My Heart Will Go On

At the end of the school year, the teachers usually host an event to give thanks to the many parents who helped out during the school year. When I went to #1's school, they had an elaborate spread and the highlight was when the sign language club performed a few songs.  #2 & #3's school, had their volunteer appreciation breakfast last week, and I was happy that I was able to bring the twins with me.

Everything was great. There was food, coffee, juice and some awesome moms. But, then the music teacher brought in the fourth grade class and they were all holding their recorders. Great. One kid practicing the recorder at home is painful enough.  Forty kids playing recorder in a quasi-controlled group is just one way the music teacher can express her feelings about not getting any holiday presents or special accolades during teacher appreciation week. F-U people, I teach your talentless kids and it is a thankless and painful job.  I'm going to let you know how much I appreciate you. Welcome to hell on earth people. 

Before they began, the music teacher gave a little speech about how the fourth grade had just finished a unit about the Titanic and their first song, they were playing more than one?, was in tribute to the unit. They were playing the theme song from the movie, Titanic, "My Heart Will Go On" and from the first note, I struggled to contain myself. Tears were streaming down my face and my friend Katie had to stop looking at me because she was laughing too. It was positive feedback at its finest.  I was grateful that I had one of the twins on my lap to hide behind as I tried to regain my composure. They were murdering a song about death. How ironic.

I never thought of the recorder as a musical instrument. It is just a glorified whistle and is not capable of not sounding like shit. I never heard of anyone at Julliard majoring in recorder. I never heard of anyone doing a recorder recital at Carnegie Hall. What merits does the recorder bring to the music world other than upset the homeostasis within the home of every third grader who touches the horrible offender? Please don't send me YouTube links to people playing the recorder less painfully, I have enough reasons to drink already.

When the second song began, Twin R told me she wanted to dance, and as soon as she got up, her sister joined her. They got up right in front of everyone and danced. When the focus shifted to the two, little, crack butterflies dancing in front of everyone, the music became less painful. The music shifted to the periphery and the girls became the main event. Maybe it was not what the passive/aggressive music teacher had planned, but they saved us all. No therapy needed this week due to recorders. 

Thanks to my crack butterflies, I  did not need to enhance the OJ and survived being appreciated recorder style.

Perfection is an illusion

Long before most of us had kids, we had an idea of what we'd be like as parents. We had the ideal fantasy of what our world with children would be like. And while we sat staring at our first child, we put together a little list of the things we wanted to teach our kids, the things we needed to modify within ourselves to be that "perfect" parent, which of course had no resemblance to our own parents at all. We clung to it as our personal parent bible and we would rise to the challenge. We would be the best parents the world has ever known. 

With that, the first kid is watched like a hawk, juice boxes are evil and you hyper-hover so that no chemicals via manufactured foods will ever get inside your kid. You do the kid classes and although they may not have a clue what is going on, you feel validation in a room full of mother's doing the same thing. 

Then the second kid comes along, and a couple of the things you used to micro manage, lose their ranking on the priority chain. It takes some reworking and time,  but eventually you adjust to two kids. Kid classes are harder with two, so you stop going. You say "I can play with them at home",  pat yourself on the back and carry on.

And then you have more kids and everything goes to hell. The house looks like several small tornadoes ransacked the house at all times, even after you spent several hours cleaning it. Juice boxes become the norm and you let them have any type of chemical-laden food just so they give you a few minutes alone, and if that occurs while you're in the bathroom, then it's a double bonus. Classes become too expensive and too difficult to manage with all the kids, so you stay home and plug them in because you're too tired. You're just happy you've made it through the day so far. 


People see you in public with all the kids and say things like, "are they all yours?" No, I got the BOGO code and got a great deal in aisle 13, and, "I don't know how you do it", I drink, lady.  Lots and lots. If crack came in a patch, I would be wearing one.  I miss the days in NJ where the the liquor stores were attached to the grocery stores and I could wheel everyone into the liquor store after grabbing milk, to fill my cart up with essentials. The cashier would make the observation that I was buying more beer than food, count the kids and nod her head. You feel my pain, lady?

