Chicken and Sponge

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.

Conclusion of the Story or "What Has That Autistic Child Been Up To Now?"

My sister-in-law calls me this morning and says laughingly:  Your husband sucks!

me:  Yeah, but what this time?

Cheryl:  He didn't finish the story!  What was on the porch?

I pause and look at the receiver, roll my eyes and smile.

me:  Well, I'm not going to tell you.

Cheryl:  What?  Well, you suck too.

me:  I know, but I have the state of my marriage to think of.  You're just going to have to wait.  Mick set it up for reader suspense.

Cheryl:  Oh, you're kidding me!  You're not going to tell me?

me:  No way, you'll just have to wait and read.

Now, if I really sucked, I would go on to write about something completely unrelated.  And Cheryl, now I worry that you will feel disappointed, because no, there were no dead kidnappers or possums on the front porch.

I have been amazed at the amount of road kill around here.  Having grown up in Montana, in a wooded, mountainous, lightly populated region, one expects some road kill.  There is a lot of cover for game to hide in.  But the Willamette Valley is a different matter:  farming, vineyards, some sheep and horses, and suburbia.  There are lots of flat, open spaces.  There are trees, but rarely do I feel like I'm "in the woods".  However, the other day while driving at work, I noticed a dead deer alongside the road, and that was unusual.  If I'd been visiting my parents, that would be all too common, but not here.  However, the possums, skunks, and raccoons litter the highways with their little carcasses.  So Mick's fear is not uncalled for.  Also remember, my dogs have discovered that gopher heads, if they are fast enough to decapitate one, are quite the delicacy.

But we deal with more than just critters and varmints around here.  Critters and varmints are like a breath of fresh air (except for the time they skunked Louise and I swear that when it rains her head still gives off eau de skunk).  Because most of the time we are run ragged trying to keep up with "Sam Mischief".  Sam Mischief rules our world.  Like it or not, and frankly, not wins most of the time.

It is amazing what that child will do and now that she is older and KNOWS that she is older, she is all about being independent.  There is some sorrow in this because we know she will never be able to achieve the independence she longs for unless there is some sort of miraculous break-through in autism research.  In fact, her latest bull-headed mischief ( and yes, we do all know where she gets that from, hon), is thinking that she is going to drive our vehicles, by herself and whenever she wants.

Now she knows that Miranda is older and she knows that Miranda doesn't drive yet.  I dread next year when Miranda can take driver's ed and will get her learner's permit because Sam is REALLY going to think that she can drive then.  Three times now, we've had to wrestle the keys out of her hand and once even pull her from the vehicle.

Mick came home the other night and found his car keys on the front step.

But not on the night in question.  On that night he encountered something of a different nature.

Let me share some of what this child has put us through over the years.  Please note, this is a VERY abbreviated list of offenses.

The eggs have to head the list.  Because we had a restaurant at the time and would have five or ten or more dozen eggs at a time.  Sam wouldn't dream of eating an egg, but thought there was nothing better than breaking them onto the floor as fast as she could.  Break one egg on your floor and try to clean it up.  Not easy.  Now break about two dozen of them onto your floor.  This went on FOREVER!  And yes, I do mean FOREVER.  Oh, she eventually slowed down so much that we mistakenly thought she'd outgrown the obsession.  Then one day I found a broken egg on our CARPET!  Oh, foul, foul carpet.  And I found a broken egg the other day on our porch.  Why just one, I don't know.  But I was grateful that it was just one.

She also used to pour out every bathroom product she could find.  Mick likes Pert shampoo for some reason and there was just something about that that was irresistible to Sam and she would dump the entire bottle into her bath water.  Very annoying at any time, but especially when you live out in the bush of Alaska and can't run to the store and just buy more.  I stopped buying it for awhile.  It's not like Mick got to use it anyway.

I'll never forget the time when we were so dead tired that we didn't wake up until it was too late and toddler Sam had dumped a full pitcher of berry juice, and half-gallon of milk and sprinkled a couple of packages of jello on top of it onto the CARPET again, right next to Mick as he slept, at about 3:00 a.m.  I awoke to loud, ANGRY cursing.  But it was already too late.  That escapade resulted in us cutting out half of the living room carpet and living with rough plywood floors because there was no stomaching the sour milk, no matter how pretty the jello splotches were. 

