My kid can negotiate better than your kid.

Good Lord, God All Mighty.  My son has been starting up on something new and I'm not liking it.  Not liking it one bit.  Seems when he doesn't get his way, when I ask or, God forbid, tell him what to do, he turns into the defense team representing OJ Simpson.

A simple request turns into a full fledged negotiation and the negotiation takes longer than the actual request to begin with.  There have been times where I've just given up and said, "God dammit, I've asked you to go do something, please go and do it.  NOW."

That is met with, "ITS NOT FAIR.   I HATE YOU.  I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF MY GAME AND ALL MY DATA WILL BE LOST.  AGGGGHHH!!!  I HATE YOU!"  And if that weren't enough, he goes up to his room stomping all the way, all thirteen steps, slams his door and tears apart his room.

Add to it, he's still yelling, "I HATE YOU.  I'M GOING TO MAKE YOU HAVE A BAD DAY.  I'M GOING TO MAKE YOUR DAY HORRIBLE."

I try my best to ignore these statements while he's coming undone but it's hard.  He seems to think that because he's having a bad day, everyone else around him should as well.  He takes it upon himself to make sure your day is as bad as his.

A picture of the two of us he tore to bits in a meltdown
along with half of his room.  This is what hurt the most.

There was one particularly bad day where he said these things to me and I just lost it.  Lost it completely.  I lashed back at him and yelled, "You wanted me to be mad?  You wanted me to be mad?  Well now you've got it.  I'M MAD.  NO, I'M PISSED OFF.  Look at me.  Look at my face and see what it looks like.  That's mad.  Now go to your room, NOW."

At the time, even though I was madder than hell, I was telling him to look at my face.  Some weird kind of teaching moment I know.  Even through my own anger I was still trying to teach him.

And he looked at me, scared to death and said, "Can you not make chicken nuggets for dinner?  I prefer mini-corn dogs."

Fucking mini-corn dogs.  I lost it over mini-corn dogs.

After a few minutes I went upstairs and listened at his door.  I could hear him tearing apart his things.  The meltdown was over but he was sobbing and sniffing.  I felt like shit.

To be honest, I was sobbing on the other side of the door.

A little later, I talked to him and we patched things up but not without residual memories for both of us I'm afraid.

I know he says these things because he's out of control and he's seeking to gain that control back.  I know that.  I really do.  He's trying to put his mind, and his world, back the way he wants it.  The way he wants it to be.  But it doesn't always work that way.  He can't play his i-Touch all the time and he can't be in control all of the time either.

I know these things and I know why he's lashing out but sometimes this ride is hard.  Sometimes I loose it.  And sometimes I loose it completely.

I know this new skill of negotiation comes from the stressors of the day, school and everything else that puts his mind to worry.  I know this is his way to seek out stability in his life.  I know that.

So asking him to do a simple thing such as putting his folder in his backpack or putting forks on the table will not happen, it's going to have to wait.  It's too much for him.

I will do it.

And I'm OK with that.


Note:  I write this here because I lose it sometimes.  I do, we all do.  We wouldn't be human if we didn't.  I used to be afraid or ashamed to admit that, that I'd be less than a 'good mom' if I said that out loud.  

I put words to what happens in our house so others may realize they're not alone.  That we all, occasionally, have a moment.  Deep down, we're all doing as best we can.  

Birthdays and benders...

My daughter had her birthday on Friday.  I mention that because it went pear shaped before she even got out of bed.  Alex beat her to it.  That was problem number one.

Problem number two was that it was not his birthday.  

Before Lizzy even got out of bed, I was hearing, "I hate streamers!  When it's my birthday I don't want any streamers!" He was running through the house tearing down pink and white streamers my mom had stayed up late the night before to put up.  She put up all the decorations at night so when Lizzy woke up, she'd be met with garland and streamers and balloons.

Didn't happen.

Alex was taking them down faster than anything.  Ripping them off the fireplace, trying to pop balloons, smash things, rip streamers and tear the house apart.

I was furious.

"Stop it, stop that right now!  Stop pulling those things down right now!"

"NO, I hate streamers.  When it's my birthday I DON'T WANT ANY STREAMERS!"  He was still running around ripping things down.  We had several more negotiations which were to no avail.  He was not listening, not comprehending.

The abbreviated version...

"Go to your room right now.  NOW!"  Stomping up each and every step, I drug him up.  Furious.  He was furious, I was furious, he was still mumbling under his breath, "I hate streamers.  Hate them.  It's not fair.  I don't like streamers.  I hate you."