When you start allocating a percentage of the grocery money for beer, all the ideas you had long ago, about being the perfect parent become laughable. You realize that you yell and threaten your kids as much, if not better than your parents. "I'll give you something to cry about". But instead of hitting, we'll introduce Barbie to the recyclable bin. You have become your parents and every time you say, "How many times have I told you...", you grimace and have to squelch the impulse to soak your head in the sink. 


You shift your focus on surviving the parenting experience, and hope that your kids will be resilient enough to not need as much therapy as you think they will.

You let go of the word "perfect" and strive for "better than most", which is way more realistic. Perfection is like a unicorn. It is a unattainable fantasy, just like the ones you had before kids which hyper-focused on the novelty of having children, instead of the challenges they provide.  

And believe me, they are a challenge. Mommy needs her juice box.

 

Anarchy on the Horizon

When Memorial Day weekend comes, it is a reality check. It is a friendly reminder that there are only three more weeks of school. Count 'em, three. Oh, fuck. And that is when you realize that maybe you should have had a plan about camps, activities or something. Anything.  Maybe there is still time to order duct tape, Benadryl, sun-screen, anti-depressants and bug spray in bulk. Maybe even a liquor store that delivers.

Suddenly the kids you sent to school every day, that still have perfect attendance, will be home. All day, every day, until summer school or Extended school year(ESY) starts. In my house, the day after school ends is the definition of anarchy. Now, I'm sure every parent with a kid on the spectrum says, "I'm gonna have a schedule and we are going to plan trips and outings." Yea, good luck with that one.  After trying to get five kids to do anything and failing miserably, our schedule falls to ruins even before one of the kids rips it off the wall.

Let me tell you what our schedule becomes: wake up, play video games, eat breakfast, change out of PJ's after mom threatens to take away video games, jump on trampoline, eat snacks, play video games, fight with each other over something,(to be determined), eat pre-lunch, play video games, conspire with a sibling to pick on another sibling(s), make sibling(s)cry, sit in time-out, run through house with other siblings like a pack of screaming banshees, act out self-scripted fight scene between Star Wars figures and My Little Ponies on the trampoline, and that is all before 10am. Sometime after that, at least one kid will run through the house with crackers falling from their mouths, someone will spill something liquid, someone will dump toys that were organized prior to dumping, someone will make someone else cry, and my beer fridge inventory will be greatly reduced. I will be begging Calgon to take me away.  One way.

Our home becomes an unstructured mecca of chaos. Home to the swarm of locusts that will eat everything in it's path all day long and will even eat ketchup from the bottle if you let them, that is, after they try to replicate a Jackson Pollack painting on the wall with it.

"The pool! I can take them to the pool", you think, but, I absolutely hate pools. I used to manage a pool as part of my job, and I know that no public pool ever has great balance for very long. They are nasty pools of ick.  And then you have to deal with all the gossipy moms and all their bratty kids. I'd rather be dissecting my own eyeballs. But, for the sake of the kids, you go anyway.  And then you have to get five kids suited up, sun-screened and out the door.  But don't forget, you have to first pack up the other half of the kitchen that they didn't eat, because inevitably, as soon as you get to the pool, five minutes later, you'll hear, "mom, I'm so very hungry." I swear my kids are missing some type of enzyme. Then, when you get to the pool,  you have to keep track of them all. I am usually the one mom standing at attention counting to five continually as I monitor each of their moves. It is absolutely exhausting to be that responsible. The kids might like the pool, but the pool sucks.

The thought of the summer to come, makes me wish that Publisher's Clearing house offered a sweepstakes that gave you a nanny and a cleaning lady instead of the big ole check and balloons. As soon as you opened the door, they just took over. "ok, lucky mom, go take a nap." Now that would be the ultimate prize. 

