Category Archives: Blah, Blah, Blah

I Should Be Careful What I Wish For

Autism and Stuff, Blah, Blah, Blah, Bug Boy, Bugaboo, ipad, Ten Kinds of Hawesome May 16, 2013 Comments: 24

Disclaimer: If you are easily offended by sarcasm, this is not a post for you. Warning: May contain sarcasm, jokes, humor, drollery, jocularity, amusing tidbits, farcical comments, facetiousness, ludicrous speed or comedy. In other words, it’s all in jest and I’m just trying to be funny. And you should never take me seriously anyways. Sheesh. Thank you.

Bugaboo doesn’t speak.

I mean, he doesn’t speak verbally with his voice. He makes PLENTY of noise (and we special education teachers KNOW that nonverbal children are sometimes the loudest children of all, funny how that works, no?) and there has been more than one moment when I’ve asked him to turn it down to at least eleven.

They’ve done an AAC (assistive augmentative communication. I think.) trial with him at school for the past two months. Now, we’ve done AAC trials before and he had NO INTEREST whatsoever. But something has clicked in him. Something is different. Maybe it’s the ten pounds and six inches he grew. Perhaps it is from the two sizes his feet have grown and it’s squeezing his brains back into his feet. Maybe it’s because he is better regulated, sensory-wise. Or maybe his health has been good for a long time and his body can do things it has wanted to do for years.

Two weeks into that trial he was inputting sentences. I’ve written about this before, yo. Pay attention! Anywho, he was telling how he FELT. He was requesting food and places to go. Somedays he’d bring me “Steak, outside” Which meant he wanted to grill steak (INORITE?) or “Dogs, outside” because Daisy, our border collie, can be a bit of a pain in the bum. Or, “I’m happy, shower!” When he was excited about playing in water.

But last week he found the button I was hoping he’d never find.

WHY

Not letter Y, either. He stumbled upon a category I had temporarily moved, since WH-questions aren’t exactly in his repertoire. And all day he would input, “Outside. Why?” or “I want Target, m&ms, WHY?” Overandoverandoverandover.

I’m now convinced that if he could verbally say what he wanted, like out loud and stuff? He’d have echolalia (which THANK YOU BABY JEBUS Bug Boy grew out of about two years ago, though sometimes will still repeat things over and over). And I’d be going insane and covering my ears because he’d be repeating things overandoverandover. And more than just, “I WAAAAANT! I WAAAAAAANT!” Hoe. Lee. Cow.

It’s sort of falling into that, “Be careful what you wish for!” category. Because I’ve HOPED AND DREAMED for this for all of his ten years. And now I’m all “ZOMG maybe having a nonverbal child isn’t such a bad thing after all!”

After all, there was a time that I hoped and prayed for patience.

I’m fairly certain that one was answered. I should keep my mouth shut for now on.

Just sayin‘.

Bust a Move

Blah, Blah, Blah, DG, Rant, Why Yes! I AM insane! May 9, 2013 Comments: 9

Back in January I herniated yet another disc in my back. To be fair, it was the SAME disc that I’ve injured several times before. This time wasn’t half as bad as others (No wheelchair this time!) but it was still some massive pain. And the pain wasn’t the worse part, the loss of mobility of someone with my energy and lifestyle was truly frustrating.

And of course, maintaining any sort of exercise with that issue is impossible. I couldn’t do laundry or load the dishwasher. I couldn’t make bed without help. I couldn’t even walk my dogs. I put on some weight. I wasn’t happy. I stayed in bed a lot. We had some stuff happen in our house (stress+stress+STRESS) and my mom’s health was declining. I finally snapped out of it, got myself into PT and got back on my feet. I was doing well, actually. Better than I had in MONTHS. No, probably better than I had in two YEARS. And just as I finished PT, got back to walking my dogs and got the OK to go back to regular workouts, my mother passed away.

Needless to say, the past four weeks have been a flurry of hospice, arrangements, finances, funeral, family issues, house issues and the like. People have brought us oodles of food (which I am SO SO SO grateful for!) and sent baskets. We’ve been spoiled, really. It feels good to be spoiled. I feel loved.

The problem is I got off my program.

This week my back started hurting. I know what’s coming and I’m going to stop it, see. I know the pattern, I know the routine. But it ain’t gonna happen this time, yo. IMA STOP IT.