By that time, Lizzy was up.  Decorations were down and Alex was stomping around upstairs.

And then nothing was going to go right for him.  He didn't like his socks.  His pants itched.  His food tasted funny.  His fingers felt weird.  And then his shoes.  Oh my fucking God, his shoes.  He couldn't find the right pair and he couldn't possible wear a different pair of the exact same kind of shoe.  Oh no.  He had to have that exact pair, the pair we couldn't find.  Never mind we have replicas of the shoes so this doesn't happen but ohhhh noooo, not today.  Today, this was the hill he was going to die on.

I tired to help him, smacked my elbow on the cabinet so hard I saw stars.  I was furious.  I lashed out and yelled at him, "Now what?  WHAT?  Am I going to have to find your shoes every day?  Huh???  What happens when you're twenty?  What happens then, am I going to have to find your shoes then?  Huh???  Get to the car right now.  NOW.  I've had it."

I was seething.  Furious.  All morning he'd been pushing buttons and I'd had it.  That was the hill I died on.

This was not how Lizzy's birthday was supposed to go.

And then it hit me.  Hit me like a thousand bricks.  This is the way it's going to be with us.  This is how it is.  Autism's in our lives and it's in every part of it, like a nebulous vine, its worked its way into every crack and crevice of our lives.  Every part.  It's just not Alex who has Autism.  It's our whole family.  It affects each and every one of us and it affects us all differently.

And for some reason that bothered me.  Bothered me to the core.  Bothered me that my daughter didn't have a birthday without being affected.  Bothered me that for twenty God-damned minutes in the morning I was trying to redo something it took him less than a few seconds to undo.  Bothered my that he was so bothered.  And most of all?   I was bothered that as a mom, I snapped.

You guys know me, you know I try to put a positive spin on things and for the most part I meet our struggles head on with a good laugh.  I have to.  It's the only way I know to survive.  But.

This has me in a place I don't want to be.  Mad that I lost my shit and mad that I lost it in front of the kids.  Mad that a day I wanted perfect for my little girl, went up in smoke before she was even out of her pajamas.

This is the part of Autism that most people don't talk about, the part where we struggle, where we cry, get angry or we just need a break.  Where, as a parent, I can say it never ends.  I wouldn't be telling the truth if I only shared the good.  Well, this is it, this is the side that makes me want to scream for the hills and scream a slew of cuss words so loud they could hear me in hell and be afraid.

I know he's struggling and I know he's upset.  I know this is the start of school and we're all maxed-out.  I know that, I get it.  But there are days where it all gets to be too much and I don't like it.

This was one of those days.

I only wanted one day.  One damn day.


Note: I'm still in a funk and I'm working my way out of it.  Please know, I love my son, I do.  There are times when I don't love everything that comes with Autism, not to admit that would be a lie.  I'm not trying to devalue anyone who is one the Spectrum or who has Autism, I'm simply saying that there are days when this is hard, really really hard.  

I can't think of a good title. Anybody? Anybody???

We're still on a Monopoly bender in this house.  My kids are watching TV and I think I'm slowly going insane watching all the old cartoons on Boomerang.  They have found Tom and Jerry and Scooby Do.

I'm in hell.

My kids think the Mystery Mobile is fricking awesome and thank you very much Tom and Jerry for introducing my kids to the phrase, "Come here little pussy, pussy, pussy."  Now they are chasing the baby around calling her a little pussy.  They think its frigging hysterical and I'm less than impressed.

(And I know what the p-word is going to do with the search engines.  Every frigging wack-job is going to come her looking for some action and boy will they be sorely disappointed.  I don't care, I'm that worn out.)

I got so desperate to get out of the house that when we ran out of popcorn, I schlepped them all up to Target and I bought a popcorn maker because my kids eat popcorn like Jerry eats cheese.

All the frigging time.

And since I bought the popcorn popper I had to buy the popcorn, and because I bought the popcorn I had to buy the seasonings, and because we had the seasonings, we had to have something to put the popcorn in.

And that is how it came to pass that I have about three million pictures like this:

I can't show you the first few pics---I burnt my arm on the
steam, dropped my phone, cussed a few good ones and
now I have pics of the ceiling....

And this:

Don't let the pic fool you--there was
popcorn everywhere...

And now I have to go up to Target to get more popcorn because my mice ran out of cheese and in a house full of mice, a girl can never run out of cheese.

