Chicken and Sponge

Back to Blogging

It's been over a year since I worked on this site and there have been many changes in the meantime. First, I have to express some disappointment in Typepad, the host of this site. When I first signed up, I had a professional blog. I was able to customize the look of the site, but honestly, the free Typepad had so many design choices, that if I hadn't had delusions of quick grandeur and income, I would have gone the free route. After a year and a half, I'd made approximately $21 with my professional blog. I didn't want to renew the pro contract for obvious reasons. When I decided to start blogging again, I was sorely disappointed by the complete lack of design choice.

I quit blogging after I had to find a real job. I tried for about six months. I would come home, eat dinner and then write for a couple hours before going to bed. I was unhappy with what I produced, but I was also unhappy with how little I produced. I was writing a novel, The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, and it looked like I would never finish it. I was stretched too thin in all ways but the corporeal body. To my disappointment.

So I quit. I said good-bye and quit blogging. And I finished the novel, if one actually ever truly finishes such a project. I submitted it to a writers' service and it was accepted for their full-service service. It has been submitted to 52 literary agents, and one big shot agent (truly, he is) has asked for the whole manuscript. Which I sent. And so far, that's the end of that story. Many rejections. Many I'm still waiting to hear from and in the meantime, I try to not feel like a big loser.

That's difficult.

I've discovered 2 things recently. I feel like crap when I don't exercise and I feel like crap when I don't write. And writing ISPs (individual service plans-- in the DD community) just does't cut it.

I don't know if blogging is the answer, but it may be the answer to a different question.

So this is a column that currently says just about nothing.

Let's catch up on the family:

Mick and I no longer have the Wheelwatch, our only connection to Pelican, Alaska is our friendship with our old neighbor and that friendship has endured. As it became obvious the Pelican was not only on the brink of financial ruin, but in its death throes, we had a choice to make. Here (Oregon) or there. We chose the place closer to family and where our kids could get the education and services that they need. No regrets there. No, the only regrets are the amount of money we put into the bar, just so it can now literally rot as no one takes care of it. Of course, the other regret is that we waited too long to try to sell it. But that's done and over.

I now work as a house manager for a non-profit agency who serves the needs of the developmentally disabled community. It's an extremely challenging job that leaves me exhausted, frustrated, and sometimes doubled-up with laughter. But for the sake of confidentiality and the dignity of others (I don't worry about my own dignity), I will leave it at that.

Mick, too, worked in this field, different agency, different position, but a year and a half ago Mick suffered conjective heart failure and has joined the pace-maker-dependent community. He's now a stay-at-home dad/ househusband. If this change, unwelcome though it was, hadn't happened, it would have been very difficult to accept my new position.

Mick is now the one who gets Sam off to school, chauffeurs Miranda (now 16 who is probably going to have to be forced to get her driver's license), makes me breakfast, usually makes me dinner (oh, the bitter disappointment when it isn't waiting for me), takes care of our growing menagerie of pets (currently an English bulldog, French bulldog, 2 exotic shorthair cats, three regular cats, and a miniature pig named Buffy whom I feel sorry for and have been letting sleep in the house) and struggles to keep up with laundry. Since Mick doesn't like to fold laundry and sometimes forgets about it mi-way through, I still struggle with laundry, too. Not to mention mending. Sam's picking obsession continues, but has lessened.

Mick and Miranda are up in Snohomish, Washington, along with friend Jon, working on the little house I inherited this summer. That is a tale all its own to be told another time. So Sam (now 15) and I sit at home. She mercifully has a head cold and hasn't been asking to go everywhere. I have some sort of internal, abdominal mystery going on. I no longer have a gallbladder, but it feels like I do. Phantom pain, like with an amputation...?

Dallas, Oregon is socked in with fog. I've managed to keep our woodstove going. An now I grow bored. So for now, I will say so long and I''ll be back--perhaps once a week.

Sam's Special Prom

Waiting for Mick to park the car, we wait outside The Majestic, site of the Dallas Special Ed prom, also known as the Spring Ball.

It was a Special Education Spring Ball.  This idea is long overdue.  Inclusion is a wonderful thing in theory, but in practice, kids with special needs can end up feeling like wallflowers, end of feeling like they'll never fit in and never belong.

The theme of the ball was "A Fairy Tale Ending" and this was truly a joyous event.  There were kids there without disabilities.  The peer tutors, who are great kids, not only did a lot of the work, but helped with the actual celebrating.  Half the crowd consisted of those of us who support these special needs kids:  parents, siblings, teachers, aides, and family friends.  It would have tortured and mortified the so-called "normal" kids.  Not so at this dance.

That's because these kids were dazzled by the decorations, the music, and their own transformations.  Whether you're a girl with a genius IQ, a popular cheerleader, a girl in a wheelchair, or a 13-year-old autistic girl, IT'S ALL ABOUT THE DRESS!