So there were powder sugar parties in the kitchen where Sam opened up a new bag and tossed the contents around the entire kitchen.  That ultimately resulted in the purchase of a new vacuum because you must NEVER NEVER VACUUM SUGAR!  She did this on three separate occasions (only vacuumed it once, though) and she followed up with baking cocoa.

Our water glasses have had any number of objects in them.  We try to sip water or tea throughout the day, but it wasn't unusual to find a Barbie standing in our glasses.

Which beat having her pee in our glasses which was a recent bit of Sam mischief.

And not to gross you out...well, yes, just to gross you out, Sam went through a phase when she'd poop in the bed or on the floor and then cover it with a blanket and we'd have to SEARCH for the source of that stench, wondering where she'd hidden it now.

So, then we come to our poor hot tub.  As disreputable as that thing looks, in fact, it could guest star on My Name is Earl ( if only it hadn't been cancelled--something that I still can't believe), we are quite fond of it.  And there have been any number of unacceptable objects and substances floating in it.

The worst was pee.  When we first got it, Sam used it like a toilet.  And yes, she still floated around in it, though the rest of us only liked to after a water change.

She threw huge clumps of dirt and grass into the hot tub, MORE THAN ONCE, because she enjoyed the muddy mess.

I have sat in that hot tub and fished out popcorn kernels, after she'd dumped an entire bag into it, because I knew it would clog up the filters.  That was time consuming.

And then the markers.  Mick talks about the water being bright blue.  That was a few weeks ago.  The marker obsession continued and continued and that water was murky BLACK.  As in you-can't-see-the-bottom-black.

So the other morning, I had a meeting at work with the county that was three and a half hours long!  Then I went back to the group home and worked through the usual there which can be any amount of grossness and craziness on a given day ( or relatively mellow, just depending), and this was followed by the I.E.P. meeting.  That meeting had lasted an hour and a half.

Mick only got to attend a few minutes of the meeting.  It was either him or me and he'd gone to the last one.  I took off work early to be able to go and we'd asked our respite worker, a very nice and sweet young woman named Anusha ( she looks like Princess Jasmine and Sam loves her) if she could come over and hang out with the girls (namely Sam, but Miranda is social and both she and Anusha are ADDICTED to the Sookie Stackhouse novels).  So I got home at 5:20 and I had a SPLITTING HEADACHE.

The living room was empty.  Anusha's car was in the driveway, though.  I was perplexed and slowly started unloading my bag.  Then Anusha came running from the direction of my bedroom and was trying to contain her laughter and just a hint of nervousness.  "You've got to see this!"  She laughed.  "I swear, I'd been checking on Sam every few minutes!"  That is not a lame excuse.  Sam has managed many a time to start a building on fire or flood the house when someone was checking on her "every few minutes".  She's fast.  She's an opportunist.

I told Anusha that I was going to title this, "When Anusha Babysits":

What I failed to photograph was the ground, looking like a glacier ice flow of thick bubbles that stretched across our deck.

This tale ends in minor tragedy, due to a break-down in communication.  Miranda had told me that she'd turned off the hot tub because she was afraid the bubbles would mess it up.  The hot tub was out of commission for almost 9 months and we really want to take good care of it.  Both Mick and I misunderstood this communication and took it to mean that she'd shut off the power source at the breaker.  But we'd never shown her or talked to her about it.  Miranda had simply turned off the jets.  So when Mick drained the hot tub late that night, the power was still on.  And now we have a hot tub that only heats the water to 53 degrees.  So here we go again. 

 

Now What Was the Title of This Post?

Forgive me, this is a quick one.  I'd been writing it in my head for hours now, as I watched House on dvr, and now I remember almost nothing of my witticisms.  Stupid word.  First, I forgot to mention last night, while whole-heartedly complaining of Sam and the sadistic trek through Suburbia in the dark that I was forced to march, that she also FLOODED THE BATHROOM.  MAKE THAT TWO BATHROOMS.  Yes, water does indeed, Miranda, leak under walls and appear in the next room.  Think HURRICANE.  They are not self-contained.

That said, why mention it?  That's all.  Just one more minuscule irritation.

Except that I woke up and went to work this morning.  Which was a miracle in itself.  Because while I was lying there and debating just which form of physical torture I'd consent to endure, I happened to squint at the clock and have an Oh My God! moment where I realized that I hadn't set the alarm and hallelujah, it was too late to exercise!  OK.  That was the good part..

