That poor juice box didn't stand a chance.

So the other day after school we were driving and I gave Alex a juice box.  This has been our first week of school and I've unloaded our calender.  I've cancelled everything except one activity so that he can come home and decompress.  School's hard on any kid, add Autism and lets just say this week's been a bit stressful.

Today was the day he completely freaked out.  Self combusted, lost his lid, whatever.  He melted down over a frigging juice box.  In the car.

From the back seat I hear all sorts of sputtering and gagging.  Oh Shit.

Apparently I had the wrong kind of juice box.  I deviated from our normal brand of juice and he noticed.  Fuuuuuuck.

"Mom, MOM!!!  I can not drink from this juice box.  I simply can not ingest juice that is 66% juice and 34% inert material."  He's in the back seat of the car, holding on to the offending juice box, flapping and gagging.  Juice going everywhere.

"OK, well hon I'm trying to drive here.  Just put the juice box down and I'll take a look at it when we get out.  Listen.  Listen to me.  ALEX, listen.  I need you to listen with your ears."

I get an exasperated, "What?" from the back seat and a, "No, mom, NO.  I can not simply put the box down.  We're in the car.  Where am I supposed to put it?  I don't want it near me.  I can't have it near me.  I drank some of it.  Mom, I think I'm gonna to puke."

Now if you want to get my attention fast, say those three magic words, I'm gonna puke.  Nothing gets a reaction out of me faster.  There are very few things in this world I well and truly despise and puke is one of them.

"OK, get the bucket if you have to but I tell you what.  I'm not cleaning your puke this time.  New rule.  If you make yourself puke, you clean it."  If I had a dime for the number of times I've cleaned puke in our car, house, pool, where ever, I'd be a bloody millionaire by now.  Or if Alex did the math, I'd have at least, $31.20.  Whatever.

We have an old bucket/Tupperware container in the back seat for this very reason. We moved from a bucket to Tupperware because of the lid factor.  If you've ever sat in a car with puke, you'll know how vital a lid can be.  Trust me.  

Exhibit A.  

"What?!?  I can't clean my own puke.  Mom, THAT'S DISGUSTING!"

"Oh yeah?!?  Well how do you think I feel every time you puke?  Do you think I like cleaning your puke?  No, I most certainly do not.  I think it's disgusting too."

"Well, if I can't puke, now what?  I drank it, I may die. Now what?  I'M GONNA DIE."  He's writhing in the back seat, I'm watching juice fly everywhere, still trying to drive, and thanking Good God All Mighty that the straps on his car seat are holding.

"No, you are not going to die.  No one has ever died from drinking juice.  If people died from drinking juice, don't you think the juice industry would be out of business by now?"

That got him, totally got him off of thinking about his juice induced death, he was thinking, thinking.  And he was calming down.  Just that quickly, he'd calmed back down.

"Well,  Mom.  People can die from drinking water, you know.  There is something called 'water intoxication' and people die from drinking too much water."  He's telling me this, juice forgotten.  Sure, he's flicking his wrists and still worked up, but he was coming back.

From the rear view mirror, I can see the juice has been launched to the floor of the car.  He was looking out the window, still thinking.  Quiet.

The rest of the ride was in silence.  I turned off the DVD player and we just drove.  I kept looking back at him.  He was deep in thought and I just let him be.

When we got to where we were going, Alex asked, "Mom, when we get to group, can I throw the juice in the garbage can?  And next time?  You need to remember the right kind of juice box.  I'm very disappointed in you right now."

Juice box, you are dead to me.  

I watched as the threw the juice into the garbage.  I gave him a squeeze and whispered,  "I promise to buy the right kind of juice next time.  And I'm proud of you, you didn't puke."

He gave me a sigh, a big exasperated sigh, and just that quickly he wiggled away from me.

Don't worry, there's no way in hell I'm going to be buying the wrong kind of juice box any time soon.  Anyone want a case of Fruitopia?

I'm in the dumps, somebody get me out of here.

So our little world is crumbling all around us and I'm doing everything I can to help Alex hang on by a thread.  His SPED teacher went on maternity leave yesterday and he'll be without her for the remainder of the year.  

One day into this and he's already had his first meltdown while at OT and it was a good one.  A doozy even.  So bad he lost his mind and didn't even know it. I was just thankful it wasn't at my house.    

We talked about it later and he said, "I don't even know what happened to me," and started crying.  

He's brought back some old stims and is showing all the signs of being under a large amount of stress.  

I'm doing what I can but nothing hurts worse than seeing your own child come slowly unhinged, bit by bit, right before your very eyes.  

His General Education teacher has gone above and beyond and for that I am eternally grateful.  She's been working with me, doing what she can to help him in so many ways possible.  She truly gets Alex and knows how hard these next few weeks are going to be.  I wish she could really know how much her support and understanding means to me.