I won't go on and on (just for a change of pace), but Sam really had a good time.  She had the dress and got to wear her 3-inch pumps (which she can run and dance in).

What I loved about this dance was that it really was all about these kids and they were free and safe to b who they really are.  Which to the ignorant what they appear to be is a little weird.  To those of us who love them, they really are beautiful and special, in the best sense of the word.

Miranda, great daughter and sister that she is, came along too, as long as I was agreeable to her bringing the book that she is reading, and do you really think that I of all people would argue with that?  I keep a book in my purse for "just in case" moments.  And Miranda pulled her head out of the book several times to help Sam with this or that including getting her to quit lifting up her dress.

It was a sensory delight for Sam with all the beautiful fairytale-like decorations, loud music, soft lighting, and a disco ball.  In fact, for many of the kids with sensory issues, I imagine it was like a drug experience--and totally legal.

So she danced.  She ran across the dance floor dramatically and waved her arms.  She stared at herself in the wall of mirrors.  She ate all the cheese cubes off my plate that I had really been looking forward to.  Unlike the Mickey Mouse shaped chicken nuggets which I refuse to eat.  She played with the fake candle in the middle of the table for which I was thankful that the organizers were smart enough to leave real fire well enough alone.  Then she danced and ran a little more.

Then Sam started saying, "Cake?  Cake?"  But we'd seen no cake on the banquet table.  It wasn't long before Sam started saying, "Safeway store car fast?"  So we got up and began to make our good-byes.  Cupcakes arrived and were sent with us, but Sam was done.

One hour.  She'd lasted one hour which is what Mick had predicted.  So to Safeway we headed, to purchase cake (of course), wine (of course), and Avatar the movie ( a surprise), and then we headed home.

A successful first prom.

We never did manage to get this corsage pinned on, even though we spent a good ten minutes attempting and three of us tried.

Our girls.  Sam is delighted.  Miranda is reading.  But there you have it.
  

Grandparents at the Beach

The ocean in april at the Oregon Coast is quite cold--and no deterrent to Sam and Miranda.

Mick has been trying to work wih Sam at home since she has stopped going to school.  Work is progressing nicely, but I'll save most of that for another post.  Sam constantly surprises us with how much she actually knows.  I think it is a common problem that people often underestimate both the intelligence and skill of autistic people because of their communication glitches.  Because they don't tend to be people-pleasers, often don't look at you while you're talking, and won't do what you ask if there is nothing in it for them, people think the autistic person doesnt understand or doesn't know how to do something.  Well, think again.

One of the big goals for Sam, and it's been an IEP goal for a VERY long time is to be able to write her name, address, and phone number.  This would come in handy when she decides to sneak off on a walk and ends up in Michigan or decides to attend Mardi Gras but would like to come home.  So the two were working away.

"Sam, write your name," Mick instructed.

So Samantha wrote, "Go to the beach."

Because that is one of Sam's favorite places and that is what is important to Sam.  Not writing her name for the 6000th time.

Fortunately, Mick was able to say, "In two weeks.  Grandma and Grandpa will be here in two weeks and then we will go to the beach."

So Sam obliged and quickly scribbled her name.

Last weekend was THE weekend.  My parents were at their condo in Newport, Oregon where the ocean is trying to reclaim the property and my mother was upset by all the shoddy repair work that she thought she could do as good a job herself on (and she could, because if she was replastering, she would redo it until it was done right).  It's always a good time at the beach, but this particular Saturday was blustery.  Sunday was very nice, but we had written "Beach" on Saturday and there is no negotiating or compromise with an autistic kid--not unless we'd been willing to have one really crappy, unpleasant Saturday while she waited for Sunday to roll around.

Another thing about autistic kids, for anyone not very familiar with their ways, they are very rigid, latch onto routine like a ritual, and once you've done one thing in a certain environment, that is what they expect.  Believe me, this has its drawbacks.  For example:  you take the child to the doctor and they get a shot.  From that day forward that child never wants to set foot in that building again.  The weekend wasn't that stressful, but this tendency was brought home to us.

We go to the beach fairly regularly.  But we don't get the opportunity to go with my parents very often since they live 13 hours away.

So we met my parents at their condo, went inside for a bit and Sam started in on "to the beach...to the beach..."  So we got in our cars and drove to Nye Beach ( this is because in its bid to reclaim the land, the ocean has managed to reclaim all the beach access at the condo).

Then Sam and Miranda did their usual.  We walked along the beach and after a bit those two ran in.  They ran, they sat, the frolicked, and they shivered.  I took pictures and somehow managed to not get a one of my parents.  I also kicked myself because I'd intended on taking video and left that camera sitting at home and this adventure would have had great video.