The other part was the group home's newest resident, a woman slated to live on the "nice" side.  That's because my three guys live in the side of the duplex that has been stripped to  bare bones.  Well, minimalism is a design craze and about to hit the nice side.

I've said it before, but  let me  reiterate:  my guys are considered low functioning; two of the three are non-verbal, we deal in poop, pee, drool, growling, screaming, hitting, scratching, pinching, and oh, etc, etc, etc,... The other people who worked primarily on the nice side used to  say things like, "If I'm expected to work over here all the time, I'll quit"....or "go crazy" or "can't do it" or some other threat.

Today, the new girl arrived.

Today, my side became the nice side.

The nice side was filled with WHINING, oh, how I HATE whining...screeching, slapping, threats, death threats, two-year-old tantrums on the floor with the heels kicking, oh...the most god awful noise!  All day long.  And I snickered to myself while I sat over on the "other side", the side that no one used to want to work, and I felt lucky...so, today, a new resident.  Today, a new reality.  Today, my guys became the easy ones, the "nice" side and...

Today, my supervisor said to me, "Yeah, I have a guy coming in to work 7-3, but I'm going to have him work with the guys.  I'm going to pull you to work over here."

And as my supervisor would say, "Yeah, sucks to be you."

Stay tuned for updates.

New Challenges in the Group Home

Excuse the lack of pictures.  Our main computer has been threatening us with a black screen and it is increasingly difficult to coax life into it.  So we removed all the pictures, burning them to disc, and alas, I am too tired and lazy tonight to pull any up.  Also too tired and lazy to take any pictures, but I'll be working on that one.

So, tonight's topic...life in a group home.  There are many kinds of group homes, but the one where I work is for developmentally disabled adults.  The one where I work happens to have a lot of "challenging behaviors".  Oh, I am being so p.c. 

So the group home where I work got a new resident today and we are all reeling with shock.  And I haven't even met her yet as my shift ended before she'd arrived.  But I was at the meeting this morning where the behavior experts told us all about her.  Boy, oh boy.

Autism, Tourette's Syndrome, mental retardation, and a history of psychotic break-downs.  Oh, and due to abuse suffered in other facilities, post traumatic stress disorder is suspected, too.  She's 20.  She's  mobile.  She has a history of L.S.A. (which is leaving supervised area, for those of you not in the know).

So Maintenance came out while we were having our meeting.  Good thing, because they had lots to do.  New, more extensive locks in the kitchen.  It used to just be the med. cabinet that was locked, but this  young woman has been known to attack people with knives.  So the knives are now locked up.  There are alarms on the doors and windows.  Anyone who has ever visited me and thought our alarm system is obnoxious has not encountered obnoxious yet.  That nice lady's voice that announces, "Front door!" or "Master bedroom door!" is not the least bit obnoxious once you've heard the alarm system at the group home.  Loud is not the word for it.  Perhaps loud to the tenth power.  And it chimes.  Sounds charming, doesn't it?  We were all gritting our teeth and pulling our hair, eyes bugging out of our heads by the end of the day and we just wanted to scream at people, "CAN'T YOU ALL JUST GO OUT THE DOOR AT ONCE?!"  No, not charming chimes.  The phrase that kept echoing through my brain was, "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, for the bell tolls for thee!"  Yes, ominous.  Chimes to make you lose your mind are ominous.

Now, my mother is going to read this and about have a heart attack.  Or to use one of her words, she's going to fret.  Or fret to the tenth power.  But do not worry, Mom.  I work on the other side of the house for the most part.  I'll help out whenever necessary or when I can, but I have my three challenging gentlemen to support.  Today's challenge?  Diarrhea in the one that doesn't use the toilet, who also happens to be the one who hits, scratches, screams, cries, tries to bite, etc...but he doesn't use knives.  This, of course, happened at lunch, but since I wasn't the one trying to eat, well, c'est la vie.  Another day at the group home.

So I come home tonight and I do get to exercise, something that I don't feel like the least in doing, but know I must and that I will feel better for it.  And I felt like a bit of a wimp because I chose to do Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred.  Not that Jillian Michaels work-outs are in any way wimpy, except this one is only 30 minutes and I feel like I should at least do 50.  So I felt like I was wimping out.  But Sam took care of that.  Immediately after finishing my work-out, before a shower, before dinner (and oh, I was so hungry), she decided that she wanted to go for a walk.  And because she actually asked and waited while I got ready, and because I couldn't stop her anyway, I went on a walk with her.  And did she go on a nice little evening stroll?  SHE DID NOT!  No, she took me through dark fields, down busy dark streets, through the never-ending rain and drizzle, for ONE HOUR!