I’ve gained weight again. In fact, I’ve gained so much I am now the same weight I was AFTER I had Bugaboo. And I gained sixty pounds with his pregnancy. SIXTY. POUNDS. I weigh the same as I did NINE MONTHS PREGNANT with Bug Boy. I’m also wearing the same size.

Yep. Since my Dad passed I’ve gained forty pounds.

That was about eighteen months ago. MOMMA AIN’T HAPPY. Now, I’m not as worried about the weight as I am my overall health. I don’t have any energy. The fatigue is seriously an issue. I am winded trying to keep up with the Bugaboo. I can’t keep my eyes open at night. I’ve started falling back into that ole “carb load, eat comfort foods, don’t move at all” pattern. I’m all MEH. And DG ain’t a MEH person, MMKAY?

Now, I know what some of y’all are thinking. “But DG! You’ve had SO! MUCH! GOING! ON!” or “Don’t be so HARD on yourself, yo! You’ve had STUFF in your life!” and “You’ve got these kids! It’s so haaaaaard!”

But those are the excuses I keep using. Again and again and again and again. I’m better than that. I deserve better. My FAMILY deserves better.

No more excuses, yo. I KNOW what I have to do. I know how to do it.

Here I go.

Coat of Many Colors

Blah, Blah, Blah, DG, Ten Kinds of Hawesome May 3, 2013 Comments: 9

My grandmother’s salon color was “frivolous fawn.”

I kid you not, she dyed her hair that color FOR YEARS. When she finally stopped putting color in in (I’m thinking she was in her late sixties? later?) she had the most beautiful white hair. And I mean pure white, whiter than snow. It was seriously lovely hair. She still went every week to have her hair set at the salon so it looked pretty for the weekend well into her nineties. Turns out my now-neighbor was her hairdresser for a few decades and even when she passed, my neighbor was called to the funeral home to do her hair.

My mom was more of a “copper penny” girl. She was a natural red head. And I mean RED. So when she started to go grey in her late twenties/early thirties (coincidentally around the time I was born!) she just wasn’t ready for it. So she found hair color that matched her vibrant red and I never saw a grey hair on her head. Even when she didn’t have the energy to color it any more, she bought herself red wigs and shaved off her natural hair. I had no idea how much hair she had until one of her hospital trips about three years ago when she didn’t have a wig with her and I saw her beautiful white hair for the first time. It was peppered with copper and was seriously beautiful. And I told her, “Mom, what the heck? Why do you color this? This is a color people PAY FOR.” Not sure if she listened to me or not but she did stop wearing the wigs and let her hair grow back in.

The night before she passed (two weeks ago) we were taking turns sitting in the room, holding her hand as she gasped for air. Her fragile lungs just couldn’t do it anymore and they slowly filled with fluid. She was no longer waking up and giving us zingers (YOU LOOK PREGNANT!) and wasn’t giving anyone stink eye when they told her she couldn’t have a milkshake because she was choking on them. I remember sitting there by myself in the dark, holding her hand, singing her favorite songs to her, stroking her beautiful copper and white hair and telling her it was ok, we were going to be fine. When I stepped out later to stretch and use the bathroom I remember I looked in the mirror. It had been several months since I colored my hair. And I remember thinking I’d need to get it done before the funeral.

Yes, dear internet friends, the red is not mine. Mine is grey. White, actually. I have naturally strawberry blonde hair (darker strawberry blonde these days) but no one has seen it in twenty-five years or more because I have this thing with coloring my hair. Blame it on my mother for her influence, if you’d like. I’m just a tad impulsive (again, like my mother). And I have a fairly fiery personality. So I got tired of the blonde, the gold, the peroxide (blame that on the eighties) and the like. I was a fake blonde FOR YEARS. Let me just say that someone with my skin tone should NEVER be blonde. I have the kind of skin people get snow blind for looking at. At some point after the boys were babies I stopped coloring my hair and my natural strawberry blondish, light brownish reddish hair came back through. It’s a color that seriously doesn’t exist in a bottle and I was getting grey hair. No, WHITE hair. I feel like I’m twenty-five and I decided grey hair wasn’t for me. Yet. So one week I was at the beauty supply store and picked up Copper Penny-ish. That’s how I’ve been for about five years now.

Well, until last week.