On the upside, I finally beat Alex at Monopoly.  It was the worst example of social skills ever.  For both of us.

I may, or may not, have said something along the lines of, "BOO-YA!  Sweet Jesus I did it!  Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah.  I did it, I did it, I well and truly did it."

And I may, or may not, have done a victory dance, or three, around the basement.

I will never tell.

The sacrificial lamb has been eaten.

We're ramping up to another holiday this Sunday and while I'm not of the Church-going variety, my kids latched on to the idea that a big tricked out bunny coming over to the house and dropping off an ass-load of candy wasn't such a bad idea.

That and I'm a whore for ham.  Not like Dairy Queen mind you but I do like a piece of pig ass every now and again.  And deviled eggs.  I love deviled eggs.

Anyway, we have this tradition in our house that we have a lamb cake for Easter.

See?

Circa 2006.  Ignore the melting icing.
Yup, that's me and the kids in the picture back there.  

Everything was all well and good until one year my sister hacked into the poor defenseless lamb, chopped off it's head and exclaimed in her best lamb voice, "ACCCKKK!!!!  I'm dying!!  I'm bleeding!!!  Help, help me!!!  Baa.  Someone chopped off my head!!!!  Ouch, my head hurts!!!  Baa.  Anyone see my body?"

While she was saying all of this, she had the lamb head in her hand and moving it up and down on its body like it was talking, all the while still going, "Accck!  My head hurts, has anyone seen what's happened to my head?  Baa."

She thought it was funnier than shit.

Circa 2005.

This is the point in the story where my son Lost His Fucking Mind.  He damn near had a stroke.  He started screaming, flapping running around senseless all the while uttering,   "ACCCCKKKK, you killed it!  YOU KILLED IT!  Put its head back on Aunt Nichole!  Oh no!  YOU KILLED IT.  Please, please, please Aunt Nichole give its head back!  Its going to die!  Please give it the lamb back it's head!"

Then he curled up into a fetal position on the kitchen floor and started wailing and rocking.  

Doesn't matter the lamb was already dead and, stay with me here, it was a cake and we were all going to eat it.

Oh no.

Aunt Nichole brought the damn thing to life and killed it in one fell swoop.

Didn't help the lamb cake that year was read velvet.  Didn't help one bit.  So as she was banging its head on its body "talking," pieces of it were falling off making it look like it had its throat slit and blood was pouring out it's neck.  

I have no Easter lamb pictures for 2007, the year the lamb came to life.  We were too busy looking for ways to kill Aunt Nichole, cleaning up puke and binge drinking.

Circa 2009.

And the irony?  I still have the cast iron lamb mold and I have yet to make this years cake.

It probably worked out for the best, I'm sticking with vanilla.

Happy Easter everyone.

Brace yourselves, we had a busy weekend.

That title's a bit deceiving.  We really didn't have a busy weekend at all but it sure felt like it.  Now that we're done with Labor Day I feel like we're really into the school year.  You may feel free to insert your favorite cuss words or your exclamations of joy here depending on which camp you're in.

Me, personally, I need a vacation.

Just for kicks, let's recap the weekend, shall we?  With it being Labor Day and all, you'd think we did something exciting.  Yeah, no.

We actually did try going to the Zoo on Sunday but somebody who shall remain nameless labeled the Downtown City Market as the Zoo in the car's navigation system and since you know, we turned into chimps and the car was driving us, we blindly went downtown instead of the Zoo.

Horrible, horrible mistake.

By the time we figured out our own stupidity, we wound up with:

• One really pissed-off little girl: "This isn't the Zoo!  I want to pet the lambs!  Where are the lambs???  I don't see any lambs!  WAAAAA!!!!!" 
• One car-sick boy: "Mom, my shoulder hurts."  And just like that, breakfast was all over the backseats of the car.  Mental note: Sudoku + driving = sick boy. 
• A baby who promptly fell asleep and then was a little bitch for the rest of the day.  
• With Lizzy still screaming and Alex puking I called it officially over and we went back home.  Please skip this paragraph if you don't like nasty language.  It sounded similar, but not exactly like, "God Dammit, how in the hell did we make it downtown?!?  Oh Fuck No.  He did not just puke back there.  Oh God Dammit, he did.  Son of a Bitch, this is such bullshit.  I'M DONE.  How long is it going to take us to get home?  Thirty minutes?? Oh fuck no.  I'M OUT.  No, no, no guys mommy's not really getting out of the car.  It's just an expression.  She's just really had a rough morning.  Can you guys just keep your headsets on for a few minutes?  Yeah, you can?  You guys are great!"