And then after we finally got home, after I'd finally eaten, she refused to take a bath.  AGAIN.  She is filthy.  Her hair is gross.  Anyone who knows me will know just how unacceptable that is to me.  People, I take two showers a day, and yes, I know that isn't really good for you, I know it dries out your skin, I know it isn't good for your hair, and I DON'T CARE.  I do care that my daughter is gross, smelly, and greasy and too big and ornery for me to do anything about it.  So I gave up and sent her to bed gross, smelly and greasy.  Tomorrow is another day.  She'll either get clean or she'll be even worse.

And now I would really like to take my shower, second of the day, and collapse at long-last into my bed, to only half-sleep until Mick gets home.  Perhaps to have strange dreams about work.  The other night, I dreamed that my most challenging guy had eaten his pant leg and got it stuck in his throat.  Do I need this?  No, I do not.  Woe is me, may my sleep be more restful than usual (Samantha, that means you!), and my dreams more pleasant.  A pant leg, for God's sake.  Where did that come from?

Inappropriate Past Times for the Autistic Child

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.

Disappearing Act

She was right there! 30 feet in front of me. I couldn't believe I lost her, or more like she lost me(on purpose of course). She went around the corner and poof, pulled a David Copperfield stunt. She isn't that fast is she? Immediately I called Vick to come help look for her. Miranda came too and teamed up with her friend Janay and they went all over searching.

Once again we had to call 911 to let the search and rescue squad know Samantha was missing. I drove Vick home and then continued my search via the car. I backtracked where I lost her and drove through the neighborhood hoping I would see her cruising along. With no sight of her the thoughts started to creep through my mind.

Would she get in a strangers car? Has she been hit crossing the street? Did someone grab her? The panic started to set in more and more as the time passed. The cell phone would ring occasionally and it would be the sheriffs department to ask if I had any luck. All I could say was no and their response was the same. Where in the hell could she be!

Applebees. She has been asking to go to Applebees for a couple of days. Would she really head for Salem 14 miles away  and dark approaching? I called Vick and told her I was going to head that direction for a few miles to see. After driving 5 miles I turned around figuring she couldn't have gotten that far. On my way back the thoughts were savagely running through my brain. I calmed myself for a minute(which was hard to do), and tried to rethink her disappearance. Give it one last shot I kept telling myself.

So back to the last place I'd seen her I go. On my way there my phone rang and it was the sheriffs dept. again. He wanted to know if I had any info. I looked ahead and saw that he was driving right in front of me. I told him no, but thought he should join me at the spot I lost her. Guiding him there, we met up in just a few short minutes.

I realized at that time that Sam couldn't have possibly ditched me that easy. I surely would have seen her going to where ever she was heading. The only thought that came to me was that she was hiding somewhere. It had to be somewhere close I figured. Just then a man from the house next to where we were came up to me and told me he had watched Sam run around his car and straight into his neighbors house. She quickly closed the door behind her in order that I didn't see her.

I was hesitant to go look in the house even though I was more than anxious to know if she was indeed in there. It would be nice knowing she was at least safe. Not my house to make that decision though. The deputy sheriff felt the same. So we waited for his boss to arrive. In the meantime I tried looking in all the windows but I couldn't see her anywhere. I figured someone would call the police on my peeping tom actions, but I didn't get in any trouble. I credit this to the fact that the deputy was doing the same.

Finally they arrived. The anticipation was getting more than I could bear. They opened the door and slowly crept in as if they thought there was danger inside. Like they do on those cop shows on tv. It's only Sam I thought, if she was in there at all. I was hoping she was because if she wasn't, I didn't know what to do after that. As quiet as church mice they searched every room until they came to the last one, the master bedroom. As the door opened I noticed that the bed was a little messed up. On the other side of the bed was Sam. She was sitting there with a halloween bucket that had some candy in it and I'm sure she polished off every piece.

 RELIEF! I called home immediately to tell Vick and Miranda that we found her. Vick's big sigh of relief ended with a request for a bottle of wine. Absolutely I told her. I told Sam to get in the car and we headed out after checking with the sheriff to see if they needed anything else.

I can't believe that 3 hours had passed. It was as if it had just happened. To an extent I know how some people feel when their child is missing. Only because our outcome was solved in short order compared to some. I want to thank the Dallas sheriff's dept. for helping and most of all the next door neighbor for being so observant. You can bet the next time we go for a walk my cardio will be much better and she won't be able to ditch me again.