Then we walke back to the car--blustery day, remember?  And the girls were soaked.  Miranda remembered to pack a bag for Sam, remembered to put it in the car, forgot to put underwear and a bra in the bag for her.  Oh, well.

When Sam was done frolicking in the water, she'd demanded, "Restaurant.  Resturant car fast."

So we did "restaurant car fast" right to Mo's where we had an excellent lunch.  From there, a new twist to our ritual, we went to an ice cream parlor because Grandpa loves ice cream and so do the rest of us.  Very good, and entertaining to boot.

Then Sam announced, "Swim?  Pool?"  Because there is a pool at the condo and that is what we did last time, so by God that is what we must do this time.  We'd known that and were prepared.  So we swam, we jacuzzied, we'd sauned.  Then we were done. 

Strange Families, part 1

One Saturday in the park.  That blob on the right is Miranda, who is no longer cooperating for photos.

You'd think she was unloved because of the scarcity of pictures I use of her.  That, and the fact that I talk about her sister Sam so much more.  Nothing could be further from the truth because Miranda is like a life line for me.  However, out of respect for her privacy, not to mention her lack of cooperation, my writing focuses more on Samantha than on Miranda.  She likes it that way.  
 
 Sam doesn't care.  Being mostly unaware of my writing, she doesn't get a say.  Plus, people who are older than five and will run outside stark naked don't get to plead modesty or self-consciousness.

So out of the blue the other day, Miranda blurts out, "We are a strange family!"

"Well...yes," I replied.  

We are.  I know it.  I'm not comfortable with just anyone coming into our home and observing our strangeness.  Some people I don't mind, those people who take everything in stride and don't judge.

Speaking of strange, Mick is recording a play-off game, Blazers and the Suns, that he may watch at midnight when he gets home.  That has thrown off our Thursday night DVR schedule, which is the busiest night of the week:  Vampire Diaries, Bones, and the Project Runway finale.  When my mother reads this she'll think, What?

Anyway, Miranda decided that the only thing to do was watch Bones in my room, in my bed.  Sam was there, too, and I was getting ready to (at long last) take a shower and get in my pajamas ( Thursday?  Today is only Thursday?  I long for Fridays.)  So I laid down on the bed with the girls for a few minutes, half-undressed because I truly was on my way to the shower.

Sam and Miranda were kind of cuddling and I joined in.  Sam loves to be tickled and because of her sensory issues, she likes to mess with people.  Yes, I know that's vague, but her messing with a person ranges from squeezing a butt cheek to sticking her eyeball against the other person's eyeball.  I was stretching a little as we lay there and touched the bottom of my foot.

"We have to get that hot tub fixed again," I said, "my callouses on my feet are getting out of control."  I picked at my foot for a minute and then said, "Hey, Sam, pick Mommy's callous off."  And I held my foot out to her.

She picked up my foot with great interest and focused immediately on the problem area and began to pick with great skill.  Picking is, after all, her area of expertise.  

Miranda and I continued to chat until, "AAARRRGH!  Sam, don't bite my foot!"  From the corner of my eye I see her mouth grinning around my foot, then she releases it, spits callous into my bed and giggles.

Miranda is beside herself, laughing until no sound emerges.  I join in.  My foot throbs  little.   My dental floss dropped somewhere in that bed.  Mick will probably discover it tonight.

Just another night.

A Visit to the Doctor With Our Autistic Child: What to do When Their Behavior Changes

Last weekend in Dallas City Park.  Sam loves to swing.  Miranda was dodging the camera. 

 

It took about a month to get the appointment, but last Thursday Samantha had a doctor's appointment.  She hadn't been to a doctor since I had to do an emergency fly-in to Juneau a couple of summers ago to get the end of a Q-tip removed from deep in her ear.  "Ear balls" she'd called them.  And she had kept using Q-tips to try to remove the "ear ball", thereby pushing it deeper and deeper into the ear canal.  That was an $800 trip for ten minutes in the doctor's exam room, most of that time spent talking about fishing and Southeast Alaska.

Last Thursday's visit ( Thursday evening, to be more accurate, and one reason why I love this particular clinic--open until 8:30 pm for appointments and on Saturdays, making these visits much easier on working parents and kids who decide to get sick after 5:00 pm),  was productive.  And hopeful.  Now there is bad news, but it depends on how one processes these things.

Mick and I have talked and written extensively about Sam refusing to go to school and how little we can really do about it.  She is big and strong.  She's a lot less reluctant to make a huge scene than the average person.  She won't hesitate to rip off her clothing in order to stay home.  In other words, when Sam decides she's not going somewhere, there really isn't anything we can do to make her.  Which is why she has only gone to school for two weeks since Christmas Break.

So we've asked ourselves, "Why?  Why?  Oh, please, WHY??????  And what can we do about it?"