I have to switch gears hear because I fear I can't get through the rest of this post without bawling.  Instead, I'll give you a picture of what Alex likes to do best.    

Double fisting, baby.  Double fisting.
I-touch and I-pad .

And I know this sounds silly but look, no cuss words in the whole post.

No offense, I much prefer the posts in which I cuss.

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.

Puppets are the work of the Devil.

So my husband had the insight to tell me that sometimes I can, "Really put my foot in it."  And I can.  There are times when I can see myself, like an angel looking down from above, talking and I Can Not Stop.  I really want to, trust me.  For whatever reason I just don't have the ability.

Anyway, this all started when I got the release form for Lizzy's field trip.  They have this extra section that if parents want to come along you sign up.  The teachers pull your name out of a hat and off you go.  I signed up but never thought I'd be going since Lizzy goes to school with a bunch of overachievers.  The mom's that is.  These lady-bitches have beaten me out of every trip so far this year.  

Well, I got picked.  I had no idea where we were going but I was so happy I finally beat the lady-bitches at their own game.  We were going to see a puppet show.

I HATE PUPPETS.

EVEN WORSE THAN CLOWNS.  

I HATE PUPPETS. 

So there I sat on a bus full of screaming kids thinking to myself:  "Who in their right mind decides they want to have a career playing with puppets?  I mean, what in the hell would possess a rational, able bodied person to wake up and decide they want to make their life's ambition to provide puppet entertainment to the general population?  And that's assuming they're rational.  And in the ghetto, inner city or urban core, where ever.  But really, what kind of person besides Mr. Rogers, wants to go into puppet work?  For children??  Its just not right."    

So there I sat with a bunch of Kindergartners praying to get out of the place alive and unharmed by rogue puppets or snotty six year olds.  Speaking of which, all my friends who are Kindergarten teachers?  You ladies are Saints and should be Canonized or you're crazy.  I'm not sure which.  I just know I could not do your job.  

Look at these freaky-ass things.

Fast forward to later in the evening when I dropped Lizzy off at a birthday party.  The party mom's all, "How were the puppets?  It must have been soooo much fun!"

And I was all, "No, it wasn't fun.  It was downright unnerving.  Scary even.  I mean, there were freaky puppets looking down from the walls and everywhere.  It was the weirdest place I've ever been and I think I'm going to have nightmares and post-traumatic stress from the whole thing.  Gawd, just thinking about it now gives me the shakes.  Uggh, I mean a whole puppet show on Go Dog Go?  I thought time stood still and I was trapped in hell with some wacked-out puppeteer and bunch feral six year olds.  What time to I get Lizzy?  Seven o'clock, right?"

And she's all, "You don't like puppets?  What's not to like about puppets?  What kind of person doesn't like puppets?"  

That's when I realized I had said too much.  

She was looking at me like a deer caught in the headlights, looking into my soul and seeing Satan.  She was truly concerned for my well being and my utter disdain for all things puppets.  I even saw her flinch and take a step back.      

I'm sorry but I don't like puppets.  

And I hate clowns too.

  

Thank you Google Images and Steven King.  

Wonder what she thinks about that.  

In our house it all comes out in the minivan.

So if you saw me on the other day in the car stopped at a red light and I was repeatedly banging my head into the steering wheel, there is a simple explanation.  Really.

We were in the car to go to therapy and Alex asked a very straight forward yet loaded question.

"Mom, did you bring the I-pad?"

Shit.  

"No hon, I totally forgot but you can use my phone, OK?"

"Did you bring my I-touch?"

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

"No hon I didn't bring that either.  I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry.  Mommy got busy and I just plain forgot and I'm so sorry.  You can use my phone, right?  Right???"

Please God, just use the damn phone.  This one time, please.

"NO I CAN NOT USE YOUR PHONE."

Everything with-in arms reach was suddenly being thrust toward the front of the car.  Backpack, shoes, socks, headsets, yo-yo.  I know, a yo-yo.  You name it, it was being lobbed my way.

Thank God we were going to OT to work on gross motor skills because not a damn thing came close to hitting me.

"YOUR PHONE DOES NOT HAVE GAME SOURCE ON IT.  IT HAS TO BE DOWNLOADED AND YOU CAN'T DO THAT FROM HERE.  ACCCCKKKKK!!!!!!  HOW COULD YOU FORGET?  YOU NEVER FORGET!  I HATE YOU.  I HATE THIS.  I WANT DAD.  HE DOESN'T FORGET THINGS.  ACCCCKKKKK!!!!!  YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE.  I HATE YOU.  ACCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!"

More things being launched from the back seat.  Sparkle nail polish.  A fake spider.  Pencil with an eraser chewed off.  Clearly I need to clean the minivan more often.

