)

When he woke up this morning, the rash was worse. His face was like Pinkalicious and he had raised bumps all over him. "WHAT DID YOU EAT?' (ok, maybe that didn't come out as calmly as I needed it too.) He started to wail and I watched the tears run down his red, bumpy face. After he calmed down, I asked him again, promising he wouldn't be in trouble. I just had to know what we were dealing with. How the hell can I send him to school like this? He finally told me, "I ate half the bag of goldfish." Oye vey. freaking really?!?!? How can someone who is so freaking smart be so stupid? I was dumbfounded. I understand that his impulsivity over-rides logic in his world, but, WTF? I picked my jaw up from the ground and told him, "I am really confused why you would choose to eat the goldfish. You are in third grade. You are very smart and you logically understand that if you eat those things you will get a rash. So why did you choose to do that? I am really confused why someone so smart would make bad choices." Must have vodka in my OJ. Unable to provide an answer, he starts to wail. Awesome. 

That child is going to school. He has perfect attendance so far for a reason. I have learned over the years, communication between home and school is very important. Clear channels of communication prevent unwanted or unnecessary calls and conversations. So, in the midst of chaos, I sat down at the computer and wrote his teacher an email and cc'd it to the vice-principal, and the school nurse:

Hi Heather, J has a problem with Goldfish. His impulsiveness over-rides his logic. He knows he is allergic, but he can't help himself. The rash yesterday was a result of goldfish the night before. You'd think that him having the rash would dissuade him from having another goldfish, but last night, he ate 1/3 of a bag. (I thought the others had taken it) I now have to hide the goldfish.

   
So. today, his rash is more pronounced. I put allergy cream on him and gave him allergy medicine for any additional discomfort. He has a history of aggression while on allergy meds, but he hasn't had these meds in years and maybe, just maybe, he has grown out of it and will be fine today. 

    
Fingers crossed and I will hide the goldfish. Call me if needed. Thanks! Shari

 Things could always Be Worse

When I was growing up, the only family I knew was my Dad's family, a bunch of close-knit Jews from South Ozone park, Queens. What I learned about people's outlook on life, was that there were three ways to view things: the glass half-full, the glass half-empty, and the Jewish way: you should be grateful you have a glass at all and that it doesn't have a crack in it so all the water drains out. Then you'd really be in trouble.

My grandmother always used to say, "it could always be worse". Those words would always accompany, several of those grandma sounds, and the waving of her hands. (You have to imaging a 98 year old Jewish Grandmother saying this phrase.)

Her words stay with me always. It should be the first line in the parent bible. "No matter how bad things may seem, they could always be worse." And then there was vodka...

So, when the kids spill tomato juice on the kitchen floor, It could've been worse, they could've spilled it on the carpet. When two of the kids are fighting, it could be worse, there could be a major brawl involving all five kids in my family room; complete with whining and screaming children holding fist-fulls of golden hair challenging the sound barrier with their screams that would deafen a pack of hungry seagulls.  It all could be much worse.

When #1 answers the phone and says, "hello this is...what do you want?" then hangs up before the person can answer, I am glad it's some 800 number instead of a Hugh Jackman asking me to lunch. That would be way worse.

When one of the twins is running around the house proclaiming "I have to go pee-pees" and winds up leaving figure eights of pee on the rug, it could be worse; it could've been on the sofa. And, I'm glad it's just pee. No bleach required. That would be way worse.

When #2 has a crappy day at school and spends time in the principals office, it could've been worse, he could have had a crappy day and failed his math test, instead of acing it. 

When my husband walks back into the house after being gone for 11 hours, it could be worse, he could be overseas, like he used to be way back when #1 & #2 were little. At least he's home every day. 

When the boys have really tough times transitioning to school in the morning, which makes the morning so delightful, it could be worse. They could choose not to transition out of their funk and make bad decisions to get them an audience with the principal.