Maybe we should have answered the "why" first.  But it's important for kids to go to school, even autistic kids.  Of course the main obstacle to this problem is part and parcel of autism itself:  the inability to communicate effectively.  Simply, she couldn't tell us what was wrong.

So we guess.  We look for clues.  All parents of autistic kids go through this.  They can't tell you where it hurts.  They can't tell you if they are scared or nervous or anxious or if th class room lights bother their eyes or the furnace hurts their ears or what.  Asperger kids, maybe, but even they have communication challenges.  Plus, Sam doesn't have Aspergers.  She is definitely autistic.

We knew she had had difficulty with the numerous changes in her life this year.  Mick and I going to work outside the home is a big deal.  Her dad being the one taking care of her during the day with me gone is a huge change, though one they have both adapted to and have grown closer because of it.

Changes at school, not all of them pleasant.  A bit of trauma and the problem with that, she couldn't tell us just how significant that trauma was to her.  Yes, people make mistakes and I think quite a few people from the school felt some regret and even remorse for mistakes make with Sam.  And frankly, autistic people aren't very forgiving of mistakes.  At least Sam isn't.  Great memory, too, which doesn't help the situation.

So we kept focusing on strategies to get her re-interested and re-motivated in school.

It didn't work.

What we forgot, and I'm not sure why, perhaps blinded by guilt and the numerous changes and challenges Sam has faced this year, we forgot that behavioral changes are OFTEN a sign that something medical is going on. That is how our autistic people tell us.  They change their behavior.

So I wasn't surprised, no, I wasn't surprised at all, when the doctor told me her strong suspicions.  We had talked at length.  I had told her all my concerns and had described everything that had been going on in Sam's life.  I had talked about her weight being our biggest concern.  We'd talked about her irregular periods, her lying around in bed a great deal, but dancing and going for long walks as well.  We had talked about mood swings, her absolute refusal to allow anyone to stick a needle into her.  We talked about the difficulty with dentistry, hearing tests, etc., etc.

In fact, the only way to give Sam a thorough medical exam is to knock her out, put her under.

So that is what we're going to do, once the doctor gets everyone coordinated.

"Do you think she'll let me listen to her heart and lungs?" the doctor asked after our long conversation. 

I looked over at Sam who was lying on the exam table examining herself in the mirror, making faces at herself and really enjoying herself.

"Sure," I said.

Sam did let her.  It was very cute because Sam was trying to do those things she thinks a patient is supposed to do, those things she has seen on TV.

The doctor stopped and turned to me.  "I think we're there," she said.

"What do you  mean?" I asked.

"I think we're there.  I think I can go ahead and arrange to have her put under at Day Surgery and I'll just have to work on coordinating everyone so we can get as much done as possible, but I think...you know how the skin on Sam's neck is velvety?"

"Yeah, the skin there is really weird, kind of layered."

"Yeah, that and the patch of soft hair on her chest and chin, those are strong indications of Type 2 Diabetes.  I think we are there."

"Oh."  I digested this for a moment.  "Hey, do you think that that is enough to, well, make her not want to go to school?"

"Do I think it could make her feel just cruddy enough that she hasn't wanted to go?  Oh, yeah!  Yes, I do."

"Ah, I see."

And I do.  Things are falling into place.

[I MUST DIGRESS:  JUST WROTE FOR 40 MINUTES ONLY TO LOSE EVERYTHING THROUGH AUTOMATIC UPDATES AND OTHER CRAP. CRAP CRAP CRAP!]

So now I’m going to speed things up before it happens again.  Actually, it’s been that kind of a day.

Mick had worked that night and i became aware of him at 2:00 a.m. o i just groaned, rolled over and went back to sleep.  I called him from the relative privacy of the bathroom th next day at work and filled him in on the appointment.

He wasn’t surprised either, but expressed a lot of regret and disgust with us for allowing things to reach this state.  I don’t disagree, but I don’t want to waste time on should-haves.  It’s time for action.

So there are locks on the refrigerator and cupboard.  Annoying, yes, but we’ll get used to it.  I’m used ot this set-up from work and feel that it is necessary.  I’m hoping that the inconvenience will keep me from grazing so much, too.  Sam tried to cut off the lock with a pair of scissors, but after a lack of success, she gave up and seem ok with everything.

Our respite worker, Anusha, is being paid by another program through the county to help Sam where school is concerned and is taking her out into the community at this point. 

Eventually, Sam will return to the classroom, I’m sure.  In the meantime, I will try to chronicle our journey.  It will be a family adventure.  Hopefully we will all benefit.

 

Just a Little Whining About Computers, Autism, and Dealing With the School District

This inferior quality photo is one of the last that I was able to import onto this less-than-satisfactory computer of mine.  I thought my mother would prefer that description instead of my vulgar, but heart-felt, use of the F-word.  This was taken several weeks ago, on our way to the coast.  Yes, Miranda and Sam swam in the ocean in February.  But then again, the weather was warmer then than it has been recently.