So I've clearly been a little strung out...    

That's why we did a bunch of nothing over the long weekend.

Friday night:

Saturday:

On Sunday one dropped out but the other was still going strong:

And Monday he was back into his Saturday clothes and doing a little more of this:

And Tuesday they went back to school.

Amen and The End.

Mom Fail

Just as a warning this is a little ranty today.  Shocking.  I know.

Its amazing how things can go along just great one minute and the next its all just blowing up in your face.  Blamo.  Lets just say I got mine yesterday.

Anyway, I'll get right down to business.

If another person asks me when "we're going for that forth child" I'm going to punch them in the throat.  Hard.

First off, it's none of your business.

Second off, as I told the lady who would not crawl out of my ass-hole about it yesterday that I did in fact have four children.  Since she clearly could not count to three and subtract one, she kept persisting.  So I got sick of it and blew a fuse.  After repeated attempts to change the subject and when she would not stop pressing the issue I told her again that I did have four children and, "my third one was up in my closet...in an urn."

Nothing kills a conversation like bringing up your dead baby.

And third, I don't want any more children.  Just the thought of another baby makes my ovaries shrivel up, my fallopian tubes close in on themselves and I spontaneously start cramping.  I am done with kids.  I am beyond done with kids.  I do not want any more.  Every night as I pop my pill I secretly thank those evil geniuses who found it their life ambition to mess around with hormones.

Furthermore, I do not feel the need to speak about this with random strangers at the pool.

I swear sometimes people are stupid.

It totally didn't help that Gracie has skipped her afternoon nap and instead went for a round of:  Lets-take-a-dump-and-smear-it-all-over-the-bedding-stuffed animals-blankets-crib-and-walls, cuz you know, mom'd like that.

So after I Cloroxed Gracie's ass and her room and anything else within a two foot arm span, I decided a change of scenery was in order.  Off to the pool we went.

As a side note, I really hope the chlorine level was up cuz I just couldn't bet the farm I got all that shit wiped off her.  What's that phrase, "you're never as clean as you think you are?"  Yeah, that came to mind.

As another side note, take a look at this plant.  Nothing gets your attention faster than your five year old daughter screaming at the top of her lungs at the park, "Hey Mom, I found a purple penis plant!!!"  

Ok, I'll cut her some slack on this one...

Anyway, I suppose I was itching to unload on someone and when this woman would not stop she got the brunt of it.

Add to it the kids have been biting at each other.  I left them alone for a few minutes in the basement and they were actually slapping the shit out of each other when I came back.  They were downright nasty with each other.  All of this in the time it took for me to use the facilities.

They were driving each other insane for the pure joy of it.

I went for almost the whole day trying to figure out why in the hell they were we having such a bad day and I couldn't figure it out.  And that in turn was pissing me off.

And then it hit me:  Alex caught the tail end of my conversation with the school nurse that I would drop off his asthma supplies and Lizzy's immunization record.

I dared utter the six letter word, school, in our house and he FLIPPED OUT.

Flipped his shit.  And you all know how that goes.  The rest of our day circled the drain.

Such a shame it took me till now to figure it all out.  I guess it falls under the category of Mom Fail.

My beautiful summer has been flushed down the toilet in under twenty seconds and my son's already twitching.

Damn it.

I've decided to link this to Shell's Pour Your Heart Out as I just posted on Monday with Shell about how great our summer has been going.  Amazing how quickly things change...

I saw stars, beautiful shiny stars...

I've not been a good bloggie friend.  Sorry.  The kids have been on Spring Break and I thought I'd be on the computer trying to escape by Tuesday and the kids would be chewing the sides off the sofa by Wednesday but the week has gone by remarkably fast.   Hubs took some time off as well.  That right there throws a wrench in my plans.  I mean, I can't possibly have him see me on the computer like all day, reading posts, checking stats, and commenting all over the place.  I've actually had to get food for the kids, do laundry and play outside and act all house-wifey and stuff.  The gig's up on Monday but until then I have to keep up a good front.

Along with Bike Camp, all our routines have been chucked out the window--we stay up late and still get up at the same time.  We've been eating crap since Tuesday and we're trying to finish up the last bits of the remodel so consequently I've been dealing with exhausted, cranky kids. 