I never got around to coloring my hair for the funeral a week after my mother passed. It bothered me the whole day because I could see those white hairs. Monday I put my kids on the bus, went to the beauty supply store and spotted a new, ammonia-free, sulfate-free line of hair color and thought, “Huh! Bright Auburn! That sounds interesting!” And the color on the box was redder than my normal but I figured, “What the heck? I’ve got nothing to lose.” So I dyed it.

My first clue should have been the color in the bowl as I mixed it.

My second clue should have been the stuff sticking to my skin and making it look carrot orange.

My third clue should have been seeing the BRIGHT RED water rinsing out of my hair in the shower.

When I stepped back in front of the mirror I broke down in tears. Totally not the color I was going for. TOTALLY. NOT. THE. RIGHT. COLOR. I looked like Ronald McDonald. Or Wendy Thomas and her old-fashioned hamburgers. Don’t believe me? Feast your eyes on the before and after:

See? Reddish, a little grey (which I conspicuously cropped out)

Before I ruined my hair. See? Reddish, a little grey in there (which I conspicuously cropped out)

The day I did it. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

The day I dyed it. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

THis morning, after five washes. Sigh. Still RED.

This morning, after five washes. Sigh. Still RED.

Needless to say I’ve bought color corrector and a boat-load of hair repair. Even though everyone who has seen it thinks it is “awesome” and “brings out my eyes.” Well, everyone except The Guy I Live With, who is used to my impulsive hair mistakes and merely shook his head and said,”
It’s red.”

I think I’ve learned my lesson, yo. Stick with what I know. And once I fix this I may just let it go back to natural.

In about ten years.

 

 

 

How to Raise a Self-Advocate

Blah, Blah, Blah, Bug Boy April 9, 2013 Comments: 12

I’m fairly certain I’m doing SOMETHING right.

Bug Boy is learning to advocate for himself, see. If he’s having a rotten day and knows he’ll bomb a test because he’s too stressed out? He’ll ask his teacher for an extension for the next day.

If he doesn’t like his current speech group and wants to go with his friends to THEIR speech group and the teacher is all, “No, I’d like you to stay in your group.” He’ll come back with, “But I’m SUPPOSED to be learning social skills and if I’m with my REAL FRIENDS I can practice better, right? So I should be in the OTHER group.”

Can’t argue with that.

This is the same kid that went to school last year in the middle of an OCD crisis and lobbied to wear gloves in all of his classes. He even had a pair of gloves for orchestra with the fingers cut out so he could still play. His art teacher even gave him special vinyl gloves to use for his projects.

Now he’s hitting adolescence. And he’s still asking for what he needs (when he realizes he needs it), like extra time, a computer to type, a different seat, etc. HE’S asking for it. HE’S doing it himself.

I’m so proud of him, y’all.

Now he has more and more questions about autism. He has things he wants to say. We’re having detailed, lengthy discussions about the nature of disabilities, how it affects him and his friends and what it means to him. He’s asking about his brother. He’s asking about the future. He’s thinking about the way people with disabilities are and should be treated.

He even told me, “I’m so glad we’re talking about this, Mom. I love talking about Autism with you!”

Last night at the end of a discussion, when he told me how he felt about having autism and how he perceives things, he mentioned, “I like having autism. It’s a good thing. I like that about me.”

I was proud of him. Because I like that about him, too. No, it isn’t always easy. It isn’s easy for his brother and it sometimes isn’t easy for his parents. Sometimes we’re just plain exhausted. But I had to ask him, “How about your brother? Do you think it’s a good thing for him, too? Do you like his autism?” Loaded question. Unfair of me? Maybe. But it’s something I wanted him to think about.

His reply?

“Of course, Mom. His autism is just, well, autism. It gives him his super powers (speed, strength, etc). “

Indeed it does.

He’s well on his way to becoming a great advocate for himself. And someday, when he needs to, for his brother. He’ll excel because he sees past disability and into the person.

The way it should be.

When The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From the Tree (Happy World Autism ACCEPTANCE Day)

Autism and Stuff, Blah, Blah, Blah, Bug Boy, Bugaboo, DG, Soapbox April 2, 2013 Comments: 4

Hi! Did you miss me? My mid-life crisis is over and I dyed my hair back to orange, wanna see?

20130402-081918.jpg

Got sick of the pink. I don’t even like pink. Why did I do it? PEER PRESSURE (Stark. Raving. Mad. Mommy. Made me do it).