"I HATE YOU.  I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU WATCH THE DVD.  I'M TURNING IT OFF."

And at that point I got a little reprieve as we've been watching Megamind nonstop in the car since we started school on August 17, no I'm not counting, and even thought I love hearing Brad Pitt, quite frankly his wily charms and his sinfully beautiful voice wore off way back in September.  And yes, I still think Angelina is a home wrecker.

I did find it interesting that with all the garbage being relocated to the front of the cabin he held onto the DVD remote.  Clearly he'd managed to hold onto a few marbles.

"I WANT DADDDDDYYYY!!!!!"

And so that is why I was sitting at a red light gnashing my forehead into the steering wheel.

In the hopes of feeling something other than frustration, anxiety and utter pissed-offedness being spewed in my general direction I opted for physical pain.  There was nothing left for him to do but yell.  He'd already lobbed his backpack, shoes, socks and headsets my way, the only thing he had left were words.

And sometimes those hurt the worst of all.

Note:  We made it out of that car ride just fine and he wound up having a good time at OT after all.  I write this as this type of situation plays out almost every single day.  We've learned to cope with meltdowns and have strategies and tools in place for just this sort of thing.  Oftentimes now we are working on preventative rather than defensive measures.  While I never get used to these meltdowns, I have found I have more patience and understanding than I ever thought I possessed.  I write this to let others know they are not alone.  Not by a long shot.     

See, this is why I don't get drunk. Or maybe I should do it more often. Now I think I've said too much.

I had a complete meltdown about three weeks ago, right after Alex kicked me in the gut after a pretty rough day at school.  I came home and had a good cry in my closet.  Unlike my kid's meltdown there was no-one there to tell me things were going to be OK.  There was no-one there to make me brownies.  And most of all, there was no-one there to tell me they would kill that mean nasty teacher if she acts up again or, at minimum, threaten her with bodily harm or a good throat punch.

So like the big girl that I am, I made brownies for myself and had a glass of wine (or two or three) as soon as my husband walked in the door.

And since I'm a big girl and I was wearing my big girl panties, I figured the Gods of fortune were smiling down on me.  They were telling me something.

And because I know how to use the computer and a credit card and I could still figure out how to use the two simultaneously, I figured the Gods were really trying to tell me something.

So I got on the computer and went effing crazy.

I booked a trip down to Sanibel using all our frequent flyer miles.  Since I was still a little tipsy and still a little more than upset, I booked the condo I've had my eye on for over a year.  The Gods were really smiling down on me as I managed to score a decent price.  Gotta love Florida in the off season.

And its been one of the better decisions I've made all year.  I told the kids and my husband that we were going back to Sanibel and the smiles, oh the smiles.  Since then, Alex has been surviving school just to get to our trip date.

My husband told me it was the best way to celebrate our anniversary and I knew he understood my stress and how I've been hanging on by a thread.

By A Thread.

So that is how it came to be that we are going out of town in the upcoming week.  Unlike what I did last time, I will not be writing while we're down south.  I'm going to be spending the week with the kids trying to get them to de-stress, have fun and getting drunk.  I mean, me get drunk not the kids get drunk.  Oh hell, you know what I mean.

So when I go silent I will miss you all but I know you of all people will understand.  Understand what it means to get away.  To give the kids a chance to unwind.  To give them something to look forward to.  To give them hope.  And to give them a break.  For me as much as them.

If only I was sober at the time I would have known not to book the trip while Aunt Flow was in town.  Apparently the Gods have a sick sarcastic side as well.  

Feel free to yuck it up in the comments and have your own little party down there.


Note:  This could not be coming at a better time.  Alex punched his para at lunch yesterday and has been melting down both at home and at school more and more frequently.  He has taken to lying about doing things and is generally anxious and scared.  We are having another IEP meeting when we get back and I'm in the process of getting an advocate.  Sigh.   


And I have to find someone to watch our crabs.  See, that doesn't even sound right.  God, I hate those things.   

An open letter to my stalkers. And by that I mean you, yeah mom, I'm looking at you.

I get it.  You found the blog.  Yay.  At first I didn't mind.  I was all like, "Whatever.  I"m not changing what I'm doing here.  I'll just ignore it.  Whatever."

But then I checked my stats and analytics and found out who was coming to visit and what they're doing.  And it turns out, you are practically a stalker.  Checking it out every day.  And then going to other blogs and checking them out too.

Yay.  You're my biggest fan.

But the thing is, you're my mom.  You're not supposed to be out here.  It creeps me out and I don't like it.  I can't write knowing you're looking at my work and then going out to see where else I've been and who's been dropping by here.

For me, its weird.  I don't like it.

So I have to ask you in the nicest way I can to please stop.

I love you and all and I love that we're in the same house but the blog reading has to stop.  I even love that the baby loves you more than life itself.

But it has to stop.