But look!  

The whole bike camp thing has taken up a lot of our time and I'll be glad when it's over.  There is a girl there, about thirteen, named Sheyanne.  She's a beautiful young girl and her only downfall is her mother.  She is a Soccer Mom.  You can hear this woman yell from outside the gym.  And she doesn't stop.  All fucking class she yells at her kid.  And every time, Sheyanne flinches.  Every time.

 

All I've been hearing since Monday is, "COME ON SHY-ANN, MOVE THOSE LEGS!  DON'T LET ME DOWN!  SHY-ANN.  Move, Move MOVE!"  Use your arms.  You're Arms Shy-Ann!  YOUR ARMS!" 

Then when she's done yelling she gives an exasperated "humph" and paces the side wall of the gym like she's an exhibit at the zoo.  And then she starts up again. 

It's been horrible to watch this unfold.  The program itself has been incredible, watching the kids fly and she's been shitting all over it.  They've asked her to leave and stand outside but she still works her way in.  Sheyanne does beautifully when her mom's gone and she was coasting around the tennis court yesterday.  Out of nowhere the yelling starts and Sheyanne promptly biked herself into the fence.  Went ass over handlebar and face-planted it.  She was sobbing.  The director was furious.  She actually took her inside and when they both came out, soccer mom was muzzled.  Amen.  But not before she spewed this land mine.  Keep reading...

We've been working up Alex for a tic disorder.  When he comes around the corner he has a facial tic---like a grimace.  He does it every corner.  It freaks the hell out of me to see him do this but he can't help it.  The whole bike thing is stressful so I look past it, and see the little boy I love underneath.  I understand he's stressed and me freaking out will not help him in the least.  So I suck it up, bury how I feel and stand proud.  Soccer mom had the stones to yell at him as he came around the corner, " HEY ALEX, WHY DON'T YOU SMILE?"

OK.  That's It.  She's crossed it.  She didn't tip toe over it, she fucking plowed through it like an army tanker.  That goddammed gorilla has the balls to yell at my kid?!?  For a brief second I saw how the cosmos was formed.  Saw stars.  Blinding white gloriously shiny, little white fluttery things.  Beautiful, just beautiful.  And then I came back down.  

And right then I wanted to thank my child psychologist for giving us anger management coping techniques because I found myself counting to ten, deep breathing and repeating incessantly, "I will not kill the bitch, I will not kill the bitch" while gripping the seat of the stadium bleachers.

When  I was sort of composed I walked over and said this: "For the remainder of this class I would appreciate if you would not talk to me or my child.  Ever.  He has a tic disorder and while that would normally be none of your business, you yelling at him has gutted him like a fish."  And I turned around and walked away.

I could say more about soccer mom but other than being stupid bitch I have nothing.  I feel sick about her, how she treats others, and most of all how Sheyanne has to go home with her and what her life is like.  I don't want her to tarnish an otherwise busy and fun week so I'm going to leave it at that.

I'm off to bake cookies for all the volunteers and helpers at Bike Camp and I have to keep up the house-wifey front for a few more days.  See, the whole baking cookies bit falls right in place.   Wish me luck!!!

Hell hast a name--my house...

Bad, bad, bad language rant.

I give up.  I've been trying to get a few seconds of computer time and every time I'm interrupted.  Seriously??  No wonder all my posts are crap.  I can't even get a word in edgewise without the whole fucking clan descending upon me. 

It's not like we live in a sardine can for Christ's sake.  We have three fucking levels.  And true to form every time they hear me pounding on the keyboard they descend on me like vultures on a carcass.  So, I've decided fuck it.  I'm going to write about them as they all stand behind me.  So here I bang away and the whole lot of them are all futzing behind me. 

Seriously, shut up.  SHUT UP.  Why do yo insist on talking to me right now??  Can't you see my back is turned to you and I've not even turned around once.  And yet you still continue to jabber to my back.  Contrary to popular belief, the eyes in the back of my head do not work.  I swear, what in the hell am I spending all this money for social skills classes??  No one in my house can even read my body language which is clearly saying leave me the fuck alone!

Oh my God.  I don't care about your jogging route, what the weather is doing, and for the love of Christ, NO YOU MAY NOT HOT-SINC YOUR I-TOUCH RIGHT NOW.  (Don't let the fact that I don't know how to spell sinc get int he way of this rant, dam you spell checker.)