So, yes, the computer continues to irritate.  Beyond belief and beyond my patience level.  I just haven't felt like blogging without being able to import pictures.  Strangely, we tried an almost-new computer that we'd had up in Pelican and couldn't get it to work properly either.  Slower than dial-up.  Then Mick's sister Cheryl, reading of our plight and wanting me to write, gave us her old computer which worked just fine at her house.  But not at ours.  So this strange streak of bad computer luck inspired Mick to call the phone company that we have internet service through and they did a check, however they do such things, and guess what they told us?  Nothing wrong.  Say what????

I seriously don't get it.  I write that as I use the little, hot-pink mouse that came with the Bratz doll, the only mouse out of the several that we tried that continues to work for us.  I don't want to go on and on about this because I think the last time that I wrote on this blog, eons ago, it was this same old song-and-dance.  I get tired of me whining, too.

I want one of those little mini laptops.  I don't want to argue with Mick about it either, but that's what it would be right now, an argument.  Money aside, he insists that I don't really want a mini laptop.  I insist that I do.  "But you complain about trying to write on my laptop and a smaller one would be even worse," he has claimed.

Maybe, maybe not.  I haven't liked writing on his in the past.  Miranda's actually wasn't as touchy as his.  Yes, a smaller keyboard would take some getting used to.  So why do I want a mini?  I want something that I can hide.  I want my own.  I don't want to share.  I want something I can rely on.  I do.  I really do.  I'll get used to the smaller keyboard.

Sigh.

When I get home from work, and have finished dinner, I go in to do battle with the current computer. What do I find?  Sam.  Or Miranda.  I want my own tiny, not-too-heavy-to-carry laptop.  My own.

In other news...Sam is still not going to school.  We are still wrangling with the school and trying to come up with solutions.  Mick recently, finally, lost his cool with them and all I have to say is, "about time".  While they appeared to listen to us at past meetings, meaning we were allowed to speak, they actually didn't listen or follow one suggestion.  And their methods and expertise has gotten us right where we are:  Sam has attended school for only two weeks since Christmas Break.  Thank you very much.  Their current suggestion would have utilized our respite person to try to trick Sam into going to school.  Our respite girl would have come to the house, helped Sam get dressed, and then driven her to a location to hand her off to school personnel.  At which point Sam would have no longer trusted her respite person.  And we would have no respite.  We would have nothing.  So Mick got loud and told them absolutely not.

Respite workers are not easy to find.

In the meantime, Sam has become very interested in her heighth.  She likes to take her hand and measure her head against another person's to see if she is taller or not.  She finds it quite amusing that when she stands in front of me in the bathroom mirror, I am completely obliterated from view. 

She has also developed an annoying obsession with MY shirt sleeves.  I wear long-sleeve shirts exclusively at this time of year.  Sam prefers tank tops any time of year and has been cutting off the sleeves and picking off the sleeves of most of her clothes.  I suppose I should be grateful that she hasn't done that to me, but she does bully me and insists on shoving my sleeves up my arms until they are bunched underneath my armpits.  She does this is stores.  And if I assert myself and pull my sleeves back down, everything will stop right there while she pushes them up my arms again.  And if I protest, she can get even louder.  Infuriating.  Humiliating.  Arm flab on parade.

But if that isn't enough, Samantha is now obsessed with bald men and wants to rub their heads.  Mick always thought he was bald but he isn't bald enough for his daughter.  So she attacks strangers in public.  This is such a new development that my reflexes aren't what they should be.  Luckily Mick is more attuned and can usually ( read that as not always) predict what she's up to before her hands make contact.  Cheryl, if you take her anywhere, BE ALERT.  Spare the poor bald men of America, many of whom are not as comfortable as your brother.

So that's it for now.  I continue to debate the whole blogging issue.  Computer problems continue to plague me and take the joy out of the process.  But family and work life go on.  I continue to work on the novel and will post some excerpts soon.  Until then...

The Independent Autistic Child or It Didn't Say Flammable on the Label

[Apologies:  I have a very strange picture that I wanted to put here, but thanks to my computer's terminal illness, I can't down-load pictures from my camera.  And what Mick told me to do doesn't work, so please, USE YOUR IMAGINATIONS].

My poor mother.  She can do nothing but worry about her daughters, but my sisters should thank me for the chaos that is my life.  Because their families don't cause Mom nearly as much stress and worry, and that is saying something considering that my brother-in-law did a tour in Iraq.

The silly woman actually said to me that she figured when she didn't hear from me, no news was good news.  No, Mom, no news means that I'm trying to spare you.  But she called last week to catch up, hear my voice, and make sure no one had been carted off to a psychiatric hospital, prison, or the morgue.