See, I have writers block.

I'm not able to come up with anything knowing you're reading it on the sly.  And you know there's been plenty going on.  Gracie getting mauled by the dog.  Alex having another asthma attack.  The kids getting sick.  School sucking.  Me not feeling good.  Did I mention school sucking?

But I can't write about it knowing you're out here.

So it has to stop.

See, for all my friends out there, my mom and I live in the same house.  I've mentioned the blog once or twice at home when I knew she found out about it and left it at that.  We never really talk about it in real life.

But then I checked my stats.  And I'm over it.  Over being stalked by my own mother who is literally, in the room right next door.

So you've been given notice, as nicely as I can give notice.  While it's nice if you come to check things every once in a blue moon, and by that I mean almost never, its not OK to be checking up on me every day and then go stalking my friends blogs.  You're my mom and I'm not comfortable with it.

If you want to, go and get your own blog and blog friends, that would work.

What I'm doing here is not "mom material."

So like Hal says in the movie Megamind, "I'm watching you like a dingo watches a human baby."

And for now I am going to leave things at that.

Go on and touch her already. Just a little touch.

Do you ever just get to the point where you go, "Eh, Christ, I'm sick of this and I want to go home."  Only you are home and there really is no other place for you to go? Anybody?  Anybody??

Or is it just me?  If its just me, please be generous and lie and make stuff up in the comments.  Tell me about your pet pony, I don't care.  

So I've gone on and on about how blissful our summer has been and like a vise grip getting tighter and tighter I can see my happy little boy slipping away from me.  Out of my grasp.

Our window is closing in on us.

And I'm scared.

I can see Alex's sphincter tighten as we get closer to next week and I'm dying a thousand deaths for him.

We had our last swim lesson and he was so sad and mad and I don't know what that he went up and slugged his instructor.  Normally he loves this girl.  Not today.  He didn't know how to tell her he was sad and mad and I don't know what and the next thing I knew he hauled off and just slugged her.

Even with his back turned
I know.  

Everything has been so rough on him in the past few days.  He's been trying desperately to hold it together and he just fell apart today.  And of all things it was when we ran out of cookies at the pool.  Cookies.

And he melted.

"Mom, Lizzy ate all the cookies and I'm hungry."  He's already started bawling, his chins quivering, snot running down his nose, over his lips and down his chin.  Rivers of tears streaming down each cheek.

Like a switch that's been turned on, I can see what's coming.

"I'm so hungry, Mom.  I want to go home."  He's pacing in circles.  Flapping.

"No babe, we're not going home.  Lizzy's not done with her lesson.  We have to stay."

"I WANT TO GO HOME!  I WANT TO GO HOME NOW!  NOW! NOW! NOW!  TAKE ME HOME NOW!"

He's going in circles, faster.  He's still sobbing.  And flapping.  He gets to our stuff and starts throwing the empty cookie bag and launched it across the pool deck.  Moved on to tossing the water bottle and all the goggles in the pool and got part way through our bag, chucking things out before I could get to him.  And I was all of one chair down.

Lizzy, not a care in the world. 

What he lacks in coping skills he makes up for in speed.        

"No.  No, hon.  We're not going home.  We have to wait."

"I WANT TO GO HOME.  NOW!  I WANT TO GO HOME!"

He's moved on to sobbing hysterically, his whole body wracked with waves of angst.  "I WANT TO GO HOME."  I'm trying to hold on to him.  He's pushing me away.

He's moved on just that quickly from throwing things to curling up on himself, on the pool chair.

It always amazes me the fury that can be unleashed in a split second.  And the next, yet just as startling, is the child curled up so tightly in a ball, so vulnerable.  Scared.

"I know.  I know.  I know.  I'm sad too."  I say sitting next to him, trying not to get too close for fear of setting him off again.  "It stinks that Tracy has to go away for college and this is your last lesson.  I know that.  It makes my body sad too.  And I'm a little mad and a scared too.  Ya wana go over and tell Tracy you'll miss her?  You don't have to say anything you can just go over and touch her.  Just a touch.  She'll know what you're saying."

"NO.  I WANT TO GO HOME."  He's not moved an inch, just talking to me through the slats of the pool chair.

"I know, I know. But listen to me.  Did you know if you use your words, she'll understand your feelings?  She will.  Trust me.  I bet she's sad too."

He sat all though his sister's lesson curled up in the fetal position.  Was a moody as a feral cat coming back home.  Refused to talk to Tracy the rest of her time with us.

Right as she was walking out the door he went up to her.  Touched her on her hand and walked away.

He's been up in his room on his computer ever since listening to his music and making mazes.

There are so many things that are upsetting to me about what happened.  I know this scenario will replay itself all day, just with a different trigger.  He was unable to use words but for him to make that move, that touch, gives me pause.

It gives me hope.