When I get angry the kids have left toys scattered all over the floor and I have to navigate crossing the floor as if I were a 007 character, I refocus, acknowledge that it's a temporary thing, and know if I twisted my ankle on their crap, that would be worse.

When I get jealous of my friends who have family nearby to help out, I think of the stories I have heard from friends that have such a situation, and when it involves in-laws, it is a lot worse.

When I have to watch Strawberry Shortcake for the millionth time, it could be worse. It could be Barney. I wish all dinosaurs were extinct.

When the kids want to listen to One Direction or other music over and over again, It could be worse, it could be children's music, which I have fondly renamed: Music to slit my wrists by.

When I run out of vodka. Wait, what? at least I still have brandy, Bailey's and a fridge full of beer. (I used to be a girls scout leader, I don't mess around with essentials) Running out would void the need for a glass and that would be a million times worse.

So when I wake up each morning and hear the sounds of my little locusts, I know that no matter how crazy the day will get, I can handle it. Because, It could always be worse. And I have vodka on standby.

Vocabulary Words, Fractions and Wine

Tonight I feel like I should put a sticky on #1's homework explaining that I had a couple of glasses of wine before I sat down to help him. His homework involved writing 12 sentences with his vocabulary words. This week his vocabulary words were contractions. He was given the original form and had to find the contraction and write a sentence. I also had to help him prepare for his math test.

 #1 is more text book autistic. Of the three boys, he is the least functioning. Although he still is considered high functioning, there are moments he seems to be conversing with aliens. He does have  a great sense of humor, so we use that to help him learn. We make up silly things or songs to make learning a bit easier for him.

For him to come up with his own sentences, I have to make up several model type sentences to cement pragmatics with him. One of the methods I have for learning new vocabulary stems back to my days at Cornell in the intensive Chinese language program. We used to make the most obnoxious sentences we could with our new words. It was an exercise in humor and pragmatics.

So this evening, with wine in my system, we got the homework done. I should say now, as a side bar, that #1 is very food motivated; picky, but he likes his food. He is the kid at the pool who can walk up to anyone who is eating pizza, look at them and say "pizza, I love pizza. Can I have some" and he asks this question as he is reaching into the box with a hand on a slice. He is the stealth stealer of cookies, pretzels and other carbs. So this evening his sentences were food orientated.

First contraction: I will= I'll
My sentences: "I'll be having another drink shortly. I'll be glad when we have a babysitter. I'll soon be committed to a sanatorium."
His sentence: "I'll get to eat cookies."

Second contraction: I have= I've
My sentences: "I've got to get a local babysitter. I've got to buy more duct tape. I've got to make sure the other kids aren't trashing the house while I'm sitting here."
His sentence: "I've been eating pizza all day long"

Third contraction: Would not= Wouldn't
My sentences: " I wouldn't want to run out of vodka. I wouldn't want to vacuum up #3's lego pieces. I wouldn't want you to get diarrhea."(he laughs)
His sentence: "She wouldn't share her food."

Fourth contraction: Should not= Shouldn't
My  sentences: "You shouldn't put duct tape on the cat. You shouldn't eat fish and peanut butter sandwiches. You shouldn't go into our creepy neighbor's home. Ever."
His sentence:"She shouldn't be so selfish"

Fifth contraction: It will= It'll
My sentences: "It'll be a good day when we have a babysitter that comes back. It'll be great when I have a pool boy."
His sentence: "It'll be a good day."

Sixth contraction: Will not=Won't
My sentences: "I won't go to Walmart and act like a peacock. I won't mix beer and vodka. I won't run outside without clothes."(he smiles)
His sentence: "I won't steal your food."

Seventh contraction: Did not=didn't
My  sentences: "I didn't eat your pizza. I didn't know parenthood could be this much fun."
His sentence: "I didn't eat your food."

Eighth contraction: They have=they've
My sentences: They've come to take me to the funny farm. They've offered me more wine"
His sentence: "They've given me cookies."