Now I have three weeks to figure out a plan. First on the list is to stock up on vodka and find a liquor store that delivers. Second, stay away from the pool. Third, buy food. The rest I'll figure out as it goes. May the force be with me.

 Who's got Game?

Last month we took the kids to the National Zoo in Washington DC. All through the zoo, #2 the aspy, would rattle off facts and observations about the animals he saw. Though sometimes he has a rough time distinguishing between pure fact and his facts. What we saw over and over again was that the males in any species were prettier than the female counterparts. In my one class in Genetics, I learned that the males are prettier because they are trying to attract the females and spread their DNA to attain the goal of Mendelian Fitness.   "Hey mom, the male peacock wants romance", said #2 as the peacock opened his feathers to full display.  Peacock's got game.

So what the hell happened with people? How come with humans, the females are the pretty ones and the pretty men are men's men? It makes it harder to find suitable seed when the playing-field is laden with so many undesirable variations. If the males primal need is to spread his seed, and he doesn't play for the NBA, then he has to get game somehow. Living with your parents and mastering video games isn't the way. Nor is eating like a 15 year old. If there is one thing we've learned from Jerry Springer, it's that if the first guy that comes your way doesn't have teeth, there might be a winner in the next trailer. I just don't get it that women fight over men. Really?  Looking at half those guys that are the middle of a cat fight, do you really want to perpetuate their genes? Eeeww. Well, someone has to live in the trailers.

Some guys hit the gym and work on the moves to actually find a female to reproduce with. Many move to suburbia and have kids and that is when they start to go downhill fast.

We moved to Baltimore three years ago and joined the pool each summer. The majority of pool patrons are families from a pretty homogeneous neighborhood with a few tokens thrown into the mix for good measure. My observations are as followed: The women tried to look good, at least some of them worked out and owned that swim suit. The guys however, all looked like the centerfold of Dump magazine. Really, put that shirt on. Your boobs are bigger than most of the ladies. It seemed that once they had kids and "spread the seed" they let themselves fall into a state of decay, much like a flower after it has been pollinated. If you looked hard at them and at their kids, you could find traces of the attractiveness that used to be, but it is hidden under at least one layer of Krispy Kreme.

Those type of guys are usually the same ones you see trying to pick up the "barely legals", that you and your friends laugh at during Girl's night out. I remember those guys that used to hit on me in my early days. They'd moan and complain that they weren't getting laid or serviced and how their wives shut down. Well, if you looked like a doughnut covered, shadow of a man, you used to be, I wouldn't be knocking on your door either. Stop whining and get your fat ass to a gym and go buy your wife some fucking flowers, asshole. It's not her, it's you.

This weekend when the pool opens, I will get to see all the puffy men and pretty women and for some, I'll look at their youngest child and mentally do the math as to how long it has been since they had sex. And for others, I'll see the cumulative effort of all their gym days. Nonetheless, it should be fun to see all our neighbors half naked. Well, at least they all have their teeth.

Underwear Infidel

What we thought was an occasional revolt against underwear has become more of a regular event. After #3's bath last night, he put on his pajamas without underwear. I decided not to pick that battle with him, but told him that he needed to put on underwear in the morning for school.

However, when he got dressed in the morning, underwear was not among his selected items. I asked him to put the underwear on, and then the revolution began. His face scrunched up, his flag went up, and he screamed something that sounded like the way hawks say "f-u" to each other.

Ok, ok. I need to redirect him. If I approach this with humor, I may be able to pull him out of the crazy zone. So I grabbed the Spiderman and Batman  underwear out of his drawer,  I held them both up and offered him a choice. He screamed as if someone threw acid on him. I put a pair on my head and asked him if he liked the hat, he half-smiled then quickly resumed scrunchy face. I may have a shot here, but then he screamed, "I don't like underwear. I HATE underwear. I want to destroy all the underwear in the universe" Ok, at least you have strong convictions.