Frick, frick, frick. NO, I do not want to watch Martin sing Hello.  Crap.  Boy wonder has found (and downloaded) the video to Hello.  That seals it, I'm in hell and it's only 9:30---AM.

ARRRRGGG

What, you don't consider this a real job???

I'm totally going to trash talk my sister.  I can do that.  She's pissed me off and now I'm going to call her on it, blog style.  I'll let all you in on a little secret---no one in my family knows I've got this little gig here so I can blast her and they'll be none the wiser. 

See, it's a perfect situation...

Here's the deal: I'm at home with kids and she like, has a real job, so if you do the math, I'm obviously at home doing nothing all day.

She doesn't have any kids, by choice.  I mean, they could have kids but they don't.  I think she saw what happened to me and she was like, "No fucking way do I want a piece of that action."

Humph.

So let me back track to last night.  They came over for about twenty minutes.  At bed time.  They should know better but they don't.  Remember, no kids?  Right??

Right. 

And in that twenty minutes she ran around stirring stuff up, saying BOO to Gracie and basically scaring the shit out her.  She came up to me while I was watching one of the Barbie movies with Lizzy and mentioned something about appliances to which I mumbled, "Sure, whatever." 

See, it's not like I'm a fan of the Barbie movies, I generally think they suck and make me throw up in my mouth a little bit, but hey, my daughter loves them so I watch them.  They do a pretty good job of getting the message across that girls can do anything and I'm down with that.

So there we were watching Barbie as a Musketeer and I was like whatever and didn't really hear what my sister was saying. 

Flash forward to today, when I get a call from her asking me to go over to her house to let the appliance people in.  I was a tish confused, more like WTF are you talking about?  But I digress. 

Apparently in our little two second chat I agreed to let the appliance guys in her house.  "I can't possibly come home and let them in, I'm at work", she says.  I have meetings all day.  All you have to do is pop over and let them in....

Sure, I can do that.

IT'S NOT LIKE I HAVE A JOB OR ANYTHING. 

Not like I'm trying to raise three kids or anything like that.  Noooo, let me just pop right on over and help you out.  Load them all in the car, get the baby up from her nap, get the other two out of pajama's.  Sure, I'm good like that. 

Clearly I'm at home and that, by default, means I'm not working. Which means I do nothing all day.  Just waiting on someone to call and give me something to do...

Which means I have the free time to dig up a picture like this:

And this....

And that is how I get a giggle at my house.  Laugh with me people!

Litany of Logic

My little Aspie has been testing his limits lately.  It has to do with our morning routine and how he wants to play his I-touch before all our morning stuff is done.  Our routine is, as stands:

• we get dressed
• eat breakfast
• brush teeth
• get backpack/lunch ready and then and only then the
• little electronic wonder can be turned on.   

Here's the rub---Alex likes oatmeal for breakfast.  Whole grain Quaker Oats.   Not the instant stuff in packets, or the one minute stuff.  We're talking full on, straight up oat off the plant oatmeal.  The kind that takes forever to make. 

Anyway, Alex decides because he has some downtime while he's waiting for breakfast, he's perfectly justifiable in a little play time.  Normally I would agree.  His little Vulcan-like logic is usually spot on.  But the problem is this: once that damn thing it goes on he gets sucked in a little time warp and he can't break free.  So no, the I-touch can not be touched until all the morning stuff is done.  Period.

And here's where the litany of logic ensues and a great debate happens every morning.  We go back and forth on the whys and how comes and how I got to be in charge in the first place.  He's not trying to be rude, mind you, just trying to back me in a corner (or wear me down) till I can see the logic of his point of view and cave to his version of reality. 

Now if you're in a hurry just skip to the next paragraph.  This is something that took me, like five years to figure out.  Heck, I'm still trying to remind myself of this one.  Read this nice and slowly and reread again if you have to cause it may save you like, an eternity of banging your head against the wall.  Or in my case five years.

He can't see my reality and what angle I'm coming from.  At all.  All he can see is what he's thinking.  It would never occur to him to look at anything from someone else's point of view.  He thinks we all think exactly like him. 

That's it.  Did you get it?? 

Just like it would never occur to him to ask for help--with anything.  Why would you?  If you can't figure something out, everyone else is having the same problem, right?  Right??

If I say no to him he simply can not compute and then tries to convince me of how it's not his fault that the oatmeal is not ready and he should not be held accountable for the microwave working too slow, mommy not getting in enough coffee...   