Overnight Guest in an Autistic Household

The one, the only...Collette Costa!

At first we only saw shoes, then calves in tights, the beginning of a black skirt, and Mick blurts out, "There she is!  There's Collette."  And then a woman with waist-length blonde hair descended on the escalator.  So not Collette.  I had my doubts with the matchy-matchy black outfit.

I feel special and so honored because we have at last had a visit from Collette, a remarkable woman we have known for years, and SHE STILL TALKS TO US.  We can say that about so few.  Not only that, but Collette is an intelligent person, and WE CAN SAY THAT ABOUT SO FEW!

While she is still talking to us, I will be interested to see if she ever overnights with us again.  Luckily, she has about a year for the experience to fade from her memory...(that's assuming that she travels home to beautiful Detroit, Michigan again next Christmas).  I expect many late nights, music festivals, and cocktails to aid her in this endeavor.

Collette is my favorite sort of guest.  All I have to say is, "Here's the refrigerator, here's the bathroom, here's where you're sleeping...any questions?  Great, make yourself at home".  And she knows that I mean that and she knows that I'm not going to fuss over her, I'm not going to wait on her, and if she can't find something, she can either ask of just plain snoop.   I'm not a great hostess.  I wish I were, but not enough to actually strive to be.  I also get very little practice.  Plus, the people who have stayed with us are family or close enough to family to not require fussing.

So here is what Collette got:  on night number one, we thought that it would be best if Collette stayed in Sam's room and Sam slept in Miranda's room because SAM ALWAYS WANTS TO STAY IN MIRANDA'S ROOM.  Except that night.

So what happened is this: Miranda made up both beds, Sam went to bed, and then an hour later when Miranda went to bed, it was to discover that Sam had switched beds with Miranda.  Miranda had been kicked out of her nest, all her blankets thrown onto the other bed because Sam only likes one blanket and a particular one at that.  Miranda didn't want to switch for two reasons.  One, her former nest had no waterproof pads on it and Miranda doesn't particularly need waterproof pads except if she decides to dump a glass of water or something in her bed.  Two, Miranda's former nest had the memory foam topper on it and Sam's no fool.  She wanted the comfy bed.

So here is what happened:  Miranda made her switch back, Sam was having none of it.  Sam picked up her blanket and pillow and headed for the couch.  Mick and I were having none of it because there was a fire in the woodstove and you all know how THAT story goes with our little pyro-daughter.  Plus, since she'd taken the couch, that left the love seat or recliner and neither of us is that much of a masochist.  SO, Mick opens his mouth and tell her to come lie down in our bed, so that when I step out of the shower five minutes later, I HAVE NO KING-SIZED BED TO SLEEP IN.  And I'm not sleeping on the couch.

So to Miranda's room I go.  Where I immediately re-discover why I have a memory foam mattress topper on our bed.  Yes, I'm a big whiney baby with lots of aches and pains and that is why my half of that king-sized bed resembles Miranda's nest:  five pillows for me, two for Mick, and extra blankets on my side (which he had the nerve to complain about this weekend, saying that MY blankets on MY side make him too hot because they hold too much heat in and that is why he has to throw off the blankets, to which I say "fine, I'm not going to be cold").

Story doesn't end there, even though it should because I'm being long-winded.  Middle of the night, Sam wakes up and throws Mick out and he ends up on the couch.  Then she keeps getting up and opening the door to her room to glare at that intruder (yes, Collette, Mick and I invited you to stay, but Sam did not), and every time she opened the door, THAT WOMAN WAS STILL THERE.  So Sam decided to be herself and watch Toy Story bonus features at top volume in our room from the middle of the night onward, where the sound reverberated throughout the household. 

The next morning, Miranda looks at us like we're idiots and says, "Why didn't you wake me up?  You could have had my bed and I would have slept with Sam."  Miranda not-so-secretly covets our bed.

Night number two:  I decide we need a large bottle of wine because I haven't been able to sit and enjoy a bottle of wine with Collette in ages.  We start a True Bloodmarathon because Collette has never seen it, but has wanted to and we have 17 episodes saved on DVR.  I drink three glasses of wine and am asleep on the couch by 5:00 p.m. 