Ninth contraction: I am=I'm
My sentences: "I'm losing my mind.  I'm in need of more wine. I'm going to have to write a note to your teacher."
His sentence: "I'm going to eat my food."

Tenth contraction: Can not= Can't
My sentences: "What do yo mean, I can't buy vodka on Sunday? I can't believe they found me again." 
His sentence: "You can't eat my food."

Eleventh contraction: Where did= Where'd
My sentences:"Where'd all my brain cell go? Where'd all the wine in my glass go?"
His sentence: "Where'd my pizza go?"

Twelfth contraction: You have=You've
My sentences: "You've got to be kidding me with these fractions. Sorry, you've been mistaken, if you think I remember anything about fractions." 
His sentence: "You've got to give me more pizza."


During the time he was writing, I looked over the review for his math test. Fractions, my favorite. I am so horrible at fractions. I started to laugh when I saw this:

 I didn't see "I don't give a crap" as an option. Who goes to Iowa anyway?


What fraction of questions will your mom get right based on her inadequate math education?

What fraction properly represents how much your mother cares about fractions?

I didn't see, "enough to make my ass grow", as a possible answer. I could explain my estimate this way: "My pants fit much better before I ate the pie and now I have to lie on the bed and use pliers to zip up my pants."

What fraction represents the number of fourth graders that know fractions better than your mother? Explain your work. My mom killed too many brain cells in college and the rest are dying at an alarming rate.

When my husband heard me cackling in the dining room, he decided it was time to take over. Good idea, cause I think I have to write a sticky note

 Only one thing happy about happy hour

The creator of Happy Hour was most likely a stay at home mom. The time between 4-6 pm are the witching hours. This is the time  they decompress from school and transform from the kid you know, into a mess of hot lava, spewing all over the house, causing chaos and pulling their siblings down the path to hell with them. It is the time when having a drink is absolutely necessary to deal with what is being thrown at you.

I guess I should have seen it coming. Both #2 & #3 had rough days at school. Their daily logs ridden with points of bad behavior. You can always tell when #2 has rough days at school because he melts at the thought of anyone viewing the log book. I gave the boys some time to decompress and play until #1 got home. I set the girls up in my room to watch  a movie on my ipad so I could work with #1 and prepare him for his tests this week. When I asked #2 to do his homework, he erupted into a screaming, whining, volcano. #1, is particularly sensitive when the other kids are crying, and started to wail. #3 then announced he wasn't doing anything either and gave the pout face. Just freaking shoot me. I sent #3 to his room, #2 to time-out and #1 ran off crying. Dinner. I can make dinner now, since no one is cooperating at all.

I made a gluten free pasta for #2 and the kids ate it, but #3 wanted nothing but canned pineapple. Ok, sure. whatever you want. No one is screaming. We made it through dinner and just when I thought we had transitioned out of the muck, we were sucked back into the vortex.

I was working with #1 on his test prep.  He is in fourth grade and mainstreamed in everything but language arts. We have to help him to make sure he doesn't fall behind grade level. #2 walks in and sits in the dining room, showing me he is not doing any of his homework. When asked to do his work, he melts again, which sets off #1 and he runs off. I send #2 to his room to join #3 who was sent there earlier for scribbling on his work as a form of protest. #2 was working his way up the stairs screaming, and then #1 makes a battle charge at him, screaming "aaaaahhhhh" up until he tackles #2. Where is my ref whistle? It would've been easier to be a WWE referee. Just shoot me. "Mommy, I have to go Pee-pees," announces one of the twins, "come with me." I break up the brawl, hold court with the peeing princess and decide to bathe #3 since I could still hear #1 screaming downstairs.  It was only six o'clock.