Our conversation went something like this:

Mom:  I hadn't heard from you in a couple of weeks and I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.

me:  Has it been two weeks?  Gee, time flies whether you're having fun or not.

Mom:  So how is everyone?  How's your job?

me:  Fine, fine.  Miranda is looking forward to Spring Break and Sam is driving Mick a little less crazy because our respite worker has been coming in for a few hours a couple of times a week.

Mom:  So she still isn't going to school?

me:  Nope.

Mom:  Well, what are you going to do?  Can the school do anything?

And I proceeded to tell Mom what I think will happen and what the school is obligated to provide.  In other words, they are going to have to send someone to our house and provide services here until Sam can be coaxed back to school.  During this part of our conversation, Samantha wandered into view. 

me:  Sam, no more food.

Mom:  Is she still shredding her clothes?

me:  Mom, you don't even want to see my sewing room.  So, yes, the answer is yes.  Sam, well ok, but just one slice.  Yeah, my sewing room is about waist deep.  I think she has one pair of intact underwear left and that can change at any moment.  OH MY GOD!  MY MICROWAVE IS ON FIRE!!!!!!!!!

Mom:  GO!  GO, HONEY!  GO!!!!

me:  Oh, crap.  Call you back later.

LATER...

me:  It was cheese.  Who knew?  I didn't know cheese was flammable.

Mom:  What?  Was there metal on it?

me:  No, it was just cheese I thought.  Sam likes to eat it melted and usually does an ok job by herself.  I didn't realize she'd had it in long enough for it to burst into flames.  So I opened the microwave door and it kept burning so I threw a glass of water on the fire and that made the plate shatter.  Man, it stinks in here.  Miranda, open the window, too.

My mother went on to explain that if I'd kept the microwave door shut the fire may have gone out on its own and then I went on to explain that fire freaks me out and I'm no good with fires which is why having a pyro daughter is a bit stressful. 

While we chatted I wiped out the microwave with white vinegar.  I was reminded of the worst bartender we'd ever had.  This woman caused Mick so much stress that I had to talk him out of firing her about three times.  The fishermen had nicknamed her T-Rex.  Not because she was fearsome (she was 4 foot 10), but because she had curiously short little arms.  T-Rex was blind as a bat and burnt microwave popcorn in our bar microwave so badly, that she had to buy us a new microwave.  She offered, we didn't make her, but then she did it to the new one, too.  T-Rex:  2 minutes for popcorn, not 2 hours.

Anyway, my house smelled funky for about 12 hours.  I think the white vinegar helped.

Anyway, my phone conversation, part 2, ended shortly with:

Mom:  Oh, honey, I worry about you so much.

me:  (sigh)  I know, Mom.  I know.

My Up-Coming Nervous Breakdown

She can't help it and neither can I.  Whatever that means. 

Scheduling change:  My nervous break-down has been postponed until next month.  No sense falling apart until I can actually use paid leave.  After all, I don't want to cause myself even more stress.  The point of a nervous breakdown is to be like Humpty Dumpty and somehow get put back together again.

Oh, wait...all the King's horses and all the King's men COULDN'T put Humpty together again.  Scratch that, don't want to be like Humpty.

Stress?  What stress?  Wouldn't YOU like to know?  You know who you are.  Even though this sounds like the rant of a paranoid mad woman...ok.  Maybe it IS the rant of a paranoid mad woman.

I will not be discussing the elephant in the room.

Instead:  I blame my crazed ravings on the continuing slow demise of my computer.  The HP techie phone consultant said it sounds like the sound card is going out.  Well, that doesn't sound so bad, I thought.  I didn't realize that "sound card going out" is a euphemism for "your computer has the ebola virus, shingles, and an embarrassing venereal disease and will shortly be dead".  But Mick translated for me and since the surgery is too expensive and there is no public option, we are just going to hold the computer's hand and bow our heads in prayer.  Folks, the mouse I am using is a tiny hot-pink mouse that came in a box with one of Sam's Bratz dolls and it works better than any of the other spare mice (?) that we have lying around.  I'm thinking of taking it to work each day with me because the mouse on that computer is a contributing cause to my mental deterioration.  That, and trying to remember who pooped when, how much, and what did it look like.  And remembering to never use the word poop, which is difficult for me.  Luckily I can say it, I just can't use it in the log notes.

The hot tub is broken again, about the third time in less than two months.  We are slow learners.  Sam had just about stopped squeezing ink from her markers into the hot tub water and had begun dumping every bottle of whatever in instead:  shampoo, body wash, lotion, and then I caught her with nail polish remover (she did not succeed in dumping that), but she just didn't stop and the water became disgustingly scuzzy, so we drained it, she turned on the jets, and yes, once again we blew a heating element.  Slow learners, slow learners.  Our hot tub guy put the control panel in the breaker box a couple of years ago, but are we smart enough to lock it?  Let's just say that this is the third heating element we've gone through in short order.