Sam is happy to have her room back.  That means she has her TV back.  We checked for volume controls, but the set is too old, so that means that Sam would turn the volume way up, I'd get up and turn it down.  Sam would get up and turn it way up, I would get up and turn it down.  Sam would get up and turn it way up, I'd grit my teeth and get up and turn it down.  Sam would...the WORST OF ALL, the movie Sam has now chosen to watch at night is a family film called Buddy.  Buddy is a movie that has lots of screeching chimps, birds, a gorilla and I don't know what else except that IT IS OBNOXIOUS.  I repeat OBNOXIOUS.  I hope the appeal, the fascination, is short-lived or that movie may just kill me or at least significantly shorten my life span.  And Sam?  She sleeps through it.  As long as I leave the volume up.

Collette never complained.  She has slept on a lot of crappy couches in her time, so Miranda's spare full-sized bed may have made up for the screeching and vibrations emanating from Sam's television, as well as having to hear me get up and down, up and down, sigh.

Anyone who spends the night in a house where resides an autistic individual, should expect just about anything.  At least Collette didn't have anyone pee in her water glass.  Maybe she'll come back and visit again.

Start of this years garden (bonus feature: the loss of Mick's sanity, the joys of autism)

OK.  Last year's picture---too early for the trees bloom yet, but I think we're all ready for when they do. 

While we were in Salem today I thought it would be a good idea to go to Home Depot and get some things I would need for some vegetable starts. Silly me. Why would I think that anyone would have stuff for me to be able to do what I want. All they could tell me is it would be a couple of more weeks before everything would start to arrive at their stores. I don't want to wait a couple of weeks so I improvised a little.

 I'm going to use empty toilet paper rolls and cut them about two inches in length to make little peats for starting seeds. Fill them up with potting soil and there you have it. Another feeble attempt to live a little green and recycle what I can. When I went on the porch to get some soil, what did I find? Jiffy peats that I thought I had and couldn't find before. I will use them up before they accidentally get wet and swell up without me knowing it. I'll still use my toilet paper roll peats too.

Since I started this post, 5 days have gone by. I know. Lame,lame,lame. No excuses here. But I do have 3 little sprouts coming up. I'm sure the rest are to follow. I planted early girl tomato,red romaine,broccoli,and a variety of herbs. I always get excited when things start to pop up. Enough about that for awhile.

Now I am going to fill you in on my weight loss. I have lost 3lbs. Doesn't sound like much but I'm damn proud of those 3 lbs. I figured I wouldn't lose anything for 2 weeks until my body got on track with the lifestyle change I'm attempting. So every lb. I can lose while this transition takes place is all a bonus as far as I am concerned.

My exercise regimen consists of the Biggest Loser Weight Loss Yoga and Last Chance Workout. Both dvds run about 55 minutes a piece with the warmup and cool down. I alternate them every other day. They propose a good challenge right now but in a couple more weeks I will be powering right through them.

You can't believe what just happened! Sam was in our room watching tv or so I thought. All of a sudden I could hear water running. I went to check on her and she had the shower running and the sink running. I looked down and the floor was flooded. She had the stopper in the sink stopped and water was pouring onto the floor. When I looked up at her I then realized she had the garbage can filled to the brim with water and she proceeded to dump it over her head adding to the already 3 inches of water on the floor. What a mess with all the garbage mixed with water. It took a dozen towels to soak the water up. Just what I needed was more laundry.

This is the kind of thing she does when she is not in school. She gets bored and then she does something that looks like fun to her and complete BS to the rest of us. We have a big pow- wow on Monday with the school to try and figure some way to get her to go back. Hopefully we will be successful and my sanity will return to almost normal levels.

caption by Vicki:  Mick asked me to pick pictures for his post and I really like this one even though it's a year old. Why do I like it? Sam has that rather mischievous expression on her face that lets you know that whatever she's thinking, she's up to no good.  Also, as proof that she's up to no good, this is one of the photos on my computer that she got into and started messing with using her paint program.  Note:  she does not really have one large pink arm.  And yes, Miranda, too, is being kind of an uncooperative nut.
 

Milestones For Autistic Teenagers

I thought this was going to be a fairly good picture and then what do I see?  Mick's disgusting firewood gloves.  Do not sniff.  I did that once, wondering if they needed to be washed.  What can I say?  Almost lost my lunch.

Now that I've reassured Mick that his post today was wonderful--only mention of sports being espn, now I have to find inspiration myself.  "Just don't rebutt me," Mick decreed.  So naturally, I'm going to rebutt away.