Anywho, since the last time all ten of you stopped by, my life kept going (as it does) and I was up to my eyeballs as usual (as it happens) and I got overwhelmed again (as one does) and here I am a few weeks later, meds adjusted, clean bill of health, finished PT (thank you baby Jebus) and feeling more like my old self again.

And the other people in my family are just peachy, too. In fact, things are SO AWESOME around here I’m waiting for the proverbial “other shoe” to drop.

See, the Apples don’t fall far from the tree. In this metaphor the Apples are MY KIDS and the Tree is ME (and The Guy I live With). In other words, when we’re exasperated about their quirks and behaviors, we really don’t need to look that far to figure out where they get some of this stuff.

Like Bugaboo’s energy level? They haven’t called me Energizer Bunny for years for nothing (and TGILW isn’t any different).

Bug Boy’s drama and emotion? Your’s truly!

Bug Boy’s hunger for learning and nose stuck in a book at all times?Yep! Me again!

Bugaboo’s athletic ability and amazingly advanced motor skills? Actually, we haven’t a clue where that comes from because The Guy and I are about as coordinated as a bag of rocks.

Let’s just say we’ve had our share of stitches, broken bones, injuries and the like. So clearly that one was inborn or there was a mixup in the hospital nursery. Except we know he’s ours because he can also fall off of chairs (like his brother) when sitting perfectly still and get a bruise just by thinking about walking.

Then there are the boys’ quirks. Like the autism, ADHD, OCD and stuff. If you think about it, it’s REALLY not a mystery to see where all of it comes from. Let’s just say that when I was a kid I washed my feet obsessively. And my hands. I do everything in the same order every day (like my shower) and I need lists to function. I can’t order a pizza because calling for takeout gives me major anxiety. When I have to make phone calls I actually have to SCRIPT WHAT I SAY. The husband? Won’t even answer the phone. Texting and social media was made for people like us.

Sensory issues? You name it, we’ve got ‘em. I’m the “NATURAL FIBERS ONLY, no tags, smells and lights make me stabby” variety. Husband is “I can pick noodles out of a boiling pot, NOISE IS TEH DEBIL, FLOWERS MUST DIE” variety. Our kids are a perfect combination of both. One is easily over-stimulated, the other one needs a fire lit under him to notice anything (and he’s touched fire before!).

You smell what I’m cooking here? (But I don’t like the smell of cooked meat in my house. Hence, we grill 365. No joke).

 

As for the World Autism Day, I thought I’d link to a few posts from years past. Just so you can get an idea of what we think.

A link to Last April and my “Autism is…” posts

Last year’s World Autism Day Post

Great Expectations

What Autism is and Isn’t (World Autism Day from 2011)

World Autism Day 2010

Just Sayin’, The Sequel (Another Autism Month Post)

Autism in the News (2009)

DG’s Big Phat Post for World Autism Day

I was talking to the Bug Boy today when he got home today. We chatted about Autism Awareness Month and how some folks wanna change it to Autism Acceptance Day/Month. We talked about what he thought about having “a disorder” and how he felt about terminology. I’m loving that we can have these in-depth discussions these days. I love getting his insight. That’s when we talked about self-advocates and parents and how parents can’t be the only voices. And why adults with autism have a voice and why their voice is just as important, if not more-so, than parents.

Which is when he gave me stink-eye. And said, “Uh, Mom? Soooo you’re autistic, you know.”

And proceeded to list the reasons why he felt I was. And I couldn’t argue with any of it. Not one bit of it.

See, we are AWARE of autism. Now, to get people to accept it.

I’ve Got Nothin’

Blah, Blah, Blah, DG, Why Yes! I AM insane! March 8, 2013 Comments: 10

Day after day I sit here staring at the screen and I write nothing. Or actually, I type nothing, since you couldn’t pay me to write stuff by hand (fine motor issues much?). It’s not for lack of wanting to. It isn’t a lack of trying. Time management? Not my strongest skill but I could honestly find five minutes to slap SOMETHING together. Anything. Heck, I blog about my toenail color. And I do interpretive dances. And yet tens of you still come back everyday!

It’s not like there’s a lack of content in my life. I could blog about my floors (or lack thereof), my dogs (Daisy gained NINE POUNDS. Time for doggy Jenny Craig!) or my backyard (this rain sucks. You can guess what my not-really-floors look like.)

Or my recent roof issues.

Or Bugaboo having the best handstand in his gymnastics class (with typical peers, by the way.)