#3 decided not to cooperate for bath until I put him in fully dressed. By the time the bath was complete, the twins were still watching their show and #1 had stopped screaming, so I went back downstairs to help him prepare for his test. #2 resurfaced, still unwilling to do any work, melted again and said enough to have his computer taken away for several days and was sent back to bed. #1 vanished again, though I could still hear him screaming throughout the house.  So, I got the girls ready for their bath.  It's happy hour or I need a freaking drink to get through the next couple of hours. Because, right now my friend Vodka is the only thing that will prevent me from losing my shit. V8 has two grams of protein and fiber. Add Some vodka, it is the perfect combination. 

The evening got a bit better when my husband got home after 7. He was able to deal with #2 and help the twins to bed. I was just glad the night was over and it didn't take half the bottle to get me through.

I thought the morning would prove to be a new day, but lucky for me, it was just a carry-over from the night before.  But this time, the twins decided it was their turn to join #2 on the journey to hell.
"You're the meanest mom, you won't get any presents for mother's day or your birthday," #2 said. I'm ok with that. Can't have a bloody Mary before the gym. That would be bad. One kid costs over two hundred grand to raise, not including college. What the fuck was I thinking. I would've been on some tropical island set up with a very nice condo with a pool boy. I wish someone had the talk with me a long time ago, "Now Shari, you have a choice, a nice easy life with nice weather and esthetics or suffering at the hands of your offspring". Wow, that would be a hard choice indeed.

The chaos that is my life. Mornings are extremely hard. Try imagining getting five kids dressed, fed, brushed, backpacked, with shoes and coats out the door. It is maddening. It is only when the boys are dropped off at school can the girls fully express their whining uninterrupted. It is a moment I look forward to. That is until, the boys come home again and we start the cycle all over again.

I wonder if the two hundred grand per kid includes the vodka. For my sake, I will pretend it does.
 

Anxiety at it's finest.

I have come to the conclusion that every time I host a play-date, I get ridden with anxiety. Sometimes the anxiety is so intense, it takes every part of my essence not to cancel it.  I am a social person by nature and want to have play-dates and time with other moms, but the anxiety I have from the time they confirm to the time they leave my house is immense. I am afraid that no matter how hard I try, they will judge me in a negative way. I have paranoia about my house not being clean or organized enough. I feel the judgement and it burns through me.

My anxiety isn't unfounded, it is the residual affects of being the child of a hoarder. My mother is a hoarder. (Not the extreme type you see on the TV shows, but a lesser version.) I grew up in a house that you had to make paths through the newspapers and other things to get through rooms. My mother was a child of the depression. She grew up watching how that affected everyone. She learned the value of things, how to re-purpose things and not to take things for granted. Many of the attributes she learned from this period in her life are wonderful qualities, however, the desire not to throw away soup cans or newspapers is one quality I wish she didn't have.

My parent's divorced when I was four years old. They used to fight about lots of things, but the status of the house was always one of them. When I was a kid, my brothers and I couldn't have friends over. We couldn't have anyone over. Our house was a mess, an unbearable mess, but that was all I knew. When I reached the age that I had friends and went to their houses, I learned that people didn't live that way. It was confusing and I carried the shame but didn't know how to fix it.  My father would pressure us to clean the house, "there are three of you, you should be able to clean the house."  But how do children blatantly disobey one parent to appease the other? It was an unfair and precarious situation that we were put in. There were times that my brothers and I worked together to clean the house and made some progress, but it wasn't long before it deteriorated back to what it was.

Years later,  I am in charge of my own household and find myself at a disadvantage. I was never taught how to maintain a home, I was never taught to clean. I wasn't aware that you had to clean baseboards, dust anything, bleach stuff,  or routinely clean anything beside laundry.  What do you mean dust bunnies aren't  supposed to be there? They got there on their own.  You would think that people instinctively know how to do those things, but we do learn from our parents. We all have seen how mothers influence daughters and teach them to clean. It is something children emulate their mothers from a very young age. I see the twins try to help me when I am cleaning. They want to vacuum, they want to spray and wipe. I  didn't have that model and although I have learned to clean, I feel that every time I have someone in my home, I am subjecting myself to potential criticism.