First item of business:  Christmas candy and chicken wings for breakfast.  For Sam, of course, not Mick.  Though he may have.  Either that or he was a good little fanatic with a piece of dry toast and one sliver of apple.  You never know.  No half-measures.  Now had I served a breakfast ( or more accurately, allowed a breakfast) of Christmas candy and chicken wings, I'd have been subjected to a lecture.  This is why it's good that he's currently the stay-at-home mom.  If (or hopefully when) our roles are reversed and back to normal, hopefully he'll have a better understanding of the difficult position of trying to influence Sam.  A thankless task to be sure.  Also, it's the Christmas season, so why not eat candy until you're sick and get it out of your system?  It's never actually worked for me, but it sounds like a decent theory.

The hot tub.  Nothing is more depressing ( total exaggeration, we can all think of something more depressing, but cut me some slack) than an empty, broken hot tub.  For awhile, just a week ago in fact, we had a broken hot tub filled with ice.  That was depressing, too.  The bill for fixing this hot tub would have been extremely depressing, but a very generous, crazy Aunt Gladys sent an early family Christmas present in the form of a check.  Thank you and bless you, Gladys.  I enjoyed my first soak since last April tonight.  Heaven.

As for Sam's art project covering her entire room yesterday, why oh why did I ever think I could give her a cute room?  Why did I go to the bother of painting not one dresser, but two?  Not to mention a desk.  Squalor.  Forget shabby-chic.  That trend is over.  Sam's room exudes an aura of...squalor, plain and simple.  However, I don't think squalor will meet with the same kind of trendy acceptance that shabby-chic did,  except in inner-city crack houses, perhaps.  Yes, squalor.  I'm ready to rip the carpet out of that room, at least, but Mick will not agree.  I think all it will take is one huge diarrhea accident that he has to deal with on his own while I'm at work and that will be it.  I'll come home to find her carpet waiting in the bed of the pick-up for dump day.  Had Mick been here for the diarrhea explosion this summer, when Sam got sick, he and I would no longer have carpet. I was positively shell-shocked and operating on automatic pilot for that disaster. You didn't think I could actually write a post and not touch on the subject of poop at some point, did you?

Speaking of Sam, and I'll spare you the details of the possible cyst/boil on her tail bone ( you'll have to call for details) which is the latest disturbing curiosity in our home, she has picked up a new little trait.  Debatable whether it's charming or not.  This ties in with what Mick calls her milestones.  Some milestones are definitely less charming than others, and when your child picks up teenage sarcasm, impatience, or flippancy (or in this case a combo of the three) it is very trying.

It used to be that when you'd ask Sam something or tell her something she didn't want to hear, she'd come back at you with, "Oh way!"  We could never understand if this meant "no way" or "go away" because either would have been appropriate.

Well, I want "Oh way" back because what I get  out of her now is a completely insincere, fast and high-pitched, "OK".  Doesn't sound objectionable at all in writing.  Something is definitely missing in the translation.  Mick swears he'll get video up and running on this blog soon, and Sam's "OK" should be one of our first short films.  It's infuriating.  Sometimes it's a fast, impatient, "ok, ok, ok, ok!"  Really what she's saying is, "Oh, just shut up!"  And I'd rather she said that.  It couldn't be any ruder.  But she's a teenager, right?

Speaking of teenagers, don't think that because I rarely mention Miranda, that we care about her less.  It is out of consideration and concern for her teenage feelings, that I studiously ignore her while blogging.  I can be an embarrassment, you know.  These days of Christmas break find Miranda with a head cold, using up all the kleenex but miraculously getting them into the garbage instead of littering the floor (of course, gross little Zeus may be eating them as they fall).  She has discovered that the recliner, which she has claimed as her own, is very comfortable to sit in upside down, meaning that her feet are on the headrest and her head is hanging down by the footrest. And then, when I come home from work, I get to hear her complain about being light-headed and not feeling very well. And while in this position she is rereading all the Anita Blake vampire hunter novels that we have ( about six or seven of them, I think), while trying to block out espn.  Not to mention her dad's booming voice when he calls his brother Frank to discuss, what else?  Sports.  See how neatly I brought that full circle tonight?  And me with only about half a brain left today.

We've always opened presents on Christmas Eve, as I always did growing up.  So, for Sam...One More Day!  And for me...Three more full days until the weekend!  Nothing I want more than to be able to linger in bed.