Now, any parent who is at similar crossroads would consider backing down and letting them go commando to school to avoid any more drama. But the thing with behavior modification is that you can't. Once you decide that something is unacceptable, you're stuck on the highway. Otherwise, they will challenge you at every level. If you cave once, they know they may have a chance if they fight you. If you fight them unwavering and they always lose, then eventually they won't fight. We're at the stage that if he tell us "no" to things that he has to do, then we put him in "time-out" immediately. This strategy is what the behaviorists call "behavior extinction." You give them the same, consistent consequence for a behavior you wish to extinguish from their arsenal.   It takes a lot of self-control, patience and vodka to get there, but it will happen eventually.  Now to only to get there before I run out of vodka.

Then, I had to figure out the triggers for this altercation. The question was, "WHY, was he fighting the underwear so much?" Did the seams bother him? Did the tag rub his back, just a little, when he leaned to the left?  Did he prefer jockeys to boxer briefs? There were so many possibilities, but when he is screaming and being uncooperative, there are no answers to be found.

And if you think that was my only problem that morning, think again. #1 is very sensitive to other kids crying. When he saw #3 protesting and mom and dad ganging up on him, he jumped in to support his brother. "He doesn't want to wear it," he cried in #3's defense.  We then had to explain that all people wear underwear to school. It sounded reasonable to him, so he suggested to #3, that he  wear underwear. But, once #3 started screaming, #1 short-circuited and tried to tackle #2 who was sitting calmly reading an atlas. To avoid absolute mayhem, I grabbed #1 to remove him from the room, which is harder now since he is 4'10 and 86 pounds.  Husband was getting #3 under-panted and while all that was going on, we were both praising #2 for not feeding into the craziness that surrounded him.

The problem with #1 is that once he is sucked into the vortex, it is very hard to get him out. He is usually agitated long after the altercation is over. And, like a bug to a light, he keeps coming back to the drama. No matter how you try to remove him from a situation, he will find his way back, just because he can't transition when he is on the crazy train.

So, Husband got #3 under-panted, and I was helping #1 brush his teeth and then #2 came in to inform me that #3 had removed his underwear again and was trying to be commando incognito . Time out again. Logic was failing, time out was not altering his state of mind, so then I had to pull out the big guns, "if I hear you have taken off your underwear at school, I will take your Star Wars game and put it in the attic. Do you understand?" He stopped screaming, he nodded and I held him and squeezed him to help him decompress.

I had used his currency. I figured out what it took to get the behavior I needed from him and we got there. We turned our focus to the bird who had build a nest and laid her eggs in our hanging basket on our porch, and then they all went off to school.

Now I know why Vodka is often paired with Orange Juice. 

Field trip to McDonald's

#1 goes to a different public school than his siblings. The school has an ALS(adult learning support) program which allows him to be mainstreamed in certain subjects and gives him extra support in the areas he struggles with. When I got a permission slip for a field trip to McDonald's, I had squelch my WTF reaction and understand why.

The field trip was planned by his special education teacher to give the kids a life lesson. They were going to McDonald's for facilitated interaction and pragmatic language practice. They each were going to learn how to wait in line, ask for what they wanted, pay for it, count the change and then check their order before sitting down to talk with their friends. It made sense, I just didn't like the food choice.

McDonald's and I don't have a relationship. I broke up with fast food in 1991 and haven't had it since. At my heaviest, I weighed around 225lbs and made a lifestyle choice. I lost 70 pounds by committing to a lifestyle of healthy eating and exercise. I decided that I would not introduce fast food to the kids as a food choice, just because fast food is evil. Who needs health issues on top of Autism? Not me. 

