Inappropriate past time: nude, under-water kayaking in a twelve-foot diameter pool.
Sam's latest kicks are, once again, driving us crazy. Always looking for leisure time activities for our autistic child of an appropriate nature, she much prefers leisure time activities of an inappropriate nature. They are more fun. Years ago, we had to buy new markers for her every time we went to the store because she would not put the caps on. We went crazy back then with re-capping her markers. It was time-consuming. It was expensive. This was happening when we lived in Alaska and I would have to remember to order markers along with the eggs and milk every time we ordered groceries. We tried to get her to put the caps back on and she would look at us and say, "Sorry, I only speak Swahili". No, not really, but that was THE LOOK. And since it was expensive to have to keep buying more and more markers, and since she was completely unreasonable if she couldn't do her art, we re-capped markers day and night. Then, at long last, the school made Sam re-cap her markers and all was good again. Yes, lazy enabling parents that we are, it was the school that succeeded in establishing a good habit.
Sam has had many inappropriate past times in her 13 years. At one time there was nothing more satisfying that dropping anything, preferably glass, out the upper windows of the Wheelwatch and watching and listening to the crash as whatever it was hit the ground about 20 feet below. She would toss objects with the frenzy of a madman, anxious to destroy as much personal property as possible (usually other people's property) before we caught her and put an end to it. More than once I got a phone call from my neighbor Jon who said, "Uhm, are you aware that there are objects flying out the girls' bedroom window?" There was no reasoning with Sam. Threats were completely useless. No punishment could be thought of that she would actually "get". So we had to thwart her efforts, remove her hobby, by stapling wire mesh to the outside of the windows. Because, oh yeah, the window screens were the first things to crash on the beach. We now live in a one-story house. Throwing things out the window is much less satisfying.
However, Sam is still doing it. Her bedroom window screen is bent beyond repair. We can no longer coax it to hang in place and little good it would do because Sam would just push it out again. There is a broken plate resting on the rocks outside her bedroom. Other glassware has recently bit the dust, too. But this isn't her greatest obsession right now.
Last weekend I rearranged Sam's bedroom. We'd spent about two weeks with Sam turning up her TV to top volume and sleeping with her window wide open. No screen, remember. TV on. Ground floor room. Now is this an open invitation to come murder us all in our beds or what? Plus, it was January. With our poor mattress now resting on the floor, I'd feel that arctic wind rush across the floor, escape through the bottom of Sam's door, and scoot right up to our mattress and try to gain entrance under the covers. So, two, three, six times a night, I'd get up, quietly open Sam's door, close the window, slowly turn down the volume on the tv, and tip-toe out again. Sometimes immediately, sometimes an hour later, it would start all over again.
The assaults on our sanity are continuous. Sleep-deprivation tips the balance against us and I'm afraid that we might end up in prison instead of a nice psychiatric hospital. We looked at the night time warfare with clinical detachment, swallowing all that rage and self-pity. Why was she being such a turd? Well, the bed was placed right under the window. So, if I moved the bed, it would at least take more effort to open the window. Also looking at the placement of the bed, there is a heat vent directly above it. Miranda would love that. Sam is more like her dad. Now that the fire wood is running low and the outside temperature has been around fifty, we're burning less and the heater is coming on periodically. And it was blowing right in Sam's little polar bear face.
I moved the bed across the room and into a corner. I think she likes that corner and I know she likes not having hot air blowing on her while she sleeps. When Sam sleeps better, we all sleep better.
So Sam has been forced to find new ways to irritate and infuriate us. This time, blame the school, do not credit them. Sam's former aide, the other Sam, came to visit this weekend and catch up on what's new, now that Sam has decided to go to the high school and they no longer see each other. I was sharing what Sam's new passion in life is, the newest obsession that is driving me mad, and Sam the aide says, "Oh, she must have learned that in art class."
Deep, calming breath. Count to 10. Ok, count to 35. Our Sam is now dismantling magic markers, ripping them apart to get the ink-soaked core out, and then she is squeezing the ink into water. Apparently they did this is art class, making I don't know what. Now she is doing it all the time. Did you hear me? I mean it. ALL THE TIME. OUR HOT TUB IS BRIGHT BLUE!
There are glasses of pretty water all of the house. There are smudges of bright colors all over the walls, on the floors, in both bathrooms, and next to Sam's bed. Their are bright splotches on my pillow cases. DO NOT BELIEVE THE PACKAGING. WASHABLE DOES NOT MEAN NON-STAINING. I've got the pillow cases to prove it. No unattended water glass is safe. Neither are vases, bowls, or any other kind of container, and that includes the sinks AND SAM DOES NOT TURN OFF THE WATER AND YOU KNEW WHAT THAT MEANS: NO SLEEPING ONTHE JOB!
It also means more markers. And more markers. Every time we go to the store. At the rate that she's going through the markers it won't be long and we'll be hearing, "Markers, store, car fast". Over and over until weak, lazy, enabling parents that we are, we'll be getting into the car to buy markers. If we don't, it would only be a matter of time before Sam walked into some stranger's house to see if they had markers. And candy. We've been to that show, so excuse us, but we'll take the lesser of the two evils.
It could be worse. I do realize this. If she were a "normal" kid she would maybe have a meth lab in her bedroom. She could be busy sending nude photos over her cell phone. She could be bullying other kids. She could be lying and sneaking off. Oh, wait a minute, she does sneak off. Or, she could resume an old favorite past time: breaking eggs. Lots and lots of eggs, on the floor, on the carpet. Oh, you can not imagine. But we can. We've been there. So, deep calming breath and count to 10. Markers it is, for now.
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