Or Bug Boy making the honor roll again and crying over a B+ because he is his mother’s child and puts a ridiculous amount of pressure on himself to live up to ridiculous self-expectations.(hmmmmmm sounds familiar?)

And there’s more. So much more. So much more I could share so much more I cannot share. And THAT is the problem. There’s so much I am overwhelmed. In every aspect of my life. I’m in full-fledged survival mode, getting the basics done each day and everything else over and above is gravy. If the clothes are clean, the house is somewhat tidy and there’s food on the table I consider it a successful day.

This is where I admit that Ive been taking care of everyone else and there’s no time left over for me. And yes, I’m aware I need to take care of myself. But trust me when I say there’s been a level of sh*t hitting the fan like no other and there ain’t no way it’s gonna happen.

I’m making small efforts here and there. I finally made a hair appointment (six months later) and got the PT evaluation in so I can start PT next week and get my back healed and in shape. Someone has to keep up with Bugaboo! It’s like running a marathon, but more strenuous. I plan on calling the psych today for an adjustment in my meds (S.A.D. for the win!) and I’ve been spending more time walking and stretching. I’m getting there.

And I’ve gotten the boys squared away. No more broken bones! Things seem to be going back to normal. Well, you know, as normal as it gets here. We did opt to add an ADHD med back in for the Bugaboo because, well, it’s spring and he’s pretty restless and Elopement Season is in high gear right now. We’re shooting for NO CALLS to the police this year. I think that’s attainable, no?

So, dear reader(s), I’m trying. I’ll attempt to get something on this here blog once in a while. Maybe a pop quiz or a reader participation post. Perhaps you can help me pick wall colors or look at pictures of my dogs. In any event, IMA TRY.

In the meanwhile, this is the extent of my midlife crisis right here:

20130307-103930.jpg

Carry on

Blah, Blah, Blah, Stuff that sucks February 20, 2013 Comments: 11

When life hands you lemons, don’t make lemonade. Make mashed potatoes because they taste better. – DG

Ah life. I love lemons, really. The smell is divine to me and I like a slice or two in my water because I like the taste and it’s all refined and lady-like and stuff. And we all know I AM A REFINED LADY. Stop laughing, ho.

Anywho, lemons, lemons, lemons. Bushels and bushels of them. And I can’t slice open the lemons and show them all to you. Not all of them, anyway. Well, most of them. Suffice to say we are in survival mode and we’ve been stuck there for weeks. In some ways months and years. Many years. Twenty, really. And these lemons, well, they plague us. And come back to haunt us. Bushels of them in my dreams. And I’d really like to exclaim, “LOOK, LIFE, I’M F*CKING SICK OF LEMONS, MMKAY?”

As a “disgustingly optimistic person” who annoys the crap out of my peeps with my Pollyanna-Sunshine-and-rainbows-silver-linings outlook on life, I suppose this is when I say, “Just cut open the lemons and rub them on your elbows! Gets rid of the dead skin and makes your elbows look all purty like! You know, if these were REAL, LIVE lemons and not hypothetical lemons used as a metaphor.

But truth be told? Right now my emotional banks are a wee bit depleted. I grow weary of being the person who holds all of the sh*t together around here. The littlest things are zapping me right now. And I know it isn’t the little stuff that’s the problem. No, it’s the big stuff, really. And the big stuff takes SO MUCH ENERGY and so much of my emotional fortitude that the little stuff? I can barely handle it.

Hence the survival mode.

And worse yet, I can’t really elaborate on everything going on. To anyone. Because it’s not my story to tell. But it’s weighing heavily on my mind and suffice to say I’ve had sleepless nights and we all know I need a few less of those around here, eh?

So I just suck it up, put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Like I always have. And I keep it all together, because that’s my job. And it’s a BIG EFFING JOB but someone has to do it, right? I just wish once…just once…I could be the one that someone else is taking care of. I get to be the one tucked into bed, pampered, fed, massaged, the house kept quiet for. I may sound a little resentful but that’s not my intent. More like…weary. Tired. In need of a break.

Fortunately one of our FABULOUS WEEKEND GETAWAYS is planned in a few weeks. Can’t even begin to tell you how much I need it.

But until then, I carry on, like always. Because these human-types need me to do that. And the canine-types, too. And I’m rewarded with hugs and smiles and cuddles and happy humans and puppies. And that gets me through.

This should be my mantra:

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 942 other followers

%d bloggers like this: