Sam, feeling inordinately pleased with herself as she gets her way and the popcorn made the way she likes it.
Try stopping an autistic person from doing what they really want. Go ahead. Try it. Spit in the wind.
Earlier in the evening, when the above picture was taken, Sam wanted popcorn. Mick and I have been feeling woozy and a little nauseated for a few days. Mick tried to take the easy way out and make microwave popcorn. Sam was having nothing to do with it. She wanted air-popped, with real melted butter, salt, and white cheddar popcorn seasoning. Nothing else. No compromise.
Mick had already started the microwave popcorn. He tried to reason with Sam, silly man. He gave up about five seconds in. That's because Sam just marched over to the cupboard and got the air popper out and set it up, grabbed the jar of popcorn kernels and started to pour them in (and there's no measuring for that kid, so that's when Mick sighed and got with the program).
It's really not that much harder to do the air-popped. It's easier than our Stir-Crazy popcorn popper. It certainly tastes better than microwave popcorn, and Sam's no fool. She knows what tastes better. And Sam never takes no for an answer.
She usually isn't a bully, but she won't hesitate to be one when she really wants something and isn't getting it. Don't think she doesn't know her own strength--she does, and she'll use it. The only fighting chance I have in hand-to-hand combat with her is when she is trying to do something that she seriously shouldn't and I get that little extra burst of adrenaline. I can't just command it, but have to feel the fear or desperation.
Sunday night started to be a repeat of Saturday night. Saturday night lasted far too long. Too long, that is, before the girls were settled and we could actually do more than just think about sleep. Sam wants to sleep in Miranda's room on the weekend. Correction, Sam wants to sleep in Miranda's room period and Miranda is willing to put up with it for one night of the weekend.
The appeal is that Miranda has a full and twin mattress on her floor made up with dozens of pillows and blankets, creating a wall-to-wall nest of fluffy sumptuousness. The appeal is also that Sam loves to hang out with her sister.
The lack of appeal for Miranda is that she doesn't even get to sleep in her own bed because Sam kicks her over to the twin bed and nothing can stop her. Certainly not her petite older sister.
So last night was hellish for an extended period of time. Miranda scolding in a very bossy, grating voice; Sam squealing and protesting so loudly that the sound travels down my spinal column, and it just went on and on. Feet stamping down the hallway, pillows and blankets being carried back and forth, those voices constantly yammering at each other. A real romance killer, let me tell you.
I heard snoring and thought Miranda had succeeded in getting Sam back to her own bed. Fat chance. Sam was asleep on the couch, snoring and sweating. Unfortunately I couldn't leave her there. The wood stove is in the living room and in constant use. No way would I let my little fire bug sleep out there by herself in the winter. The alarm we'd wake up to wouldn't be the alarm clock.
I woke her up, got her into her own bed, she jumped up and grabbed her jack-o-lantern night light and headed down the hall to Miranda's room, crawled into the full-sized bed, and tossed Miranda's pillows onto the little bed. Fait accompli.
Tonight, a repeat. Arguing, reasoning, or cajoling an autistic person is like trying to convince the forces of nature to simply cease. Samantha is our own little funnel cloud and sometimes it's just best to stay out of the way. That way, we get some sleep.
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