So if you want to know what I'm doing say around 7:30 tomorrow morning, I'll be in a very heated discussion about oatmeal and the I-touch. 

Wish me luck!

I'm still deciding if she's mocking or encouraging me...



As an update, I caved and let him have it while the oatmeal was cooking.  The rest of the morning went to hell in a hand basket.  

My thoughts on the weatherman...

Dear Mr. Weatherman--
Screw you.  I am fed up to here with looking at you every night and having to suffer through you mocking me and telling me pretty little lies.  Telling me its going to get up into the 30's when in fact it does not.  Stop screwing with me.  I don't care if you get within three degrees of your forecasted number, especially if your number is less than twenty.  You still suck.

I'm sick to death of you getting excited about another big clipper system or an upper level low coming through.  None of your viewers care.  We're not laughing with you anymore.   Matter of fact, I did a survey in the neighborhood and I'm hard pressed to find someone to come to your defence.  They all want to string you up the school flag pole, naked, and see how long you last.  They'd bury you when they were done but the ground's too cold to get a spade in.

I'd feel much better if you just stuck to the truth and told me I'm going to freeze my little titties off till the end of March.  Then I'd get used to it.  I'd suffer through.  But no, you've been stringing me along for the past few months telling me lies.  You even told me that frigging rodent didn't see it's shadow and its going to warm up soon.  And I'm still cold.  And you still suck. 

I'm done with having to explain to my kids why the weatherman lies stretches the truth and how in our house white lies or lies by omission are lies none the less.  We have rules in our house and every night you break them with your deceptive trickery.  These lies are akin to criminal offences in our house which require standing in a corner for five minutes or a loss of computer time. 

My son wants to know if you loose computer time and if your mom puts you in a corner when you get home.  He is very upset by this and would like an answer. 

Because of all of this I have to break up with you.  I have to stop seeing you and subjecting myself to all of your petty lies and tomfoolery.  Your recent bomb of a winter weather advisory for today was the final straw.  We're over.  Finished.  Through.  And you still suck. 



My thoughts exactly.






The Great State of Kansas...

A baby in motion stays in motion, until the box stops.

I'd like to say we had a fantastic weekend.  We didn't.  It sucked.  It sucked so bad that at one point I looked at my husband and said I'll be upstairs.  Only I stayed up there for three hours.  Later I looked at him and said I gotta get out of here.  NOW.  And I left for three more hours...

Maybe it was because Red Robe left me this present on her way out of town. 

Look, the washer's jam packed too.


Maybe it was because my sister ditched me and the kids at the last minute and backed out of babysitting because she just wasn't feeling it today.

Maybe because when I did make the stupid mistake of coming downstairs I saw the baby being flung out of a box--face first, smacking the ground.  A pause.  A scream.  Blood pouring out of her mouth. 

Maybe because this house has been under construction for so fucking long I've lost track of where anything lives.  So when I go looking for a flashlight I trip over the power washer and all the other crap that should be in our basement like two sofa's, two end tables, about twenty boxes and four shelving units.

Maybe its because when I finally find a flashlight and come in from the garage, I see my husband already using one looking in Gracie's mouth.  The baby's still bloody and screaming.

Lizzy's sobbing, she knows she's done something really bad and it's only a matter of time before I turn on her. 

The whole time Alex is quoting us facts about the state of Kansas.  His frigging teacher pumped him full of useless facts about the Great State of Kansas and he's now spewing them back at us.

Maybe it's because dinner was precariously close to setting off the fire alarm.  That would have been the only thing that would have shut up the great flow of Kansas crap coming out of my son's mouth. 

Out of the 5 teeth that are in Gracie's head she managed to carve a hole in her bottom lip and both gums.

I looked at my husband and said, I gotta get out of this house.  NOW.  I took the keys and left.  Left him with two screaming kids and one oblivious to the whole situation, still prattling on about the Great State of Kansas.


I went to the only place I know I can go looking like utter crap and fit in.  WalMart.  I stayed there for three hours.  Feeling totally ashamed for leaving yet knowing I was so close to completely fucking loosing it. 

And maybe because of an ugly little truth---how for a brief few moment I wanted a life without kids, without all the angst and all the shit that comes with it.  For a brief moment.

Until I came home and Lizzy, timid, almost shyly says, "why'd you leave?" and hugs my legs without reservation.  And Alex, dear Alex says, "Mom, did you know I wasn't done with Kansas?"