I'm caught up on laundry.  It is not put away, but it's not as stacked up as it normally is.  But this is only Monday, as I write this.  Friday will be a different story.

My sewing room is...depressing.  Sam's clothing is...depressing.  If I could do a magic trick, one little, specialized magic trick, it would be able to conjure underwear out of thin air.  Sam wants to wear big girl panties.  She will no longer wear pull-ups.  And no, she will not stop tearing her underwear apart.  Don't ask me.  Don't ask Mick.  We still don't understand why.  One of the people on Mick's crew mentioned that she takes a medication to stop her from picking.  Of course, she was picking her own skin apart.  Also, it's probably a psych med, which in this country means that when I take Sam to her up-coming doctor's appointment, I will probably be given a referral instead of a prescription.

Note to self:  Do Not schedule nervous breakdown to coincide with Sam's doctor's appointment.

I could go on.  And on and on.  Taxes still to do, Sam peeing in her garbage can tonight (though, frankly, that's better than what Mick dealt with when Sam tried to take her broken box spring and put it on the picnic table to lie on), and it's Spring Break for the kids, pet puke, oh, and I tried to jog the other morning and the state of my body is an embarrassment.  Pain, it caused me crippling pain.  Humiliating.  I'm going to go crawl off to bed.

There it is:  fast, annoying, and nonsensical.  What can you expect from a woman barely hanging on to her sanity?

Autism Milestone: No More Pull-Ups

Sam, happy to be in Licoln City after a day at the beach. 
  

Once again, one of those milestones that most parents never consider, at least not after their child hits three years of age.  But our little clothing-shredder, the one and only Samantha, has suddenly and unexpectedly rejected her pull-ups.  Or Depends or Attends or Assures or whatever brand is in the house right now.

We thought this would never happen.  I tried to get her to wear underwear to bed in the past and she looked at me like I was cruel and demented.  So I just shrugged and let her continue to wear them.  They didn't serve much purpose.  Working with someone who wears them all the time, I believe this to be a common problem.  The "protective undergarment" i.e. pull-ups, just don't work well on adults.  Oh, sure, they're probably great for older women who pee every time they sneeze, (I have wished I was wearing "protective undergarments" when I've sneezed before, rather than having to change my clothes), but that is about it.  If you're going to pee, these garments saturate and you still have to change your clothes and/or your bedding.

However, they help contain the deluge.  And although Sam is often dry in the morning, she often is not, as well.  Which means more, much more laundry.  But still...we don't really care.  She's 13.  She's autistic.  But she wears panties all night.  And we're proud of her.

However, the shredding continues with a vengeance.  We have a friend who volunteers at H2O and he is always on the look out for Sam clothes.  Now she wants to wear panties all the time and she doesn't want to wear ones that have been repaired--her Frankenstein underwear.

She is also refusing school once again and Mick is going insane.  Since the Winter break she has gone to school for about two weeks.  No wonder Mick is insane.  The marker destruction continues and our hot tub is an unlovely shade of purplish brown.  She continues to want to drive.  The keys remain hidden.  She discovered that a house key won't do the trick and I was just relieved that she didn't break it off in the ignition.

Like the title of the movie, Something's Gotta Give.  What, when, we don't know.  Soon, we hope.  Very soon.  Stay tuned.  In the meantime, we focus on the positive, and those night-time panties are a very big accomplishment.  Congratulations, Sam, and you still don't get to drive.

When Autistic Kids Elope and Other Living Nightmares

Recovering from the Adventures of Zeus and Louise. 

Mick has been too exhausted to post.  Ditto for moi.  We're still recovering from LAST Sunday morning.  Make that 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  Cruel, cruel child.

It is a very bad sign, but a very effective forewarning, when Sam gets up and closes our bedroom door in the morning.  Did I mention it was 6:30 a.m.?  And Sunday?  Have I mentioned how much I cherish my weekends?  The need to catch up on sleep?  I get up at 5:15 a.m. Monday through Friday.  I really did, all this past week, and you know what else?  I EXERCISED!  So why is it that when Sam closed our bedroom door so early in the morning and we both knew it was a terrible sign, why was I the one to immediately jump out of bed to DEAL?  Because I didn't want to get into that same old argument about who is more tired, me or Mick, and then have him say with complete disdain that I could get more sleep, but I choose to read.  Because if I hear that one more time, something in my psyche will snap and then I'm either going to punch him or start to ruminate on truly horrible things I could do to him.  So, in order to save my marriage, I jumped out of bed to follow Sam and see what she was up to.

Bad sign number two:  Sam was wearing shoes.  She had her pajamas on, but she had shoes on, too.  And then she grabbed the car keys and things got interesting.