Years ago, before our family was complete, I was asked by friends, "What are you going to do when all his friends are eating McDonald's?" I replied, "I will give money and let him try it." I have let him buy ice cream when we were returning DVDs to Red Box, but the line was drawn there. I would give him the dollar and change to buy the ice cream and watch him interact with the employee. It wasn't smooth, and I needed to step in and guide him through the process. And, I realized he needed more practice interacting with people in the community who didn't know him.  And then, his fourth grade class went to the Air and Space Museum in Washington DC, and the cost covered lunch at McDonald's. The day had arrived that he was actually going to eat "food" at McDonald's. I had to prep him about what to buy, since he is very picky. After the trip, he told me he ate fries, apple slices and a milk shake. Not sure if that is true, but I'll go with it. 

I signed the permission slip and sent in the money for the McDonald's field trip. The more exposure he gets interacting with the community, the better, even if it means he is eating at McDonald's.  Gotta pick your battles. I'm putting pro-biotics in his yogurt.

Vodka-infused Mother's day

The Rolling Stone's song, "You can't always get what you want", always to come to mind when I am asked what I'd like for Mother's day. "What do you want for Mother's day, mommy?" and immediately my mind goes to the impossible, a pool boy, a beach vacation alone, a villa in Tuscany, a years subscription to the Chippendale's cleaning company. I'm sure they make housecleaning a snap. Well maybe not, I'd be dropping stuff all over the house so they could pick it up while wearing that thong. Thank you. Thank you, come again.

Many of us with small kids have on our lists:  Bathroom time without an audience, not having to answer "why" questions for an afternoon, not having to change diapers, and a nap. It also would feel good to have a moment to think and remember why you walked into a room in the first place. oh yea, I did have to go potty. 

Moms of school age children would be happy with: no homework, kids that listened and put their crap away and not ask where it went after they refused to put it away. Added bonuses, would be if they kept their pants pulled up, and not having to schlep them all over town for all activities.  

As moms, we know that we unless we put subliminal messages into netflix shows and held the remote controls hostage, the messages will not be received. You really want to know what I want for Mother's Day? Here you go; The top ten things Moms really want:

1) Surprise us with niceness. It would be nice if we weren't 100%  responsible for arranging any couple time we have together outside the house. Sometimes, for me to get a sitter, I have to jump through fire and it goes unnoticed. It's like you got a free pass. It would be nice to go out without having to do all the work. 

2) A spa anything, even if it was a pass to sit in the lobby and read trashy magazines.

3) Let us leave the house, ALONE. Alone time should not equal the time it takes to get the mail.

4) I want to unplug. I don't want to find that f-ing toy that our kid has lost for the millionth time which is most likely in the same f-ing place they last put it. No aliens, no acts of war, it is still wherever the fuck they left it. I want nothing to do with it. Plain and simple.

5) I want some of my TV shows on the DVR to have a higher rating than some of the kid's shows. Can't I just have one f-ing show? Screw the bloody Bubble Guppies. Mama needs some distracting Bravo shows to remember the importance of an education. 

6) I want someone else to vacuum the van. 

7) To get in writing that all the burden associated with presents for all  school personnel, will not be my problem.  "Next year, ______(place name here,) will be fully responsible for all holiday and teacher appreciation week gifts". It is incredibly difficult to take care of all the people; the Special Education teacher, mainstream teacher, OT, Speech, aides and other professional staff that helps my kids. Especially when it is when I'm dealing with two different schools. It makes my mind explode.

8) Vodka. Cause frankly, looking at our kids, we're fucked. 

9) A clean house house I had nothing to do with and a meal that just magically appeared. I had to buy nothing, prepared nothing, and poof, it was there.

10) To have an adult conversation uninterrupted by kids, not about kids.

Although many of us will look back with nostalgia on the things our kids did that drove us nuts, at certain times, I imagine what my Mother's day will be like in 14 years after all the kids have left. I imagine myself at my future beach house, because my old self won't be able to handle the cold weather any more, and of course there will be a pool boy. You missed a spot.

Happy Mother's day to all. Vodka all around!