When we were planning our move to MD, one of my closest friends told me offhandedly, "You know I could never visit and stay with you because of your house, right?" Well, I know now, that you value esthetics more than my company. When she stopped by one day and had her mom with her, I sat in disbelief as her mother started pulling stuff up from between my couch cushions. After the first item, she just kept digging until she got everything. I sat in horror with a handful of miscellaneous items in my hand. She just did it as a matter of fact; like she was doing her civic duty.  At that point, I realized where my friend got it from. She got the standard of clean from her mother. I never had a standard of clean presented to me other than the occasional visit to my step-mom's, which was so clean, I was uncomfortable. In fact, pristine houses or minimalistic houses make me antsy because they look like unlived spaces, void of any human imperfections.  I always have to suppress the urge to leave a rogue candy wrapper somewhere or move something slightly off-center in those type of environments.

When I moved to MD, I felt so isolated that I was desperate to have a human connection. I pushed the anxiety aside and hosted play-dates because the amount of energy it took to prep the kids to leave; get their coats and shoes on, into the car and strapped in, was exhausting. At my house, I know the parameters of my kids' destructive tendencies. I also know that a couple more kids aren't really going to tip the scales into utter destruction, though it has happened. If we are in someone's house, I don't get to relax because I feel like I have to keep track and monitor the kids.  So, I am really between a rock and a hard place, because it takes massive amounts of energy to leave and copious amounts of beer to host.

Because I have ADHD, I try to keep things organized. I have a place for things and can find most things in my house quite easily because I put them in an organized fashion. (It may not look organized, but it is to me.) I have five kids, and with five kids, comes lots of stuff. I am aware that as they age, the big stuff becomes small stuff and the primary plastic slowly leaves. So, I am not bothered by the stuff, because it's quasi-organized and it's temporary. Sure, there are rooms and spaces that aren't ideal;  my garage was the dumping ground from the move and gradually became a mess when we had to dig through boxes to find things. It will all be dealt with eventually. I am one person and I can only do so much.

My dad and step mom visited us this past fall. Throughout their visit, they made comments about all the kids books we should donate, and all the stuff we should give away. My dad commented about the amount of toilet paper in our garage, which was really a dig about my messy garage, and it was all very hurtful. When they commented on the status of my house, "the health department would shut you down", it was hurtful.  And when my step mom told me in a drunken attempt to introduce me to my reality, "You are becoming your mother", well, it felt like she hit me with a baseball bat.(Not that they offered to help in any way.) You can walk through my house. I don't have piles of newspapers or recyclables laying about. I don't have piles of clothes everywhere and I vacuum every day. The kids are demanding and require a lot of attention and help. I will gladly give them the time they need, when they need it. I will never send away a child if they are trying to engage me. Never. That's what the teenage years are for; to clean because they want nothing to do with you.

I am grateful for many of the things my mom taught me about recycling and re-purposing. I am able to see the beauty and potential in things that others don't. Most of the furniture in my house is from free-cycle or second hand stores. I taught myself how to reupholster and refinish furniture. I taught the kids how to make stuff out cereal boxes or empty jars. If you were to ask me if I would prefer to be OCD or a clutter-hound, I would prefer the latter. Both conditions have their downsides, but with five kids, things are going to get trashed and it is an exercise in futility to try to fight that. It is much easier to let the chaos happen and clean it once.  Though, sometimes, I think it would be easier to set it all on fire and just start over. 

As long as there is a clear path to the beer fridge, I'll be fine.  Maybe I'll have #2 research Xanax for me.

Those bad words

As a native New Yorker and New Jersey transplant, I am hard wired for bad words. Dropping the "f-bomb" in that culture is as common as saying "um" and compound swearing is an art form.

When I leave my house alone or go out with the girls, it is the one word that streams from my core uncontrollably. It gets inserted into any sentence and is used as often as possible. But when I'm home, those words never even come close to the surface. I made up a couple of words to serve the purpose of the exclamatory response, "shoosh" and "fuki-naki". Although it seems to do the trick, when I get a call from a friend, the words bubble up wanting to come out.