While life turned into a rated NC-17 real life drama ( not really, very little swearing and only mild violence and that was all perpetrated against me), I kept imagining Mick in bed, pretending to sleep.  Pretending, because Sam gave me the literal run-around and I was in and out our front door several times, each time heralded by the security recording that announces, "Front Door!"  In and out, in and out, with that voice sounding throughout the house each time.  Then I made a critical error and Sam gained entrance to our car.  With keys in hand and she was attempting to put them in the ignition.  I feel no confidence whatsoever, that this process would be beyond her.  In fact, I'm pretty certain that Sam is a smart enough cookie, and an observant one at that, and could quite easily start the car and probably get it to move.

I'm also pretty sure that she is unaware of what P, R, and D mean and chances are she'd jam it into D and drive straight into our porch.  Or worse.  Much worse.  And all possible, horrible scenarios played out in my mind while I tried to wrestle the keys away from her and she yelled at me and pushed.

I took a short commercial break to run to the, "Front Door!"  and poke my head in and yell, "MICK, I REALLY NEED YOUR HELP NOW!" 

I'm pleased to announce that he did not go take a hot tub first, yell, "I'll be there in a minute", or even take the time to get dressed.  His sister will be relieved to know that he did take the time to grab his robe first or it really would have been an NC-17 live drama.

As Mick approached, Sam gave me a final shove that sent me reeling backward like a drunk thrown out of a saloon in the old West.  And Mick came in like Black Bart.  His expression was thunderous.  They got into it, Mick won (the first round), Sam was severely scolded and told that uh-uh no way would she be driving, and then we hid the keys.

And Sam ran out the front door and started running up the street to the main road.  Mick looked at me and said, "Just let her go.  I'll go get dressed and get her in the car."  And I said, "Uh-uh, no way" and grabbed my coat and followed her up the road.

At 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  In my pajamas...and slippers...in the rain.

For a fat child, that kid can cover some ground fast.  No way was I going to let her go and have Mick try to catch up.  Remember, you remember, don't you?  It was just a couple of weeks ago that we'd called 911 and spent three hours searching for her only to find Sam lying in some lady's bed eating old Halloween candy.  I could just see her walking in on a family getting ready for early church service.  Scaring some elderly person into a fatal heart attack.  So I followed.  And prayed that Mick hadn't taken a hot tub before dressing.  Or had a fashion crisis where he couldn't decide if he should wear the blue plaid or the red plaid that day. 

She sure could walk fast.  I realized that my slippers had big cracks in the soles.  Also, no matter how carefully you step, gravel will find a way inside one's slipper.  And then it gets caught in the long, fake fur.  I also realized that there are quite a few people driving around at 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning and what the hell are they all doing?  I knew what I was doing.  I was tracking.  I was trying to prevent an elderly couple's fatal heart attacks.  But what were all these other people doing driving around that early on a weekend morning in the rain?  Get a life.  Sleep in.  That's what I would have been doing, given the chance.

I saw Mick speed past me and pull into a driveway in front of Samantha, who entered the car without further incident.  Yes, he turned and picked me up, too.  And we went home.  Sam stripped.  Threw off her shoes and we breathed a sigh of relief.  No shoes is a good sign.  Not a guarantee of staying home, but a good sign none the less.

And then I went to the back door and realized that the dogs were not on our porch, where I'd expected them to be.  They hadn't jumped all over us in a crazed frenzy from our twenty minute absence as we'd entered the house either.  I poked my head out the back door.  Uh-oh.

The porch door was open.  The door that led to freedom.  I walked back to Mick and said, "The dogs have escaped."  "Are you sure?" he asked, and he followed me out to the porch.  Then he walked around the yard, the whole acre of yard, the almost treeless, flat, bare acre and he called their names. 

Then Mick stalked back to the house shaking his head, grabbed the car keys, and said, "Why do these things always happen to me?"

It was about 45 minutes later that Mick returned.  I'd had horrible visions of one or both dogs getting hit by one of those crazy 6:30 a.m. sunday morning drivers.  But no, the two lunatics came charging in the door, wet, smelly, muddy and so excited to be home after their exciting adventure.  Mick told me the tale of driving and looking, driving and looking, and thank God that Louise is larger and white because he saw he out in between two fields ambling along.  He called her name and she came running.  Zeus, afraid that he'd miss out, came running from further up the road and the two idiots made it home.  Tired, panting, tongues fully extended, they collapsed on the love seat and slept.

I realized that I hadn't heard any noise out of Sam and went to look, just to make sure that she hadn't escaped again during the current dog drama.

Alas, she was exhausted, too.  And she slept, in OUR BED, until 12:30 in the afternoon.  And Mick and I just sat, limp and vacant eyed, waiting for the next crisis to strike.