So what is it about the bad words that offer relief? According to psychcentral.com,"Swearing is beneficial in ways that people may underestimate or take for granted. Swearing is often cathartic — it often frees us of the feelings of anger or frustration we hold and allows expression for them. It can also be a useful substitute to physical violence (who would rather be punched out than to withstand being sworn at?)" 

Maybe that's why I am a profane spewing crazy when I leave my house. Or, maybe it's just that we folks from NY & NJ have a wee bit more anger than most people. 

When #2 was in second grade he was in the principal's office more than he wasn't. Most of it stemmed from his anxiety getting the best of him and once he got there, he'd be out of control and say things like, "I hate this school. I want my teacher to die. I want to burn down the school. School is stupid. My teacher is stupid and everyone is stupid." The kid can't light matches, I was worried. But we had to beat it into the boys that they couldn't say certain things because they were unacceptable and if they chose to say them, they would be punished.   

We taught the kids, our version of bad words, "Die, kill, hate, & stupid", that is, until they learn the real ones. #3 is the bad word police. When my mother was visiting, she would say on a regular basis, "ooh, I hate commercials" and then #3 would chime in, "mom, grandma said a bad word; she said 'hate'. 'Hate' is a bad word." ok buddy, you just said it twice, but I guess when you're tattling, it doesn't count because you are retelling the story. Later that day she said, "I hate those stupid commercials", "oooh, mommy, Grandma said bad words again. She said 'hate' and 'stupid'. Are you going to put her in time-out?" Grandma is a potty mouth, huh? "Nope, grandma is 83, not putting her in time-out, just tell her to clean up her potty mouth".  "Grandma, clean up your potty mouth." He said. We all cracked up and I gave my mom bonus points for not throwing the remote at me.

#2 is now interested in pop music. He likes finding songs on iTunes. "Mom, what does explicit mean? It says this song has explicit lyrics. But, the Maroon 5, song 'payphone' has two versions.  The one with the word 'stupid' in it is not labeled 'explicit', but the other one is.  What words are they talking about?" Good try, buddy. I'm not going down that road. Five minutes later, he is singing the explicit version, "one more funky love song I'll be sick," and he had no idea that word was not "funky". He then became convinced that every song had an explicit version. "LMFAO's song,'I'm sexy and I know it' is the explicit version of 'If you're happy and you know it'. You can't sing the explicit version at school." Yea, I want to know what the explicit version of 'ABC' is or better yet, 'the Wheels on the bus'. He is in third grade, who knows how much longer he will be insulated from common vernacular, but I hope to keep it that way for as long as possible.

#1 was obsessed with Ultimate Marvel vs Capcom 3, since it came out. He would go online and find videos on YouTube of people playing. He is a big scripter and he would script songs, TV shows and movies. Like most Autistic kids with language delays, they are able to memorize movies and songs and replay the dialogue as if you had pushed the 'play' button. Eventually they script in context, which in itself is pretty huge, but you just have to be aware of what they are scripting. We got a call from the school principal that our 10 year old, #1 proclaimed in the middle of music class, "I can't fuckin' believe it." We learned shortly after, that the kids playing the game on YouTube were all exercising their skills as profanity spewers. Well at least he used it in context. We then had to make watching YouTube a punishable offense. We took away his YouTube and his potty mouth went with it.

Regardless of how you package it, bad words are part of the common vernacular. They are injected into TV, music, movies and all of popular culture. Eventually all the kids will learn them and use them. Our job as parents is to teach appropriateness; when to use them, why you use them, and how to respond when someone uses them towards you. Until #2 comes up to me and asks me point blank, I'm going to save the lecture and continue to say all my bad words out of ear shot. Now excuse me, I'm going to go hide in my closet, I have some bad words bubbling that I need to get out.